Read Online No One Wants You by Celine Roberts - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Celine Roberts
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I had come from hell, I thought the orphanage, with all its rules and regulations, was heaven. I loved it. The sister-in-charge of the entire orphanage was a responsible person. Some of her line managers were also fair, but others were obsessed and tough. I quickly worked out that if you caused trouble, you got into trouble, so I caused no trouble.
On my second day at the orphanage, I was told to go to the office. I was given my number. From now on, I was to be known as 1797. I also had to call at the sick bay unit for a routine medical check-up.
The local doctor visited me in the late afternoon. The check-up was the usual inspection of hearing, sight, teeth, nose and breathing. When he asked about my private area, I sat on the chair, crossed my legs and my arms. I hung my head.
He asked me, ‘Have you been interfered with?’
I could not raise my voice to answer him.
He qualified the question, ‘Have men had sexual relations with you?’
All I could do was nod my head, and burst into tears.
He murmured to himself, ‘Oh, my good God.’
He then called the nun in and said to her, ‘She will have to be seen by a gynaecologist. She will need a full gynaecological examination. I will give you a letter of referral and you should make an appointment as soon as possible.’
I wondered what they were talking about but understood none of the medical terms. The doctor told me that I was fine and then said that I was dismissed.
On the morning of my third day at the orphanage, the sister-in-charge sent for me and told me that I would have to go to school. She said that they wanted to assess my education to date. She put me in fifth class. While living with my foster-parents, my attendance at school was practically nil. Years later, I went back through the attendance records at my primary school. I found that out of a total of eight years of primary education, my total days at school amounted to less than one academic year. I still don’t understand how the school let this happen without reporting it.
So after three days in fifth class, in the orphanage school, the nuns felt that there was no point in me spending any more time in school. I heard the nun in school say to another nun that I was pure stupid, knew nothing and understood nothing that was being taught in class. I do not really blame them for this assessment. It was not their fault that I was 13 years of age and had never received a basic education.
On the other hand, I very much regret that I was not given the help to try to learn. But then I was part of a group of people that were an embarrassment to the community at large. I, along with my fellow inmates, merited only the absolute minimum assistance of any kind.
As my academic future was deemed to be a non-runner, it was there and then consigned to the educational dustbin. I was to stay in the orphanage proper and look after the younger girls, help in the kitchens and clean the toilets. Any skills that I could learn while I was carrying out my duties, I was to consider my education.
Once a week we had to scrub the cement yard and the drains with a deck scrubbing brush, on our knees. It was hard physical work. Needlework was also encouraged as a skill to be learned. There was always a mountain of torn or ripped clothing to be repaired. Every morning at least two hours were devoted to sewing the never-ending amount of torn clothing. I became quite adept at this chore. As part of our needlework training, we were encouraged to actually make the clothes that we would need, when we finally left at age 16, to join the real world and work for a living. Over a period of two years I managed to make a set of pyjamas, a skirt, a dress and a blouse. While I enjoyed the peacefulness of the sewing sessions at the orphanage, afterwards I was never able to do needlework, for pleasure or as a business. Forty years later I have only managed to make one pair of curtains. They were made under duress, to cover a bedroom window of
On my second day at the orphanage, I was told to go to the office. I was given my number. From now on, I was to be known as 1797. I also had to call at the sick bay unit for a routine medical check-up.
The local doctor visited me in the late afternoon. The check-up was the usual inspection of hearing, sight, teeth, nose and breathing. When he asked about my private area, I sat on the chair, crossed my legs and my arms. I hung my head.
He asked me, ‘Have you been interfered with?’
I could not raise my voice to answer him.
He qualified the question, ‘Have men had sexual relations with you?’
All I could do was nod my head, and burst into tears.
He murmured to himself, ‘Oh, my good God.’
He then called the nun in and said to her, ‘She will have to be seen by a gynaecologist. She will need a full gynaecological examination. I will give you a letter of referral and you should make an appointment as soon as possible.’
I wondered what they were talking about but understood none of the medical terms. The doctor told me that I was fine and then said that I was dismissed.
On the morning of my third day at the orphanage, the sister-in-charge sent for me and told me that I would have to go to school. She said that they wanted to assess my education to date. She put me in fifth class. While living with my foster-parents, my attendance at school was practically nil. Years later, I went back through the attendance records at my primary school. I found that out of a total of eight years of primary education, my total days at school amounted to less than one academic year. I still don’t understand how the school let this happen without reporting it.
So after three days in fifth class, in the orphanage school, the nuns felt that there was no point in me spending any more time in school. I heard the nun in school say to another nun that I was pure stupid, knew nothing and understood nothing that was being taught in class. I do not really blame them for this assessment. It was not their fault that I was 13 years of age and had never received a basic education.
On the other hand, I very much regret that I was not given the help to try to learn. But then I was part of a group of people that were an embarrassment to the community at large. I, along with my fellow inmates, merited only the absolute minimum assistance of any kind.
As my academic future was deemed to be a non-runner, it was there and then consigned to the educational dustbin. I was to stay in the orphanage proper and look after the younger girls, help in the kitchens and clean the toilets. Any skills that I could learn while I was carrying out my duties, I was to consider my education.
Once a week we had to scrub the cement yard and the drains with a deck scrubbing brush, on our knees. It was hard physical work. Needlework was also encouraged as a skill to be learned. There was always a mountain of torn or ripped clothing to be repaired. Every morning at least two hours were devoted to sewing the never-ending amount of torn clothing. I became quite adept at this chore. As part of our needlework training, we were encouraged to actually make the clothes that we would need, when we finally left at age 16, to join the real world and work for a living. Over a period of two years I managed to make a set of pyjamas, a skirt, a dress and a blouse. While I enjoyed the peacefulness of the sewing sessions at the orphanage, afterwards I was never able to do needlework, for pleasure or as a business. Forty years later I have only managed to make one pair of curtains. They were made under duress, to cover a bedroom window of
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