In the Past
« Previous EntriesBullying, girls and the darker side of boarding school
Thursday, August 30th, 2007In our ongoing quest to find a suitable school option for Harry I’ve been looking at private schools.
Even before my children were born I vowed they would never be sent to boarding school after my own educational experience so it seems ridiculous that I am even considering sending Harry to a private school. But he would be a day pupil, not a boarder, and he would be (relatively) close by. It wouldn’t be three months before I see him again whenever I drop him off.
The facilities in these schools are, without doubt, far superior to anything our village school provides and far superior to anything I can provide by homeschooling. A cramped school with a tiny playground and a small field down the road for limited sports are replaced by schools with spacious classrooms, nine-hole golf courses, indoor pools and fully-equipped gymnasiums. Large classes of children of all abilities are replaced by small groups of children of above-average intelligence streamed according to ability. The education he would receive would be excellent. He wouldn’t miss days of homeschooling whenever I am sick or busy with a new baby or have things to do.
But it all leaves me feeling a little uneasy and it’s not simply because I disagree with the idea of a ‘privileged’ education (although quite where that leaves me over homeschooling - where he gets possibly the best education, but there are few facilities, and of course no school fees - I don’t know). I can’t help but see behind the scenes because that’s what I’m really there to look at:
- the way the children seem like model citizens but when they think you’ve gone they revert to feral animals (as witnessed at one school much to the chagrin of the headmaster).
- the way that discipline is often heavy-handed - not of the corporal punishment type anymore but heavy on humiliation.
- the need for some teachers to treat children like they are in basic army training: I remember a male sports teacher shouting to a group of sixth form girls in my school ‘Christ it smells in here. Which one of you has a kipper up your c*nt?’ Or being told as bedtime beckoned ‘hit the showers girls: deal with those nits, pits and slits.’
- the way that newbies are used as slaves: among a whole list of chores we had to do, we had to wait in line for an hour every evening to get dorm-mates their hot water bottles and hot chocolate (when I got back to our dormitory maybe I should have thrown it at them), we had to sniff the armpits of senior girls clothes to determine whether they needed to go in the laundry and we would have to run errands, often after we had gone to bed. (Although this was all at my first senior school. My next school didn’t treat newbies quite so nastily.)
- but mostly, the way that so much of a school experience is defined by what happens outside the classroom: boarding school life is structured but because the day is longer there is more time for trouble than at a state-run school. At my prep school (ages 7-11) I wouldn’t have believed that boys really had their heads flushed in the toilets until I went there and as we lined up for mealtimes in a long corridor you would see a boy come out of the boys’ toilets at the top of the corridor having just had that done to him. The teachers would go mad trying to find out the perpetrators and the boy would be further punished for not saying. Having said that, a boy came home from our local village school with small blood marks all over the back of his white shirt. It transpired that some boys had cornered him in the toilets and stuck drawing pins in his back. So yes, it happens at all schools but there is much more ‘downtime’ at private schools when the children are free to play with each other unsupervised.
Much of what happens outside the classroom exacerbates the survival of the fittest theory. At secondary school (high school) I was bullied terribly for a year until my parents removed me. After a year at my new school without problem the upper fifth girls in my house suddenly turned on me and my friend Amelia. They refused to talk to us, humiliated us at every opportunity, played practical jokes and excluded us from everything. For weeks. We had no idea why. On the last day of term Georgina, the ringleader, passed me on the stairs and made some sarcastic comment about my parents not turning up to pick me up (they were late). After weeks on the receiving end of her nastiness I completely lost it with her. I didn’t hit her - which I probably should have done, stupid cow - but I screamed and screamed at her.
When I arrived back at the beginning of the following term all six of us were in the same dormitory together. But over the first few days it was clear that I was gradually being allowed back into the ‘circle’, presumably because of my outburst at the end of the previous term. Unfortunately Amelia was not and I had a choice to make: stand up for my friend and remain excluded in the house or join the bullies and become excluded in the classroom (because Amelia and I were the only ones in our class from our house). I chose to be friends with the other four because I could not stand to be excluded any more.
It is a decision that I regret to this day.
Life became so unbearable for Amelia that she was forced to change boarding houses - so rare, she was the only girl ever to have done so in the history of the school - and was subsequently unable to be made Head of House the next year (crucially important on a school leaver’s resume) because she was new to her house. Life returned to normal for me. Georgina became Head of our House. When I was accepted back into the fold Georgina told me that the reason she had stopped talking to Amelia and me was because while waiting to sit down for dinner one evening we had rolled our eyes at each other and Georgina knew that we were rolling our eyes at her. When she told me I felt like I had been kicked in the stomach: weeks and weeks of misery because of an action I couldn’t even recall and was certain had been misunderstood because I just wouldn’t have done that.
What doesn’t kill us makes us stronger, right? Bullied or bully? I’m not proud of what I did and I wish there had been an alternative. The rest of my school years were uneventful but I’ve had trouble forming female friendships ever since. At University my friends were entirely men and it’s only since I’ve met some fantastic mothers that I’ve bothered with female friendships. Even now I struggle with how cruel women can sometimes be to each other. And how unnecessary it is. And I will bail out of a friendship at the first sign of trouble.
Of course I have sons not daughters but bullying still happens between boys, usually the more physical variety. A friend of mine had his head slammed in his locker door until he passed out. He was bullied, violently, for nearly a year before his parents believed it was more than just ‘boys being boys’ and that their son needed to ‘toughen up because that’s what real life is like’ and took him out of his school.
I guess these things happen in all schools and of course not all children are bullied or bullies. I suppose you hope that you prepare your children enough to deal with it if it happens to them. When I took Harry out of school last year the first thing I did was start teaching him how to deal with bullies because we thought he’d be going straight back to another school somewhere. He’s a much more confident boy now, physically stronger, more confident socially and more mature. I’m pretty sure he could deal with minor ‘boys will be boys’ stuff. But the private schools that look so good on paper and when you are shown around them have a darker side, one I and many of my friends know first hand, and I don’t know if I can bring myself to let Harry experience it. He may need to ‘toughen up because real life is hard’, but not yet.
Subscribe Via Email OR
Subscribe Via RSS
OR
8 Comments »
Posted in Homeschooling and School, In the Past
Becoming fearless
Friday, April 27th, 2007It was February. Cold. Sunny. I delayed getting up, wondering if I should even bother going. But I rose reluctantly, put on my most expensive suit, my smartest boots and a pair of glasses (even though I don’t wear glasses) and headed for the station and a long train journey. In my hand was the map I had been sent and I wondered if I should walk to the building from the station or hail a taxi. It seemed easier to concentrate on the practicalities of the journey. As the train rolled through the countryside I focussed on the study notes I had brought, repeating key points and authors like mantras.
When I arrived, I walked quickly - and increasingly painfully in my uncomfortable boots - past endless buildings, colleges and purposefully-striding students. At the sprawling department an indifferent receptionist accompanied me to a small library and motioned for me to sit down. There was no sign of any place to get the cup of coffee I needed.
I was sweating with nerves; I knew I was in the wrong place and I knew they would know it too. I was certain that I had simply been invited in order to make up an interview ‘quota’. I looked at the students occupied quietly at desks, chatting in corners, working at the computers. Their conversations seemed almost unreal: I barely understood a word. I shouldn’t be here, I thought.
The interviews were running late. As the minutes ticked by I felt increasingly sick with apprehension. There was no chance they would be kind. I tried to picture three senior academics behind their desk wearing only underwear. It didn’t help. Self-affirmation? There was no chance I was going to attempt that.
As I was called in, no-one smiled. There were no preliminaries. For five minutes I was asked to discuss a subject about which I had no knowledge. I floundered my way through my own sea of guessed responses. The questioning moved onto something closer to my area of knowledge. Their heads started nodding as I spoke. The questions became increasingly difficult but I continued as best I could. Instead of firing questions at me they began to converse with me, my answers prompting more questions. By the end of the hour there was almost a kind of a flow to the interview. Almost.
After the interview a student took me on a tour of the facilities. He was overly informal but I was on my guard, knowing that his report on me would be fed back as part of the interview process. I asked interested questions, trying to sound knowledgeable. He quizzed me indirectly, making it sound like conversation. I took up the offer to meet further students, knowing it would look good even though I felt like I was dying and my feet were killing me. I simply wanted to get back on a train and go home to my familiar world.
As I left the library and started the long walk back to the station, the sky was darkening and it started to rain. My feet hurt so badly that I took off my boots and walked barefoot. But I was jubilant. Even though I had failed terribly at school and had no education to speak of, I thought I had finally done well enough to win a place. I knew there was every chance I was on a par with all those I had met that afternoon. On that long, miserable February day, I became academically fearless.
- - - - -
Four days later I received a letter informing me I had won a scholarship to Oxford. The ramifications of being accepted to read for a degree at Oxbridge have been profound and lasting. At school - many years earlier - I felt like a failure in every way (with the exception perhaps of music). Studying at Oxbridge has given me confidence in my own abilities. It has given me confidence intellectually, to hold my own in conversation, to work as an academic. It has given me the self-esteem I never had growing up in school. It has given me the confidence to teach my own child at a time when all other doors have been closed on him.
But most of all it has given me the confidence to encourage my children to achieve whatever they are capable of, to achieve whatever they want to. Because I did.
Subscribe Via Email OR
Subscribe Via RSS
OR
8 Comments »
Posted in In the Past
Taking the concept of sharing to a new level
Thursday, March 10th, 2005One of the things that motherhood has changed about me, which I no longer think about much, is how I feel about my body.
When I was a teenager at boarding school, we had communal showers and bathrooms. To anyone who had any hang-ups about their body, saying it was a bit grim would be an understatement. Parenting manuals are quick to point out the need for privacy for your adolescent. Well boarding schools, although acting in loco parentis, clearly hadn’t read a parenting manual. Of any sort. And particularly not one about the need for some privacy, somewhere, anywhere, during the school term. Shared dormitories, shared bathrooms, shared teaching, dining and TV rooms meant that solitary time, indeed any sort of quiet time, was approximately nil.
As a quiet, homebody, happy-with-my-own-company sort of person I did find this quite hard. But I’m not a recluse so it was only a minor gripe and things like midnight feasts and all the fun myths that go with boarding school sort of made up for it. But the lack of privacy for bathing at a time when many girls are becoming self-conscious about their bodies was a shame. I became expert at quick showering with minimum exposure to those waiting in line.
I can only imagine what sort of pornographic hits I am going to get now. Naked schoolgirl showering! Shared bathing pictures! (try the rugby team websites for that one, guys and gals).
When I think back now to the lengths I went to not to have to be naked, I laugh, because labour and childbirth have stripped away any remaining dignity I might have had. When you’ve had twelve or thirteen different midwives or (mostly male) consultants ‘measuring’ your cervix, when more people have looked at your ‘betweens’ during labour than I’ve had hot dinners (or so it seemed), when you’ve pooped on the delivery table (sorry people, but it does happen you know, at least it does in the UK where enemas are not routinely given), when you’ve been so badly sewn up after delivery that you feel the need for plastic surgery, when you’ve whipped your boobs out time and again in public to shut a screaming baby up (discreetly of course, except when said baby grabs nursing bra in desperation, revealing a vast expanse of boob), when you’ve leaked milk onto your t-shirt because your baby cried in another room, well, there doesn’t seem much point in being embarrassed anymore. About anything. Least of all what my body looks like.
And if I’d known what my body would look like after children I would have done SO much more streaking when I was younger.
************
Pregnant? Don’t forget to bookmark this page and follow my posts as I cope/don’t cope with pregnancy and dealing with a newborn.
Click here for my latest post or browse the pregnancy category.
Subscribe Via Email OR
Subscribe Via RSS
OR
Comments Off
Posted in In the Past, Pregnancy
And the award for best musician goes to….
Wednesday, March 9th, 2005At school prize-giving I was awarded the Hoare Cup for Music.
‘Hoare’ as in ‘Whore’.
Oh how we all laughed!
Subscribe Via Email OR
Subscribe Via RSS
OR
Comments Off
Posted in In the Past
Some things I’ve done that you probably haven’t
Monday, March 7th, 2005I’ve seen this all over the place. I’ve no idea where it started or whom to give credit to for it. I’m also way behind everyone posting it, but that just sums up my life really. So, ten things I’ve done that you probably haven’t (fifteen actually - you’ll see I’m going for quantity over quality here):
1) Known one of Princess Diana’s bridesmaids
2) Known one of the Queen’s nieces
OK I’m cheating. This is the same person as above.
3) Been caned
At school. Completely Victorian. Some might argue that in another situation they might actually have enjoyed it….
4) Won a holiday to Australia
And then fell in love with the diving instructor.
5) Bought a house not a million miles away from Madonna
But we haven’t bumped into each other in the local shop yet.
6) Given birth to a ten pound baby (OK so some of you might have done this)
It hurt though, so I’m including it.
7) Chosen to live in Alabama of my own free will
If you’re from Alabama, don’t get on your high horse. I loved it there.
Eight) Had a song written about me
9) Been interviewed by the police, along with my two flatmates, when it was discovered that the two girls in the flat downstairs were working as prostitutes
And when I say interviewed, I mean they were thinking we were prostitutes too.
10) Taken an overdose as a baby and had my stomach pumped
11) Worked for a national newspaper
And left when it was clear that most of the people that worked there were only interested in sh*gging each other.
12) Eaten cake with a Hollywood actress
Well not exactly, but I’ve already written about this.
13) Fantasised about marrying Sting as a teenager
But then when I met him, I couldn’t manage to say a single intelligible word. He’d have married me otherwise, I’m sure…
14) Prepared a room in my house in case of nuclear attack
I’m so not kidding about this one.
15) Learnt to speak fluent Latin
I could definitely seduce Jamie Lee Curtis in A Fish Called Wanda with my Latin skills.
I’ve no doubt I’ll be writing about some of this stuff when my family don’t provide me with anything interesting to blog about. I bet you can’t wait.
Subscribe Via Email OR
Subscribe Via RSS
OR
Comments Off
Posted in In the Past
« Previous Entries