Long forgotten school days

Earlier this week I attended my son’s curriculum night for the start of the new school year – Zach is going into Grade 8 at Royal St Georges College.  As I sat there listening to the principal speak I reflected on a couple of things.  

Well right out of the gate the meeting was more like a public company’s annual general meeting with the Principal acting as the President & CEO presenting both a round up of his company performance over the past year but also with the view ahead.   And although held in the school hall it had the definite feel of a corporate event.  Now don’t get me wrong, I don’t think it was a bad thing, but it was a huge departure from my school days.

Zach earlier this week about to start the
first day of Grade 8

In fact the other big ah-ha moment for me was the fact that it was so well attended.   I’m not sure about you, but when I was attending secondary school in Australia in the 1970’s (okay, it was rural Australia I’ll give you that) not only didn’t we have the concept of a curriculum night but my parents wouldn’t have been seen within 100 meters of the school unless under complete duress, let alone provide me with the moral support required by attending.

I guess it was a different era, but that being said mum and dad weren’t really very supportive of me wanting to stay at school beyond grade 9.   They felt that I was wasting my time at school and thought I would be better served getting a job, the sooner the better!   

I still remember the day I came home from school and mum told me that I had a job interview at the local bank the next day.   I tried to reason with her and explain that I didn’t want to work in a bank but clearly that fell on deaf ears cos’ at 9:00 am sharp the next morning I was walking into the local bank.   The bank manager asked me into his office and began by asking why I wanted to work at the bank.   “Actually I don’t really want to work in a bank” I replied.   The surprised look on his face said it all – interview over!

Mum had a very strong personality (to say the least), and if she made her mind up about something then that’s what was going to happen come hell or high water.  This translated into us kids not having much of a say and/or little control in our lives growing up.   Clearly, she was disappointed with me not “making the grade” at the bank and this only added to her frustration and impatience with me wanting to pursue further studies and stay in school.  

In those years I felt like I an outcast both at home and at school.  The secondary school (Maryborough Technical College was a trade school – primarily targeting the less academically inclined kids), which I attended, didn’t make it easier.  Often I wouldn’t’ make into the actual classroom before being singled out and sent to the Principal’s office, not even making through the actual door.  “Wallis get to the Principals office” became a pretty common refrain from my teachers in those days. 

Perhaps I had a bad attitude, trouble maker was probably a bit of an exaggeration, shit disturber probably a little closer to the actual truth but I felt completely unappreciated at school and decidedly unloved at home so hard not to become a little bitter or disinterested don’t you think?

TW in Grade 8 - 1972 (40 years hence from Zach)
Can you pick me out?

So I can hear you saying to yourself so how did you get to where you are today in if you started out this way?   Great question! 

The year was 1973 and I was in Grade 9, mid way through the year our English teacher went out on sick leave – I think we sent her over the edge mentally… never to return.   Our new teacher (Mr. Parsons) was a bona fide hippie with long flowing blonde hair, bushy beard, sandals, cheesecloth shirts and stands of beads circling his neck.   Different I thought but he didn’t bother me, and at least he didn’t kick me out of his class which was a bonus.   After a couple of weeks of me sitting in the back of the class and not really participating he approached me one day and asked me to stay after class.  “Here we go” I thought to myself…

After the other students had drained from the classroom he asked me why I didn’t bring a book or pen to class.  I told him it was pointless because I actually didn’t make into most classrooms but spent the majority of my time outside the principal’s office so what was the point.   He said that he was rather surprised to hear that given that I was a bright kid and all.   Okay to this point in my schooling I had always been aligned to the lowest educational stream and considered not too bright academically.  I was stuck in a class of slow learners and academic outcasts, on the outer fringes of the educational system and classified as a bit of a “no-hoper” and clearly a lost cause.  So for a teacher to say that I was a “bright kid” was shocking to say the least.   At first I was embarrassed because I didn’t think he was actually talking about me.

He said that he had been observing me in class, and didn’t fully understand why I wasn’t participating more, but was willing to make me a deal.   It seemed he intuitively knew what I needed was a confidence boost rather than more punishment; he was extending a figurative olive branch to me.

Now I was curious…what sort of deal I queried?   He said to pass year 10 I needed (at a minimum) to pass at least four subjects but English had to be one of them.   He said he would give me a passing grade in English if I completed a single assignment for him – yes, it was that simple.   Even in those days that seemed like a good deal so after a few cursory questions I accepted his offer.

At the end of the next class he asked me to stay behind so he could give me my essay topic.  My task was to complete (here’s where I failed to recognize the nuances between the terms “complete” and hand in) a 500 hundred-word essay and return it to him in a week’s time.   Wow, I thought to myself this is going to be a breeze as I quickly left the classroom clutching the topic. 

I must admit I put a fair amount of effort into the essay (clearly a bit of a first for me in those days) and thought the end product was pretty good as I proudly handed it in the following week.  

TW in the front row - I was clearly
a happy camper don't you think?

Thinking my work was done for the year I was now trying to determine how I could make similar deals with the other teachers.  I still remember him standing in front of my desk with my essay in his outstretched hand, my essay was immersed in a “sea of red ink”.  He said, it needs to be revised…   I was incredulous – “I’m done,” I said thinking that I was being duped.  His response – you might think you’re finished, but it’s not “complete” and it needs some revision he said forcefully.

I snatched it from his hand and started to quickly review his hand written notes that literally covered each page.   He explained the subtitles of the words he had used and asked me if I disagreed with the actual terms of our agreement – he had me!   Lesson learned…

Over the ensuring three to four weeks (to be honest I lost track of the number of times I revised, shortened, expanded and wrote and re-wrote the darn essay, but each time he gave me a lesson in grammar, spelling, composition and prose.   Before long I actually started looking forward to our after class chats, and the ensuing banter that accompanied the informal lesson.   He was paying me attention but also helping mentor, teach and coach me in a way that I had never experienced before.  I suddenly wasn’t his enemy whom he had to force into servitude (like in most classes by sending me to the Principals office), but truly engaging and partnering with me in the learning process.  I began to look forward to his class and so began my long journey back from the abyss.

True to his word he passed me in English that year with surprisingly high marks, giving me some much-needed confidence in my academic abilities and reignited my passion for learning.   I started to apply myself in a couple of the other classes and by the end of the school year had squeaked by in four of my other seven subjects giving me a passing grade in a total of five subjects, one more than I was required to pass and move onto year 10. 

Somehow he had gotten inside my head and helped me think differently about school and learning – no longer accepting the label of the “dumb kid” I began apply myself more and more over the ensuring years and although I can’t say I was or have been an academic giant I was able to rewire my brain enough to believe (even if I wasn’t supported at home) that perhaps an education could be my vehicle out of this life. 

It’s hard to appreciate how close I came to failing year 9 and either having to repeat it or leave school altogether for an unskilled job either on a farm or factory, but for his intervention there was no question that’s where I was headed.

Clearly I was one of the fortunate few that was able to change "the soundtrack of my life", but as I sat listening to my son’s principal and new teachers talk about their collaborative approach to learning and hear the passion in their voices it brought back a flood of memories to those long forgotten days of my youth when Mr. Parsons reached out to me and helped me change the course of my life forever.