Special School: I don’t know if the common vernacular today has another name for it than the one used back then: „Dummschule“ (stupid school)! When the dice were cast for me, it was commonly called “Dummschule.” And I sincerely hope that things have changed for the children who attend such schools today. Back in my day, however, the colloquial term was fitting. Overwhelmed teachers, distressed children – some victims of violence, others perpetrators – and the insane hope of incompetent teachers, or just plain ignorance, that the relationship between victims and perpetrators would somehow stabilize on its own.
Learning? Sure, there were lessons, but it’s a question of whether someone is standing there and mindlessly spewing out a text or really trying to impart knowledge. I didn’t truly learn anything at this school. Or at best, very little. How could I? On the one hand, I was traumatized, and on the other, the kids there were exactly the kind of people I had learned to fear in elementary school.
And what was the consequence for me? I avoided attending classes. At the beginning, I gave it a chance. I arrived on time, tried to follow the lessons – which was barely possible due to constant disturbances from certain quirky individuals – and somehow endured the breaks.
Getting slapped for simply walking past someone because I kept my head down? Normal. Getting shaken down for money or belongings? Normal. It was the same crap as in elementary school – just a bit different. A bit more violent. The „cool“ kids had their knives and waved them around, were into karate, Jean Claude Van Damme, or other nonsense.
No. With that mix, learning was out of the question, especially not what was supposed to be this school’s actual purpose: paving the way into the future for children with problems. The only ones who achieved a „good result“ there were usually the ones who were the physically strongest. Sure, I was strong too, but I wasn’t truly aware of it at that time. Honestly, I was a wreck.
Self-confidence? Nonexistent. And filled to the brim with guilt – don’t forget, I was always the guilty one.
After three quarters of a year, I understood that the teachers there didn’t really care about what their students did or didn’t do. From today’s perspective, I’d say they were disillusioned souls who just wanted to get their jobs over with so they could indulge in alcohol in the evenings or vent their frustrations on the tennis courts.
Skipping school wasn’t an option either. There was still compulsory education. But at some point, I figured out that I could arrive in the morning, get my attendance checked in the logbook, and then disappear into the bathroom. However, my path didn’t lead to the toilet but off the school grounds for the rest of the day.
Freedom!
What does a teenager who’s completely messed up, friendless, and has too much time do? I could’ve gotten into a lot of trouble, ruined my life even further, but I had two favorite places back then: the city libraries, the Roman-German museum, and the nearby Siebengebirge. I associated that place with a few pleasant childhood memories, and I still do to this day – even if the place is no longer what it once was.
I discovered the museum through my mother. She had found a job there at the time, which allowed me to access all the city museums for free and gradually strike up conversations with the people there. At first, I was shy, but that changed over time, and some of these people must have seen something in me that no one else had seen before, because they started giving me small tasks to solve.
Treasure hunts all over the city and some surrounding areas and landmarks that I could reach with my student ticket, the solutions to which could only be found through research in the libraries. And because I was regularly visiting those libraries, I also learned a lot from the librarians, who later gave me access to books that weren’t available to the general public: old treasures, historical originals, and the like.
Slowly but surely, I was also given a look behind the scenes. How did restorers work? What methods did archaeologists use? What were anthropologists’ responsibilities? What exactly did a curator do? And so on. Of course, there were also the respective guides. Among them were people from various disciplines and career fields, and most of them liked me.
Yes, it was a wonderful time during which I learned a great deal: history, culture, human development, foreign peoples, religions and belief systems, technology, evolution, languages, scripts – so much more than at any school I had attended before. And in that environment, there was no violence, no coercion, just people who, as mentioned, saw something in me that I couldn’t see in myself back then. It’s an experience I’m grateful for to this day.
The only problem? When I did attend school – my obligatory visits – the lessons bored me, no matter how honestly I tried to follow them. But for someone who walks in the footsteps of real history, you can’t sell the endless loop of Schindler’s List and outdated documentaries from the 1950s and 1960s as legitimate teaching material.
What the teachers didn’t understand was this: despite my constant absence – as my graduation report would later put it – I could still easily follow their supposedly well-thought-out lessons. I think they somehow took it as a personal insult that I stayed away most of the time.
But what did it matter? These teachers never asked what was really going on with me, what I thought or felt. Why should I have trusted them? How shallow these so-called educators truly were became clear to me when I started going through puberty.
There was a gay male student at our school. You couldn’t hide it in his case. He had that typically effeminate behavior often stereotypically attributed to gay men. He was a nice guy – open-minded, clever, and likable. To this day, I wonder what he was doing at a special school. Well, no one had a problem with him. Yeah, that was just how he was. So what?
For me, it wasn’t that simple. I wasn’t interested in other guys or the giggling girls that my classmates found so interesting. Instead, I found my math teacher very attractive. In general, I was often fascinated by women in their forties. Something the teachers there couldn’t explain. How could they, when they never asked me what was going on?
The conclusion? When I started to talk about it, I was accused of perversion and labeled as having a sexual disorder – yet another flaw that hung over my self-esteem like the famous Sword of Damocles, threatening to pierce me.
And my reaction?
I stopped speaking altogether when it came to anything involving sexuality or relationships. A pervert? Who could love someone like that? So, keep quiet and move on. At least I still had the museums, the libraries, and the landmarks!
When I think back on it today, I can’t help but laugh. I had a huge crush on one woman. A restorer from Cairo who lived in Cologne. She had silky black hair that cascaded over her shoulders like waves, a smile like a warm summer morning, and she was brilliant! My God, the things this woman knew… And what did I do? Hanging onto her every word as though they were revelations, I cherished even the briefest moments I could spend near her.
Just daydreams…
Eventually, though, that time also came to an end. My final year of school approached, and right at the beginning, my homeroom teacher told me I wouldn’t make it, no matter how good I was. She had no intention of granting me a diploma.
Okay? Since I was already sixteen, I took that as a reason to stop attending entirely. I had fulfilled my obligations, and no one could force me anymore.
At the end of the year, I received a report card filled with nothing but failing grades. But it didn’t really bother me; I had never intended to apply for anything with a certificate from a special school. That would have been too embarrassing for me. Instead, I enrolled at the adult education center. It was the first educational environment I actually found enjoyable!
Today, I would say that my interactions with all the people in the museums and libraries were the best therapy I could have had at the time. They formed my social circle, and it was far more pleasant than the other one, which had been filled with only violence and hatred. Who knows what would’ve become of me if I hadn’t had those experiences?
At the adult education center, things were relatively comfortable. I attended class regularly and punctually, as there was one factor that made me feel a bit safer: anyone who acted violently there was immediately expelled. As a result – and because everyone there was familiar with facing difficulties – classes were free of disruptions. Even during breaks, it was usually calm.
The curriculum posed no problems for me, and I graduated with an average grade of 2 (equivalent to a „B“). I remember my teachers there having a talk with me on graduation day: “Go for your high school diploma; you can do it without any trouble!” But I didn’t feel like continuing school anymore. I had had my fill.
So, I decided to move into the working world.