Schooldays: A Memoir

The Walk

I remember as if (not to be cliché but accurate) it happened only yesterday. Well, now I've really done it. Fuck you to the keyboard and its hidden clichés page one, I say! Mirror, grandmother's house, twelve-year-old me, and the tie. This was the afternoon before the first day of secondary school (or high school for the Americans), and we just bought my school uniform: plain black shoes, black socks, black trousers, white long sleeve shirt, red tartan tie, and the compulsory dark olive blazer (but, no funny hats, thank progress and thank progress, or at least, I would have if I understood how lucky I was, that it was a non-selective girls and boys school).

The girls wore the very compulsory red tartan skirts to match. And, although I can not pretend to know what they felt, I know what they ought to have thought, at least.
Why does my skirt look like a Scotsman and George Fox took to the offcuts of a Persian rug?

It was a community school and C of E, of course, England, UK. One point to make, with the year being 2006 when I attended, we did not read the Bible nor Latin and I barely remember hymns and so on. The school did, however, have a long history and was fairly regarded. The school was founded in the early 1600s, yet much of the complex comes from the 1970s onwards. Alas, I dare say not a single great mind, in all its history, came out of that school, not like Eton or Cambridge. But, I am sure it is this way for most schools. Still, good minds came out of it. 

We can't all be Eton, after all. May I state the staggering figure to you, that Eton has created nineteen of our prime ministers and who knows how many geniuses, Olympians, and aristocrats. A name to throw at you would be Ian Fleming or Alfred Ayer; Jeremy Brett; Bear Grylls; Eddie Redmayne; Aldous Huxley; John Herschel; Percy Shelley.

Shelley, then. He was subjected to daily abuse by the older students, as I am sure many of them were, even into the modern era. Of course, this is sadly true for most schools. On a happier note, he blew up a tree with one of his science experiments. Nobody's laughing at him now.

I can recall, on our way in, a group of us staring at the old photographs of the place, or rather, staring at their funny little hats and thinking you unlucky bastards. Ah, I think even then, part of me knew that it was at least better and proper. And by this, I undoubtedly meant middle class, which we were not.

And, may I ask, why do the Scottish schoolboys and schoolgirls look like they either, just wandered out of Oxford or Harrow in their little grey shorts and trousers and suave blazers of the most lovely colours, or the mildest tartan you have ever seen: perfectly balanced regal blue and lush blood-red uniforms for the ladies, say.

Of course, we soldiered on and even embraced our ugliness, using it oftentimes as a weapon against the other schools. This, I now realise, may have been my first introduction to the notion of taking an offence and turning it on the abusers, as it were. It astounds me, reflecting on it, that we could stand in our ugly brightness and laugh at the 'posh' school uniform, say. The beautiful black uniform. How did that ever happen?

I can recall, throughout my time there, some of the girls would 'steal' our ties and claim them as their own. We rather liked that. It must have been an adolescence game, or a game of the adolescence if you see what I mean.

To clarify, since it's easy to miss, when I said, 'red tartan tie', I mean to say the brightest, most unstable, candy apple red ever fashioned. I nearly knocked myself out of my chair typing that line, believe you me.

Nevertheless, I stood in front of the mirror for at least thirty minutes. Tying and retying and tying again, until finally, I got it. I had taught myself to tie the candy apple thing. Now, my tie's vigour was lessened somewhat when I later realised many of the students had bought fake ties -- ones that just clipped over the shirt collar.

Two interests here. First, I was thinking of the 'injustice'. Second, that this must have been my first introduction to the notion that the real thing is always better than the fake. Long before I read or heard the wonderful Shakespeare pieces and long before I read Hitchens. I still dislike fake ties to this day. Although, I can say one good thing about them: they had the almost miraculous feature of making our ugly, bright -- I won't say it -- candy apple ties look decent. That's decent in character, not appearance if you see what I mean. You can always count on that with the truth. Dignity.

Okay, fine, some people can't tie or don't want to, but I would always help when I could and never actually laugh at somebody for it. That is to say, I wasn't terribly arrogant about it. After all, it required just half an hour to work the thing out -- it didn't mean much. Well, why am I talking about it, then? I suppose, ladies and gentlemen, these things matter enough.

In any case, it's about the first memory I have of secondary school, other than what they told us in primary school. Now you have begun secondary school education. Day one. Year Seven. Of course, half of you knows you are ready for it and the other half bloody well knows that you are not ready and will never be clever enough, at any rate. You will fail secondary school. This was instilled within us enough, in years five and six. There was a tremendous build up. You always knew it was coming, and soon, because the teachers never let you forget it.

'Listen, all of you in year five, that's it, you're done. You are going to fail year six and I, as Teacher, can assure you of that. Now, now, all in year six, you're really finished. It's over. Yes, we will gladly send you off to secondary school, but, oh how you will fail. Shock me by venturing beyond the front desk!' 

But, okay, Miss and Sir, you want to play it like that. If I can conquer the fucking candy neckpiece, I can conquer the hypocrisy, pietism, and incompatibility of this entire ordeal, as well.

So, the walk. Here is how mine went. Morning. Up. Mirror. Tie. Oh, yes, how I could not wait, could not wait, to see who tied their ties and who couldn't (now you see the mild egotism).
Friend. Door. Open. Let the showdown, or 'tie-off', begin. One victim down and he delivered himself to my doorsteps, how wonderful! Give me another. Come here and look at my tie. Did you tie yours? No? O, what about you? Did you tie yours? What about you?

This lasted for two or three streets beyond my house. Then we firmly seated ourselves in the certainty all ignoramuses have. More aptly, then, we thought we knew that which we clearly did not. In a way, it's a good thing to start with. In any case, sooner rather than later, it will be beaten out of you and you will have to work really hard to retain it and fight the building each day. Take it from me, it's not worth it. Give it up, you'll feel better. You may even learn a few things just by listening.

Most likely, once our feet were sweeping over the Ginnel leaves (that's the name we gave it, the ginnel leading to the main street, commonly known as an alleyway), conversations went something like, 'We're going to be the coolest, most popular kids in school.' Followed by, 'We're going to get away with it all and enjoy it all, too.' And, 'I can't wait to see who we get in our House and I can't wait for the trip to France we all heard about last year.'

Well, let me tell you, burn the candle at both ends for the duration, you can not. For a time, you will get away with it, but only for a time.