History Lesson - original
Title: History Lesson
Genre: A little bit angsty, mostly just random
Warnings: Not much, except a load of missing backstory.
Summary: The problem with history is that somebody had to live it. The problem with teaching it is that sometimes, that somebody was you.
A/N: This is a story that suffers directly from lack of context. It's based around my OC Padraic Pearson, who I play at villageofsheol (rialta_fianaise ) but who somehow developed another life story WHICH, I MIGHT ADD, IS ALMOST ENTIRELY mymorphine'S FAULT.
So. Pat. Pat is this guy from Catholic-side Derry in the '70s. His da is in the IRA, his ma has serious mental health issues, and his best friend Jack is a policeman's son from the other side of the whole conflict stuff. His life basically sucks - he put a guy in hospital when he was fourteen, got shot in the shoulder on Bloody Sunday when he was sixteen, and testified against his da in court about a year later. His da went to jail. He went to Oxford. With Jack.
They started dating. There was much angst, which they eventually got over. Then Jack's brother Chris showed up and ended up nearly getting them both killed, because their lives didn't suck enough yet. Pat got pistol-whipped twice, breaking his jaw in two places and really messing up the right side of his face. Jack got shot in the stomach. There was more angst. Then stuff happened and Pat ended up being a history teacher, his da got released, his ma died, he and Jack stayed together, and there was happy.
NOW READ ON...
(no story should require this much exposition >_<)
-------------
“The Troubles.”
It was a habit of Mr Pearson’s, this announcing the lesson’s title even before he’d written it on the board. Most of his pupils found it funny, like something out of a film, and it was one of the main sources of mockery about him - along with the myriad stories flying around the school about him, of course, both about his sexuality (standard fare, naturally, mostly rumours about him being gay for Mr Williams) and the origin of the faint-but-visible scars on the right side of his face. Still, the pronouncement generally worked to make everybody sit down and shut up - at least, as much as a room of teenagers ever sat down and shut up. It was a symbol that the lesson was starting.
Besides, there was something in his voice, this time, that made it impossible not to listen. He wasn’t smiling, for one thing, which was unusual.
He turned around, popping the top back onto his whiteboard pen, and regarded the class silently - thirty or forty students, at least half of whom he reckoned were only taking History at all because it was a doss subject, and most of whom were fidgeting irritably in their seats.
“The Troubles,” he repeated, after a moment, as if he’d just remembered that he wasn’t being paid to stand and stare at them. There were a few giggles, a thin wave passing through the class. He wasn’t smiling, though. “This is what your second piece of coursework will be on. I didn’t choose to teach this subject. And if I’d had the choice, I wouldn’t have. Who knows what the Troubles were? Ben.”
The dark-haired boy in the front row lowered his hand, conscious of the entire class’ eyes on him. “Violence in Northern Ireland?”
“That’s right.” Mr Pearson nodded once. “Violence in Northern Ireland, most of the way through the twentieth century. It really kicked off in Dublin, in the nineteen-twenties, when…”
Someone in the back of the room muttered to her neighbour, “Oh, god, here he goes…” The laughter rippled out around her, filling the classroom.
“You think this is funny, Charlotte?” Mr Pearson asked quietly, dropping his whiteboard pen on the desk. The laughing stopped at once. Shouting, most of them were used to - although not from Mr Pearson - and that would only have made it funnier. But Mr Pearson was noted for being startlingly even-tempered, and it was all the worse because he wasn’t shouting.
“You may not have noticed,” he said after a moment, his voice still deathly quiet - the whole class craned to hear him - “but I’m from Ireland. I’m from Northern Ireland. Actually, I’m from Derry, and that’s a place that’s going to come to be a whole lot more than just a name by the time we finish this topic. I was born there, and I didn’t leave the place until ’74.”
Ben, the boy who’d known what the Troubles were, glanced around the classroom, a little uncomfortably. A few of the others were doing the same - the ones who knew what that signified.
Mr Pearson didn’t seem to notice those uneasy looks. “Let me get one thing straight,” he said, his voice rising back to its usual volume, but still taut. “This is not ancient history. This is not something I intend to drone on and on about, and it is not something based around assumptions we make and historical documents that may or may not be real. And this isn’t like the work we did on the Second World War, either, where everyone who lived through it is old and grey and retired. This is real life. This happened, and it happened not long ago, not far away, not to soldiers and sailors and travellers. It happened to real people. To everybody. I know it did, because I was there.”
He took a deep breath, his hand tightening on the edge of his desk. Nobody was laughing any more. Nobody was even smiling. They were hanging on his every word, and if he’d noticed, he might have been grateful for it.
“I was there,” he repeated. “This isn’t something I’ve studied at university, or read up on, or looked up on Wikipedia. You need to be aware of that. Be aware that I might be biased. Be aware that I’m going on what I saw there and what I know from the news and from my friends and relatives in Derry. Be aware that this isn’t something I’m choosing to teach, or something I want to. Learn what you can from the textbooks, go and read up on it on the internet or in the library.
“For Christ’s sake, write your essay like you’d write any other. I’m not reading coursework that talks about how Mr Pearson fought on the barricades once, or how your teacher’s da got locked up in H-block on terrorism charges, or how the Butchers ended up shooting up his flat and nearly killing his flatmate. I’m not marking anything that talks points out my old house in the photos of the Battle of the Bogside, or that even mentions my friend getting put in hospital for being a Prod, or that goes on about how I watched my classmates die on the street when I was no older than you are now. I don’t want to see any of that written down in your essays.
“But you should know about it.”
He heaved another deep breath and opened his eyes, leaning on the desk for support, to meet the stare of thirty shocked, silent teenagers. After a long moment of echoingly dead silence, one of the girls at the back of the room raised her hand slowly.
“Yes, Miriam?”
She lowered the hand again, blinking at him, and touched her cheek. “Is that how you got…?”
“These?” Mr Pearson mimicked her action, brushing his fingers over the scars on the side of his face, then nodded. “Yeah. Those scars are the Troubles. And this is the Troubles, too.” He pulled the neck of his shirt to one side, touching the white knot of scar tissue on his shoulder. “And my house getting firebombed in ’77 was the Troubles. And so was me almost killing a copper when I was fourteen. And so was Ma dying.
“Do you see now why I don’t want to teach this? Why I’m maybe not the best to tell you these things?
“I’ll teach you it, because if I don’t, who will? And these are things you should know. Things you should understand. But if you think it’s funny, if you think this is an excuse to joke around and take the piss, then you can leave now. I won’t teach this if you don’t want to learn it. It’s hard enough to teach it if you do.
“I’m sorry to lecture at you like this. I know my life’s not your business, and you’re probably not interested in it anyway. But you need to understand that this was real. This was recent. I lived through this.
“And it nearly killed me.”
He lapsed into silence. From the next classroom, through the thin wall, the sound of the TV running some old Geography video or other sounded very loud indeed. Somebody walked down the corridor outside, the click of high heels on lino painfully clear. Inside the room, though, everything was utterly still. Nobody moved, nobody spoke. Even the sound of breathing seemed subdued.
The silence hung there for almost five moments before Mr Pearson straightened up, his greying hair falling around his face, and cleared his throat. “So, as I was saying, things really kicked off in the twenties, but we need to look at older history first, starting with the Plantations…”
Genre: A little bit angsty, mostly just random
Warnings: Not much, except a load of missing backstory.
Summary: The problem with history is that somebody had to live it. The problem with teaching it is that sometimes, that somebody was you.
A/N: This is a story that suffers directly from lack of context. It's based around my OC Padraic Pearson, who I play at villageofsheol (rialta_fianaise ) but who somehow developed another life story WHICH, I MIGHT ADD, IS ALMOST ENTIRELY mymorphine'S FAULT.
So. Pat. Pat is this guy from Catholic-side Derry in the '70s. His da is in the IRA, his ma has serious mental health issues, and his best friend Jack is a policeman's son from the other side of the whole conflict stuff. His life basically sucks - he put a guy in hospital when he was fourteen, got shot in the shoulder on Bloody Sunday when he was sixteen, and testified against his da in court about a year later. His da went to jail. He went to Oxford. With Jack.
They started dating. There was much angst, which they eventually got over. Then Jack's brother Chris showed up and ended up nearly getting them both killed, because their lives didn't suck enough yet. Pat got pistol-whipped twice, breaking his jaw in two places and really messing up the right side of his face. Jack got shot in the stomach. There was more angst. Then stuff happened and Pat ended up being a history teacher, his da got released, his ma died, he and Jack stayed together, and there was happy.
NOW READ ON...
(no story should require this much exposition >_<)
-------------
“The Troubles.”
It was a habit of Mr Pearson’s, this announcing the lesson’s title even before he’d written it on the board. Most of his pupils found it funny, like something out of a film, and it was one of the main sources of mockery about him - along with the myriad stories flying around the school about him, of course, both about his sexuality (standard fare, naturally, mostly rumours about him being gay for Mr Williams) and the origin of the faint-but-visible scars on the right side of his face. Still, the pronouncement generally worked to make everybody sit down and shut up - at least, as much as a room of teenagers ever sat down and shut up. It was a symbol that the lesson was starting.
Besides, there was something in his voice, this time, that made it impossible not to listen. He wasn’t smiling, for one thing, which was unusual.
He turned around, popping the top back onto his whiteboard pen, and regarded the class silently - thirty or forty students, at least half of whom he reckoned were only taking History at all because it was a doss subject, and most of whom were fidgeting irritably in their seats.
“The Troubles,” he repeated, after a moment, as if he’d just remembered that he wasn’t being paid to stand and stare at them. There were a few giggles, a thin wave passing through the class. He wasn’t smiling, though. “This is what your second piece of coursework will be on. I didn’t choose to teach this subject. And if I’d had the choice, I wouldn’t have. Who knows what the Troubles were? Ben.”
The dark-haired boy in the front row lowered his hand, conscious of the entire class’ eyes on him. “Violence in Northern Ireland?”
“That’s right.” Mr Pearson nodded once. “Violence in Northern Ireland, most of the way through the twentieth century. It really kicked off in Dublin, in the nineteen-twenties, when…”
Someone in the back of the room muttered to her neighbour, “Oh, god, here he goes…” The laughter rippled out around her, filling the classroom.
“You think this is funny, Charlotte?” Mr Pearson asked quietly, dropping his whiteboard pen on the desk. The laughing stopped at once. Shouting, most of them were used to - although not from Mr Pearson - and that would only have made it funnier. But Mr Pearson was noted for being startlingly even-tempered, and it was all the worse because he wasn’t shouting.
“You may not have noticed,” he said after a moment, his voice still deathly quiet - the whole class craned to hear him - “but I’m from Ireland. I’m from Northern Ireland. Actually, I’m from Derry, and that’s a place that’s going to come to be a whole lot more than just a name by the time we finish this topic. I was born there, and I didn’t leave the place until ’74.”
Ben, the boy who’d known what the Troubles were, glanced around the classroom, a little uncomfortably. A few of the others were doing the same - the ones who knew what that signified.
Mr Pearson didn’t seem to notice those uneasy looks. “Let me get one thing straight,” he said, his voice rising back to its usual volume, but still taut. “This is not ancient history. This is not something I intend to drone on and on about, and it is not something based around assumptions we make and historical documents that may or may not be real. And this isn’t like the work we did on the Second World War, either, where everyone who lived through it is old and grey and retired. This is real life. This happened, and it happened not long ago, not far away, not to soldiers and sailors and travellers. It happened to real people. To everybody. I know it did, because I was there.”
He took a deep breath, his hand tightening on the edge of his desk. Nobody was laughing any more. Nobody was even smiling. They were hanging on his every word, and if he’d noticed, he might have been grateful for it.
“I was there,” he repeated. “This isn’t something I’ve studied at university, or read up on, or looked up on Wikipedia. You need to be aware of that. Be aware that I might be biased. Be aware that I’m going on what I saw there and what I know from the news and from my friends and relatives in Derry. Be aware that this isn’t something I’m choosing to teach, or something I want to. Learn what you can from the textbooks, go and read up on it on the internet or in the library.
“For Christ’s sake, write your essay like you’d write any other. I’m not reading coursework that talks about how Mr Pearson fought on the barricades once, or how your teacher’s da got locked up in H-block on terrorism charges, or how the Butchers ended up shooting up his flat and nearly killing his flatmate. I’m not marking anything that talks points out my old house in the photos of the Battle of the Bogside, or that even mentions my friend getting put in hospital for being a Prod, or that goes on about how I watched my classmates die on the street when I was no older than you are now. I don’t want to see any of that written down in your essays.
“But you should know about it.”
He heaved another deep breath and opened his eyes, leaning on the desk for support, to meet the stare of thirty shocked, silent teenagers. After a long moment of echoingly dead silence, one of the girls at the back of the room raised her hand slowly.
“Yes, Miriam?”
She lowered the hand again, blinking at him, and touched her cheek. “Is that how you got…?”
“These?” Mr Pearson mimicked her action, brushing his fingers over the scars on the side of his face, then nodded. “Yeah. Those scars are the Troubles. And this is the Troubles, too.” He pulled the neck of his shirt to one side, touching the white knot of scar tissue on his shoulder. “And my house getting firebombed in ’77 was the Troubles. And so was me almost killing a copper when I was fourteen. And so was Ma dying.
“Do you see now why I don’t want to teach this? Why I’m maybe not the best to tell you these things?
“I’ll teach you it, because if I don’t, who will? And these are things you should know. Things you should understand. But if you think it’s funny, if you think this is an excuse to joke around and take the piss, then you can leave now. I won’t teach this if you don’t want to learn it. It’s hard enough to teach it if you do.
“I’m sorry to lecture at you like this. I know my life’s not your business, and you’re probably not interested in it anyway. But you need to understand that this was real. This was recent. I lived through this.
“And it nearly killed me.”
He lapsed into silence. From the next classroom, through the thin wall, the sound of the TV running some old Geography video or other sounded very loud indeed. Somebody walked down the corridor outside, the click of high heels on lino painfully clear. Inside the room, though, everything was utterly still. Nobody moved, nobody spoke. Even the sound of breathing seemed subdued.
The silence hung there for almost five moments before Mr Pearson straightened up, his greying hair falling around his face, and cleared his throat. “So, as I was saying, things really kicked off in the twenties, but we need to look at older history first, starting with the Plantations…”