Spilt Milk

When I was four, I started school. Our class, unpromisingly enough, was referred to as Junior Infants.

Our teacher, an earnestly benevolent dictator by the name of Ms. Tracy, paid homage to three deities. The Catholic Church, tomato sandwiches, and the Gaelic tongue.

Not necessarily in that order.

So determined was she to keep the dialect alive, that she had decided every child in her class would enter the classroom by way of asking permission in Gaelic and exit it for whatever reason by asking for permission again in Gaelic.

The first day in class we all walked in solemnly, single file into her classroom, only to be told to leave again and speak after her.

So we shivered outside, mumbling the words en chorus before being ushered back into the welcoming warmth of the classroom.

"An bhfuil cead agam dul go dí an seomra ranga."

(May I please be granted permission to enter the classroom.)

I was bewildered and brown. My tongue was more accustomed to Urdu phonetics. Try as I might, the lingual gymnastics required to master this tongue twister were beyond me.

So, I devised a system of sorts.

On a daily basis, I circumvented the need to ever say them myself by ensuring that I always entered the class within a larger group.

Silently lip-syncing the words before taking my place at my desk next to Ashley of the gummy smile and bacon sandwiches.

And when we left for lunch and home, I would wait, alert, for a larger group to exit, and leave the class smugly ensconced in their midst.

There were different iterations of this diabolical phrase.

One to enter, one to leave for lunch, another to leave for home and yet another to request permission to go to the bathroom.

My system ensured that I would never be required to say the words myself. I felt like a spy, a shadow slipping in and out of Ms. Tracy's totalitarian state by way of subterfuge.

But I also lived in fear. What would happen if by accident or circumstance I was unable to leave the classroom, safely cushioned by the bulwark of a group?

Would Ms. Tracy force me to stay the night?

Would I be force-fed tomato sandwiches and made to sleep on the floor beneath the desks where presumably she slept as well?

I shuddered inwardly at the thought.

I never dwelt too long on these thoughts but they were always there in the background. For the first few months, I walked a tightrope of nervous excitement and stomach-churning anxiety.

My mother, unaware of the contortions of childhood logic which dictated that I always move within a group, marveled at my desire to get to school on time. Holding me up as a shining example of punctuality and obedience to my siblings.

But.

She also proved to be the cause of my undoing. Because one day my mother gave me a twin pack of Ribena for lunch.

I had a particular fondness for Ribena. Its tangy, bubble gum-flavored additives hit just the right spot on my 4-year-old tastebuds.

My system had up to this point proven foolproof.

It dictated that all beverages be consumed at lunch when I could easily use the bathroom without the need of the dreaded password:

"An bhfuil cead agam dul go dí an leithreas."

(May I go to the toilet.)

But try as I might, the lure of the Ribena proved greater than my fear of having to go pee.

So I rationalized that just a sip or two before class started couldn’t hurt. So I took a sip, then two. And before I knew it, two empty cartons of Ribena nestled accusingly at the bottom of my schoolbag.

There was still an hour to lunch and I needed to pee.

And then the fear set in.

The words.

Without the words, I couldn’t leave the classroom.

The borders of Ms. Tracy’s sham republic were inviolable.

Opening only for those who knew the magic words.

So I sat and simmered, and held onto my bladder with every ounce of self-control I could muster.

Force myself as I would, my traitorous tongue refused to configure itself around the foreign-sounding syllables.

I glared resentfully at Ms. Tracy as she obliviously traced Harry the Hat Man next to the letter H on the chalkboard.

Did she know she was a tyrant?

An actual despot who had imposed possibly illegal sanctions on an entire classroom of helpless children?

What if I died?

Just exploded in a mess of Ribena and guts?

Would I even be remembered?

Would I be buried in a Catholic school?

A kafir in corduroy?

My Ribena-stained soul turned away at heaven’s gates?

No funeral. No dua. Just tomato sandwiches and eternal damnation.

Despite her offensively visible knees and mystifying dedication to the resurrection of ancient dialects, up to this point I had regarded Ms. Tracy with a certain wary affection. She was kind and twinkly. As far as I knew, she lived an impoverished existence, residing in our classroom, wearing hairy tartan and eating only tomato sandwiches.

In that moment, I decided I hated her. She deserved to eat nothing but tomato sandwiches and sleep under a desk for all eternity, I thought spitefully.

My vengeful inner monologue was interrupted by my nemesis herself hovering anxiously above me.

"Dearie? Are you ok? You look… upset?"

I unclenched my fists and nodded, forcing a tight little smile to my lips. I was certain that opening my mouth would send a ripple effect through my frame culminating in me emptying my bladder.

But I needn’t have worried. My bladder had taken the unclenching fists as a signal to unclench itself.

So I sat in a rapidly spreading puddle of pee, held back only by the absorbent layers of my uniform.

Ms. Tracy turned her fickle attention back to the chalkboard, moving seamlessly from Impy Ink to Kicking King while I dealt with the biggest crisis of my existence.

How was I to move now?

I scrambled for my schoolbag.

Maybe I could put it in the empty Ribena bottles, but understandably my attempts proved to be an extended exercise in futility.

So I sat in shamefaced ignominy. Incontinent , soon to be kaafir.

Not only would I never be able to leave the classroom ever again, my doubly dishonored remains would be buried in a Catholic school.

The Big Guy Himself would shun my immortal soul.

The circumstances of my detention and interment would ensure that my name would be a byword and a hissing.

Spoken only in hushed tones at family gatherings.

Did you know she peed herself. Like a baby. And then died a Catholic. Hawww..

And it was ALL Ms Tracy's fault .

Not only had I been wronged, but I would have to live with her.

My oppressor. FOREVER and ever.

Maybe this is how teachers were made.

Generations of previous teachers imprisoned on school grounds on wrongful pretexts, trapping new children on the flimsiest of excuses, plying them with tartan and tomato sandwiches until they forgot the outside world.

I wondered if I would be allowed to say goodbye to my family before beginning my life of indentured academic servitude.

I was unceremoniously jolted from my tragic melodrama by the bell ringing for lunch.

I looked up, bracing for the ensuing drama.

Only to see Ms. Tracy approaching, followed by a janitor, mop in hand.

"There seems to have been a little spill here, dearie." She picked up the two bottles of Ribena under the desk and tossed them cheerily into the dustbin.

"I think we’ll have to get you home early today. Let me ring up your mum, dearie."

And just like that, I was free.

No questions. No suspicion. Just an early dismissal and a warm change of clothes.

It was the first and possibly the only time I ever got away with anything even vaguely illicit.

To this day, when guilt claws at my conscience, I remember that small purple-soaked triumph and remind myself,

sometimes, the Ribena really is worth the risk.

This piece is part of a larger collection of childhood fragments. It is written from the perspective of my four-year-old self and mirrors the prejudices of the adults around me. I do not, in fact, believe that all Catholics are damned.