My parents’ deferential attitude to those in authority only made it worse. My mother was a teacher herself so she believed that the words of any so-called ‘professional’ – be they teacher, priest or doctor – must never under any circumstances be questioned, or worse still opposed. Consequently, members of all three of these professions were allowed to ridicule me because of my sight and I was forced to sit and take it like a good little boy. At best I was just told to grin and bear my sight difficulties. I carry the scars to this day.
Please don’t misunderstand me here. I don’t believe my parents were being unnecessarily cruel. They were simply products of their generation, just as I am a product of mine. Indeed, my own experiences as a Baby Boomer have given me a set of expectations that are not at all healthy, nor fair to others. As for my parents, they were brought up not to question their betters. They’d been taught to see difficulties in life as character forming and it was natural that they should expect the same from their son.
Although my parents’ constant insistence that I was the same as other children was a great boost to my confidence and served me well in many other ways, the flip side was that it gave me a set of expectations which were unrealistic for someone with my condition. Unable to accomplish the same things as my brother and sister, I was left with the feeling that maybe I’d let my family down. And I was also left with the sneaking suspicion I was just a little bit thick. (Now you can keep your own thoughts to yourself. No one asked for your opinion.)
In any case, I did not share my parents’ attitude about professionals, I have never been that deferential. I was born balchy, it’s a gift. I was never going to take bad treatment without a fight. I must have been around six or seven when I first started retaliating. Teachers saw my behaviour as disrespectful so I soon learned that standing up for myself would lead to trouble. Nevertheless, when I stood up for myself and fought back I at least felt that I was the one controlling things. For me that’s always been, and remains to this day, a priority.
Because of my approach, I’ve spent a great deal of time at loggerheads with my family. This has been a great source of sadness and heartache for me. I have absolutely no doubt that my parents’ reluctance to recognise my disability was well-meant, but it did mean I failed to get the help I was entitled to and indeed the help I needed. I suspect this was the norm in the ’60s and there probably wasn’t that much help available then anyway. I suppose the staff at the schools I attended simply weren’t trained to deal with my impairment. I even doubt that things are that much better now, almost 40 years later.
Please don’t think that the situation with my parents remains unresolved. In recent years we’ve reached a new understanding, which is a great source of joy to me. Actually, the writing of this book has helped greatly in that process. An unexpected bonus that I had never foreseen. My lasting regret is that for most of my life I was unable to communicate to them what a great sadness my sight impairment was in my life. I felt unable to tell them what was going on so they never knew the level of ridicule and abuse I was living with. I was embarrassed by it and therefore I refused to discuss it with anyone. Not talking about it has always been my strategy. I suppose I felt that ignoring it might make it all go away. Put your hands over your ears and whistle tunelessly, that had always been my best coping mechanism.
To give you an example of what I experienced, I remember walking across the playground at the age of seven. A ten- year-old boy jumped out in front of me.
“Hey, cross-eyed Clarence!” he yelled. “Don’t look at me like that.”
Clarence was the name of the cross-eyed lion in the TV programme Daktari, which was about a fictitious East African game reserve. Clarence was to become my nickname and would haunt me for years to come.
“Are you sorry for looking at me like that?”
I thought about that one for a couple of seconds and then I hit him, SMACK, right on the nose. Serves him right, I thought. Suddenly, there were people all around us and I was treading air. A teacher had grabbed me, lifting me clear off the ground. He frogmarched me straight to the headmistress’s office. This ten-year-old thug had started it but I was the one in trouble. Even at such a tender age there was something in me that would not let me just walk away.
The headmistress told me to hold out my hand. I got strapped. She demanded that I apologise to the boy. There was no way I was going to do that. He could go hang! When I refused, I got strapped again. Even so young, I knew the injustice of it and I made up my mind that one day someone would pay, just as soon as I was big enough.
I spent a long time waiting to be big enough. Once I was, a whole load of people did a whole lot of paying, most of whom had never done me any real harm in the first place. I was hurting, angry and miserable and I never like to be miserable alone.
I also remember my first few months at senior school. Every day was a constant onslaught of taunting and ridicule. In the end, I used to hide my glasses before entering the school gates and I spent my days frightened to look up at anyone in case they called me ‘Clarence’. I refused to ask if I could sit at the front near the board, where I needed to be, as this would have drawn attention to me. (Why would I willingly invite further abuse?)
Eventually, because I was unable to see much of what was going on in class my work began to suffer. Quite apart from the blackboard, I also had problems any time I was supposed to share a book with another classmate. (Unless I could actually control the book and hold it inches from my face, it was no good even trying to make out the text.) This was a very common practise in the 60s. I even began to play truant from certain classes where the teachers thought making fun of me was great sport. The fear of being caught playing truant seemed much less of a worry than the fear of being ridiculed. I felt alone and victimised and the resentment began to build, a resentment that would follow me into adulthood and lead to all kinds of trouble later on.
I remember one time particularly when I was 12 years old and at grammar school. My teacher called me to the front of the class and asked me to read a passage aloud to the rest of the class. I raised the book until it was about four inches from my face and began to read.
“STOP, CLARENCE!”
the teacher shouted. “If you read like that you’ll go blind.”
I tried to explain that in fact this was the only way I could read but before I got the chance to finish my explanation I was told to shut up and he insisted that I hold the book at arm’s length. At this distance I could only make out about one word in three and I stumbled and stuttered my way through the passage. By the time I was halfway through the whole class was laughing hysterically and then someone shouted:
“Go on, Clarence!”
That was the last straw. I threw the book to the floor and stormed out of the classroom. The teacher came storming after me down the corridor, roaring that no one ever walked out on one of his classes. Well, I thought, there’s a first time for everything. When he eventually caught up with me he clipped me round the back of the head.
“One day you’ll pay for that,” I told him, so he hit me again for my trouble. Now there was definitely a score to settle. I stuffed my hands in my pockets to stop myself hitting him right back, a gesture of mine which has become a kind of trademark.
The day of reckoning did arrive, when I was 40. It was a long wait, but nonetheless rewarding. I was in a coffee shop in town when I bumped into my former teacher. He was wearing very thick, half-rimmed glasses and was struggling to read a newspaper. His head was buried deep inside the paper with his nose almost touching the page. Serves the old bastard right, I thought. The temptation to pass comment was just too great. I marched up to him and grabbed his paper. I began tugging at it until his arms were fully extended.
“Do you remember me, you bastard?” I shouted.
Looking very confused, he replied:
“No...”
“The name is David Lucas. Or maybe you remember me as ‘Clarence’?”
I could tell he remembered me now.
Suddenly all conversation in the rest of the coffee shop had ended and we were the centre of attention. That was fine. I was happy to have an audience. I’d waited for this moment for 28 years, so I was determined to enjoy it. It seemed only right that others got to join in the fun. Was it worth it? You bet. I did resist the temptation to clip him round the back of the head – but only just. With hindsight I wish I’d had the nerve.
This was the outcome of just one event in my childhood which made me resolve to reveal to no one the full extent of my sight impairment. After all, I knew only too well how much abuse and ridicule I would face if people really found out my situation. Nevertheless, covering up something as big as sight loss involved a huge amount of trickery and deceit and it was to bring me a whole new set of problems.
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