How could a dyslexic love school?
To just tap the surface of that part of my life which is absolutely the happiest time in my life with all ironies that should cause one to wonder why
When I think of ASH and recall that intimidating three story brick building on Paulus Bijstraat, remembering those days I would compare that school to a cross between Hogwarts, Riverdale/+the high school in Back to the Future
Hogwarts because of all the intimidating educational staff with all their fascinating flare. All our teachers were all fair game to the entire Dumbledore army. Such days….
but before I do digress down that way I would say if ASH was Hogwarts than ISA was being educated by the priestesses and priests of Merlin’s Avalon. That is the perfect way to compare those two schools.
How magical it was for me. A dyslexic who found a Celf under the safety eyes of far from dark grey matter dust but something more like cogito ergo sum thst flipped the latch into a world the celves blossomed into; a self actualized being. You would not think a rebel like me who could not really read would become fond of school to the extent that nothing else after could ever compare; but shy and dyslexic is not great for that demanding level of test scores. It’s weird. About me. I don’t know exactly how but it’s the contradiction of how I process thoughts. Really all I ever did was pay attention in class. The words baffled me on the pages. But I have a telegraphic memory. If I can picture everything as it was, I can replicate it. It’s a memorization thing but more than that, in this case—with these great and inspiring class discussions at school under the guidance of our own Snapes and Slughorns strutting before the rows of desks like their stage were fascinating. So I easily could remember what they said because they made it come to life. I was a straight A student there except for math and the related sciences but just due to dyslexic blindness. Which still I managed to hide but I struggled enormously with reading. I stayed up all night in double time to read assignments and then the long trip to school on little sleep. I got up at four as school stated at eight. So I must have been crazy to love my school.
The arts building was another adventure. Like leaving the hilly grounds of Hogwarts to go towards Hagrid’s. They took us by bright orange Nederlands tour bus in the afternoon. The middle schoolers went in the morning. But no, the building was more like a hippie hangout in a way. Another brick building but much different inside. Arty. Like Greenwich Villege in a building. Downstairs was that amazing theatre where my first monologue was and next to it was the music room; upstairs was the huge Art Class room and next door was woodworking. The sounds! The noise! The fun!!! You could be wild and scream snd laugh, make a mess of mixing paint in big jars and get clay under your fingernails
Such brilliant personalities filled my days that I forgot to think of home. The medieval world in the school room books and explained in classes I saw outside those very buildings. School was magic to me. And I did not care the girls did not like me. I did not want to be like them. I did not like their personalities. They were empty and just said the expected and laughed at people who are different. Like me. They laughed at me a lot. I didn’t understand their jokes because they went back every holiday to the US and watched shows I never knew about. But at my house tv was not allowed. Until I was about twelve. Christmas specials were ok. Things like that. Or Friday night we were allowed one hour and then to bed. So, I had no exposure to American television culture. Which I would attribute to why I just have never clicked in America. I’ve missed layers of sub-culture-references that I can never catch up and this is the measure of why I was not “cool”—and on powder blue sweater day I didn’t wear a blue sweater which eliminated me from the “cool group” on day one; conform? yikes. But on the flip side, at ISA I had a lot of close girl friends and was quite popular with non American girls there. As well as the non Americans at the American School. But, well, there they were in the minority. Still my first official school dance date was with the son of the Saudi Arabian diplomat who always arrived at school in a stretch limousine with flags; he asked me to the dance and then asked if I would be his girlfriend. We lasted about a week but are still friends, but that was the American school yet to consider there were generals kids there; army brats as well as ambassadors’s kids. It was often grounds for heated personal offense and debates in real time. However, more at the Amsterdam school but — both had—bomb threats. We’d file out and have to leave as the bomb squads came. Pretty common.
One of my most favorite memories at ASH was sitting in my English class first thing on one Monday morning and waiting for class to start. My desk faced the window. And the window was the view thst looked out to the street left of the entrance, first floor. And there goes Ms Stenz running down the sidewalk holding her hat to her head in the wind and clutching her teacher’s bag! Her face!! I caught sight of her was wild exclamation as we watched her late for school and caught! My sibling hated her because she was a very tough teacher but on my first day she sat me next to her desk because I was great for class discussion. Teacher’s pet again. Why go home, Harry?
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