Summerhill School

Summerhill School: A Profile

In 1977, when I was 10 years old, my mother sent me to Summerhill School, the world-renowned boarding school in Suffolk, England. Dozens of books have been written about this school, which was founded in 1921 by the Scots educator A.S. Neill. It was the first of what are now known as “progressive schools,” and it was, and still is, based on a unique approach to education. In a nutshell, A.S. Neill believed that children thrive when they experience freedom from coercion. As part of that idea, lessons at Summerhill are optional. The school is run as a democratic community and at the weekly meetings, children and grown-ups have equal votes. A.S. Neill called his approach “Freedom not License” because he believed that children should be free, but that they should not be allowed to disregard others. So we were free to swear as much as we wanted, but if we called someone a bad name, there would be consequences. These consequences were meted out by the other children after having been brought up at a meeting.

When she was a child and had read about the school, my mother had dreamed of going there. So as soon as she became a mother herself she knew where she was going to send me. Ever since I started going to school (and I went to a rich array: Waldorf, Montessori, even, in Spain, a Catholic school run by nuns) I had always loved it. And it wasn’t just because I had lots of good experiences. During a brief stint at an English village school I made such an impression on the teacher that he gave me a copy of “Pollyanna” when I left. I was nine at the time and remember feeling surprised at my mother’s emotion. This guy had been unpleasant to me (he smacked my hands with a ruler, which had made me laugh at the time although in retrospect it doesn’t seem very funny) and now he was giving me a book? I didn’t understand until much later that even though this teacher had been following the strict guidelines of the British school system, he had been touched by my unwavering cheerfulness - and all because there was nothing I liked better than school.

At Summerhill, however, I found my home. Because I grew up as an only child, when I went to Summerhill I felt like I had gained 60 brothers and sisters. I have to admit that I was not very nice when I first got there – I think the freedom went to my head a little. During my first term I remember helping a girl, Clare, to climb into the tree-house and then leaving her there by herself. The first of numerous special meetings of which I was the focus was called. I realize now that these meetings were the kind of notoriety that I was looking for and enjoyed at first. But eventually being called out by my peers began to have an effect on my actions. Summerhill taught me to be aware of how my conduct affects others. It taught me to be strong and to not expect any special treatment for being me. We were all equal in this thoroughly democratic school.

At the weekly meeting, one child would act as chairperson and another as secretary. We would discuss our friends’ misbehavior and any rules we wanted to change. Often someone would bring up bedtime, or lights out. We would suggest that bedtime or lights out should be later, but we hardly ever got enough votes for that. Everybody was happy with the bedtime that we had, of 9.00 or 9.30. If it ever did pass the vote we would usually vote it back down to the earlier time the following week, because chaos would have ensued. The fact that lessons are optional is the one aspect everybody always knows about Summerhill. And it is the single biggest factor that causes the most arguments about the school. Because if a child is not learning during his or her every waking moment, that is a travesty, everybody says. A.S Neill believed the opposite to be true:

“Education should be preparation for life. Our culture has not been very successful. Our education, politics and economics lead to war.” He goes on: “I ask what earthly good can come out of discussions about French or ancient history or what not when these subjects matter not a jot compared to the larger question of life’s fulfillment – of man’s inner happiness.”

He also tells of how the children who had been at the school since kindergarten all went to classes regularly without lapse, but children who arrived later always spent some months enjoying their freedom and not going to class. The amount of time they spent playing hooky was proportional to how bad their experience at a previous school had been. Which makes a salient point: a happy child is going to learn much better than an unhappy one.

Only one child out of the sixty-odd who were at Summerhill when I was there did not go to class at all. The rest of us went every day. Lessons were held during the morning, from straight after breakfast until a late lunch time. We had the afternoons to play and to learn how to get along. To help keep the peace, and, I realize now, because there really was very little adult supervision, we had ombudsmen (of which, more often than not, I was one - once I reached the appropriate age of 13) who were there to sort out disagreements between children. I do feel like the older children were quite often fairly responsible and good about looking after the younger ones, but I know that there were children who felt very alone and left out. The fact that this was a boarding school made this loneliness all the harder to deal with, for those of us who felt that way. There were no parents to go home to at the end of the day. But I mention these children anecdotally, because I was not among them. I can quite honestly say that for most of the six years I spent at Summerhill I was supremely happy. Long summer days spent outside on the swings, playing badminton, climbing trees, swimming in the pool (most of us went naked – what a perfect way to feel good about your body), listening to music. Being able to make my own decisions every day provided me with a lot of self-confidence later on in life and I have always been able to find my way out of situations that may have defeated me otherwise.

There was no uniform and we could wear whatever we wanted to (this was especially important in a country where almost every school required uniform). Not surprisingly, though, we all dressed pretty much the same. I remember one outfit being almost de rigueur amongst the older kids at one point: brown corduroys with a navy blue fisherman’s sweater from Guernsey. If you didn’t have that outfit, well, what can I say? It makes me think that peer pressure is something that occurs no matter where the children are.

People have asked me how going to Summerhill affected me, and that is a hard question to answer. How can I know whether I turned out the way I did because I went to Summerhill or despite the fact? For me, being at a school with lots of children from different countries was an enriching experience and it taught me to be tolerant and open-minded. But the fact that we did not have to go to class was not a big factor for me. I did not feel I had a special privilege in this regard. And at the risk of repeating myself, the reason for that is: I always loved school. I still do. There is nothing I enjoy more than learning and books. After I left Summerhill I went to another boarding school, St. Christopher’s, and I enjoyed that just as much, even though I did have to go to lessons.

All my memories of Summerhill involve friendships. They conjure up summer nights sleeping in tents; dancing and singing at the top of our lungs on a Saturday night; being a DJ up in the “gram box” to make it possible for us to sing and dance; listening to Dire Straits and Fleetwood Mac while cruising on my skateboard or soaking up the sun. The sun figures largely in my memories, which is funny considering that this was England. I can only think that a sunny glow lights up my days at Summerhill because it was pure, unadulterated bliss. If this is what childhood is meant to be about (and I believe that it is), then A.S. Neill got it exactly right with his school.

Early evening, Eilat

Israel and my father

The man next to me on the plane was easy on the eyes, but not so good looking as to render me speechless. He was older than me, in his thirties, with black hair and a business suit. I was on my way to Israel for the first time and I was burning with questions. Here I was, a Jew, sent to Israel on a business trip and finding unexpected stirrings in my soul.

Growing up, I had wanted to be many things: a veterinarian, a politician, even, of all things, an Anglican minister. But I had never thought of being what I was: Jewish. My mother, a hippy, had raised me on new-age religion and we had never gone to a church or a temple. I knew nothing about Judaism expect for the fact that Jews didn’t believe in Jesus. I had, however, been wearing a ring with a Star of David on it since I was about twelve; a fact that was to take on new significance for me during that spring of 1995, when I traveled to Israel.

The seeds of what was to come were sown when I received my Opa’s death announcement. On it I read that my father, whom I had not seen in ten years, was living in Tel Aviv. I remember at the time thinking how nice it was to know where he and my two half-brothers were, and I also remember thinking back with a touch of misplaced superiority to a comment my aunt (my father’s sister) had made to me some time before, that my father had become very intensely involved with Judaism and Israel. The reason I say misplaced superiority I because I guess I somehow felt that if our Jewish identity had not been of interest to me, then it shouldn’t be to him. Or maybe I felt somehow humiliated, as if I should have been one step ahead of him.

I didn’t do anything with the information of my father’s whereabouts, but when the Spanish cosmetics firm I worked for sent me to Israel six months later, in May of 1995, I was filled with excitement. I was going to visit the country where my father was living! Even though I was almost 28 at the time, I was as excited as a little girl. Looking back, I’m actually quite surprised that I could even be excited at the prospect of seeing my biological father. He had been almost completely absent from my life since my mother left him to travel across country from The Netherlands to India when I was two, and the last time I had spoken to him, when I was about 21, the conversation had gone something like this.

“Hey, it’s me,” I said, calling from my maternal grandmother’s telephone. “I’m in Holland and I would love to see you.”

Pause.

“Well, you see, it’s like this,” my father answered, “I don’t really have time to see you right now. Frankly, although it’s nice to hear from you, when I don’t, well…you actually don’t even cross my mind.”

Now I was on an airplane bound for Ben-Gurion airport in Tel Aviv, sandwiched between the charming Israeli and my company’s gorgeous (and sleeping) esthetician, Marisa. My Israeli friend feasted his eyes on her while answering my barrage of questions. Although the conversation I had with him on the five- hour flight was to change my life forever, I cannot remember a single word of what he told me. Actually, that’s not true. I do remember one thing. I remember him telling me about the boats of European Jews that started arriving in the ports of Israel before and during WWII. He told me of the anguish of boats being turned back, of detention camps in Cyprus, of hundreds drowned.

When I think back on landing at Ben-Gurion , the scene plays out in my mind in slow motion. I make my way down the steps, my mind filled with the history of this young and tumultuous country, and when my feet touch the tarmac I am overcome by such a profound and intense wave of emotion that my body trembles and the tears streak in floods down my cheeks. I have never been more surprised by my own reaction to something. Nothing had prepared me for the passion I felt for this country which I had never before given a moment’s thought. I can quite frankly say that it was love at first sight. And like a lover, I took delight in everything about the country I was discovering. The breakfast of herring, sour cream, hummus, yogurt and pita bread; the Egged buses that took Marisa and me to Masada, Ein Gedi and Jerusalem; the extremely handsome young soldiers that were everywhere, their M16s slung casually on their backs. One day, a Palestinian taxi driver took us to Bethlehem so that I could accompany Marisa to the Church of the Holy Sepulcher, where a smooth hole had been worn into the ground by centuries of loving hands touching the spot where Jesus had supposedly been born.

I was lucky to visit Israel during what was probably the most peaceful time in its brief history as a modern country. I was so in love it felt as if the warm Mediterranean breeze were enveloping me in a tender embrace. I wanted time to stand still and I wanted to stay there forever. A few years ago I was surprised to read my feelings echoed by Melvin Konner in “Unsettled”:

“The six months after the trip were a daze of admiration and affection very much like being in love. I woke up and went to sleep thinking about Israel, feeling the pain of separation from the beloved, steeped in fantasies about moving there to be with her.”

Amidst this blissful assault on my senses was the added joy of having reunited with my father and brothers. It had been as simple as finding “Spiero, Tom W.” in the phone book. My hands had trembled as I dialed the numbers. The phone had been answered almost immediately by that strange yet familiar voice that I had heard at various intervals of my life.

“I’m in Israel,” I said, his words of eight years ago still squeezing my heart in their cold grip.

“That’s wonderful! Incredible!” My father sounded genuinely thrilled and the grip on my heart eased somewhat.

I know that Marisa lent me a skirt and jacket so that I would look my best for my reunion with my family, but to this day I can’t figure out why I hadn’t brought something appropriate myself. Was it that I needed to wear something I had never worn before for this momentous occasion? Did I feel that none of my own clothes did this event justice? In any case, I dressed in the borrowed outfit and met up with my father and his wife, and my two brothers, Bram and Job, at the café where Bram was bartending. I savored every moment – my love for my family intermingling with my love for my heart’s new home. I took a photo that day of Bram in front of a Coke sign in Hebrew. On top of everything else I was completely in awe of the rebirth of this biblical language into a modern one.

The contrast of Tel Aviv to the city I was living in at the time, Madrid, could not have been more marked. Madrid had 5 million inhabitants; Tel Aviv had a good deal fewer than 500,000. Madrid was full of enormous, austere buildings of grey stone with claustrophobic alley-ways in between; Tel Aviv was built of low, white Bauhaus buildings on golden sand dunes. The contrasts between these two cities perfectly mirrored the two different sides of my own personality at that time. On the one hand I was the export manager of a successful Spanish cosmetics firm, so tightly wound I was on the point of snapping any time anyone addressed me; on the other I was an insecure little girl who went out every weekend with my friends to see if I would meet the man of my dreams (or maybe my father?), tucked into some corner of a smoky night club.

Finding out how I felt about Israel and Judaism changed my life in a very profound way. When I got back to Madrid I went to the synagogue there and spent the next few years studying Hebrew, Torah and everything there was to know about Judaism. Each Saturday I had lunch at the Rabbi’s house with his family. I was like a sponge. Gone were the days of drinking and sleeping around. I worked and I studied. When I finally did go out one night, almost three years later, I met my husband. We have been together ever since and now have a daughter who attends a Jewish preschool. I know without a doubt that what has provided with the anchor that I was searching for was reuniting with my family and falling in love with them and with our mutual homeland.