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Can palm reading help you find the right teacher for your child?

Dormitory at The Armidale School, Australia, 1898
Image via Wikipedia

Finding the right teacher for your child is crucial, and non-predictive palm reading called hand analysis can help shed light on compatability and special needs.

How so?

Self esteem is most fragile at an eary age and can easily be smashed by teachers with a different thinking style to your child.

I had this experience with my own child in a Swiss school 5 years ago.

Fortunately I knew from hand analysis that his thinking style was totally incompatible with his teacher’s and I found a loophole in the system to help him escape the experience of being broken down or turned into a zombie by a ‘teacher from hell’.

When I was in the 5th grade growing up in South Africa, I had my own brush with a ‘teacher from hell’.  Actually now that I look back in that safe little mirror called ‘hindsight’, with the humps of several decade in between, I think that this was in fact my very first brush with a Swiss Farmer!

We’ll never know for sure.  It was a very long time ago. Long before anyone was in the habit of querying religious icons or looking up nuns skirts. Nor had those xrays been invented yet, that strip you naked at the airport.

So we’ve only got my memory to go on, at it swears blind that she/he wasn’t a German nun after all but actually an escaped Swiss farmer. A big burly one that thought he’d got away and found a secret pasage to heaven until they dressed him up and stuck him in my class. Those big coarse boots were a dead giveway and the way ‘she’ sweated profusely and had to mop her brow whenever anyone asked an unlikely question.  Her habit was too dainty for her thick neck and her pasty face looked almost as if it had been squeezed out of a tube.

The thing that first roused my suspicions about her was the way she spelt ‘socks’ SOX. This just wrote her off totally in my book. I decided that her knowledge was unreliable and so I slipped into a dream world where the lights were on but no-one was at home. The more she bullied me the more I disappeared into dreamtime.  She tried to force me to write light up dark down and I absolutely refused.

All hell broke lose when I scored 0 % for Afrikaans. I had decided t to write ‘Ek weet nie’ (I don’t know) for every answer without bothering to look at the question. I even wrote ‘ek weet nie’ on the top of the page where my name should be. Personally I thought that was rather funny but she didn’t.

She gathered together supporting evidence tha tI was ‘unteachable’ and got her superiors to back her.

The nuns called a meeting with my parents and informed them that I was mentally retarded and should be sent to a special school way up in the mountains, somewhere where I would probably be thrashed daily and hopefully turned into somebody useful to society.

My parents agonised over the situation for weeks but fortunately my father, who’d had decades of terrible school experiences himself to draw on, decided not to believe her. Otherwise, god knows what would have happened to me. They cancelled this ‘special boarding school’ at the last minute and stuck me in the local government school instead.

We laugh about this now but it could easily have ended up a tragedy.

A similar thing happened to my own son growing up in Switzerland when Continue reading