After a period of dithering, punctuated by periods of broken sleep, I finally made the decision last week to say no to next years Big School Reunion, where the surviving members of the class of ’68 are to gather in celebration at the conclusion of 70 journeys around the sun. In truth, it was not a difficult decision once I had finally worked out why I had no desire to attend. School was a very unhappy time for me. Why would I want to spend an evening reminding myself about it?
I have not seen the vast majority of my fellow pupils since 1973 or 1974. My best friend died last year, another close friend I lost contact with decades ago appears untraceable, feared dead, leaving two dear friends I am back in contact with after far too long, whose company I value as much as I did over half a century ago when we formed a rock band despite any of us being capable of playing an instrument. These friends provide me with all the memories I need.
School, particularly senior school, was something I had to do. It was not somewhere I wanted to be because I never understood any of the subjects. In fact, I maintain that I learned nothing of any use at school. Everything I learned, I learned myself. I am a proud autodidact.
At my old school, Brislington Comprehensive, if you were good at something, you ended up in the top sets. If you weren’t, you found yourself going through the motions. I emerged in 1974 unable to carry out the most basic arithmetic, unable to understand the rules of grammar, I had no clue what biology, chemistry and physics were all about, I was completely incapable of practical subjects like woodwork and was average at most sports, which meant I never got picked for anything and never received a second’s tuition at any of them. If only I had been diagnosed with ADHD, as I was in old age, life could have been very different, but sadly it had not been invented back then.
What a shame, also, that I developed severe mental health issues at the age of 12, necessitating in psychiatric treatment every Tuesday for the best part of two years. That trauma and those absences from school can’t have helped much, can they? But mostly, I was just unhappy.
Life was grim and basic at home. We were penniless and mum worked all the hours ‘God’ sent in order that we didn’t go under. Not that I knew at the time, but she regularly went without food in order that I didn’t have to. She had almost no friends, certainly no social life, all her family lived in the Netherlands from where she emigrated in the early 1950s to marry my father, a marriage that collapsed around the turn of the decade, just as the Swinging Sixties arrived. I went to school alone, came back alone; learned how to be the loner I still am today, perhaps even more so. School was of no use at all.
I acquired the unwanted nickname ‘Mole’ because I had a keyhole-sized birthmark on my face, a nickname I hated almost as much as the birthmark. And of course if you let it be known that you hate something, you can be sure that you will hear it more and more. Eventually, I had two surgeries to remove the birthmark, which left a big scar which I liked far more, but Mole remained. My limited contact with some former pupils still sees me referred to as Mole and while I am not delicate enough to be upset by it, nonetheless it jolts my memory bank, reminds me of bad times. Which is where the Big Reunion comes in.
I’ve long thought the main reason I did not want to attend a reunion was because I could see no point in getting together with people I had made no effort to make contact with, nor they me, for over half a century, but gradually it dawned on me that this was only part of the story. The woodwork teacher, who we shall refer to as Mr J, who lost his temper with my cack-handedness, stormed over to admonish me, only to catch his apron in a vice which saw the buttons flying off in all directions, saw me explode into laughter, along with everyone else in the class. But I was the only one to be shouted at – and I really mean shouted at – and told to leave the classroom and wait outside until the lesson was over. 13 or 14 year old me didn’t stop walking and just went home.
I guess I just didn’t fit in. While I wasn’t picked on or bullied, I was not part of any of the cliques. When the school bell rang at 4.00 pm, the relief was immense. This was the feeling every day for six years.
Only one teacher believed in me, a Portuguese English teacher called Mrs Defonseca. She specialised in English Language and while she knew I couldn’t tell a noun from an adjective (still can’t) she saw something in me. She encouraged me to create essays and little stories. She taught me to love writing and, to a lesser extent (because it involved concentrating and I was never any good of that), reading. English Language was the only subject I excelled at, it gave me the only meaningful qualification I had. Hell, I loved her classes. I wish I’d thanked her more.
We had career evenings which I had to attend alone because mum was still at work. I had no idea what I would do once I left school, although I was drawn to journalism thanks to the presence of the Bristol Evening Post, which had a very impressive display, staffed by actual journalists. But there were queues ahead of me and they all had their mum and dads with them. My dreams of writing died before they were even properly born. By the time I left school, I was seeing psychiatrists again.
I was more than happy when it was time to leave school for the final time. I had my small group of school friends, which became even smaller as the years went by, and became part of other friendship groups, at work, at the football and at the pub. I did not look back, I did not want to look back. In truth, I still don’t. And that’s where next year’s reunion came in and then went out.
My dithering was doing me no good. I knew that if I did not make a decision, that being a decision not to attend a reunion, it would start to drag me down. I cannot pretend those miserable school years didn’t happen but I really didn’t want to be reminded of them. Many have good memories of school. I genuinely don’t. Finally, I made the decision to decline the invite and, in all honesty, I feel almost liberated.
My triumph in life is to still be here. I honestly don’t know how I have made it this far and I know I have others to thank, especially my partner, without whom I am sure I’d have died years ago, and of course my mum. And, lest I forget, my friends, the few remaining from school and the ones I have met along the way. You know who you are.
School was out forever some 52 years ago. Nothing has changed that would make me want to relive any of it. Memories, mainly bad ones, are the reason. I do not have much time left. I can’t spend it, can’t waste it, on bad memories.
To my fellow pupils, it’s nothing personal. I just don’t want to be there. Meanwhile, here’s to the future. It’s only just begun.
