WordSmith: Secondary school, a scary first day
This is my third column in a trilogy of school-related musings. Given students are completing their final exams and experiencing the bitter-sweetness of their last school day; I thought I’d go back to my first day. It was a controversial one, which involved quite a hairy incident indeed. Here goes.
My legs dragged heavy up the paved path to Cavan Vocational School; I felt wobbly with worry. I was about to join a class wherein everybody knew everybody else, but not me – the new boy. At the main door, I paused and allowed myself a moment's procrastination. After all, I was already two weeks late, a few minutes more wouldn’t matter. My relocation from Manchester meant the new school term was well underway.
My pause expired; I pushed the door and entered the new school. Darkness halted me. When my eyes became accustomed to the light, I stared down an empty corridor. I set off; and as instructed, took the first left onto the mall, a long lobby like space with bench seating running along adjacent walls. The empty silence unnerved me; I vividly recall thinking I was in a Zombie-Apocalypse film: School of The Living Dread.
I located the office I’d been told to present myself at, and with a thumping heart, knocked on the door. A gentle man greeted me; his smile soothing. He gave me a swift tour of the school, before delivering me to my first class.
Into the class-room I went. A flurry of faces stared at me, making me feel like a reluctant stage star. In retrospect, I was a new face, a distraction from Monday’s first class. I was aware of words being exchanged between the man and teacher, but such was my sensory-overload, I heard nothing. Seeing an empty seat at the front of the class, I took it, eager to be turned away from the audience.
“You’re very welcome Gerard, and I’m sure everyone will make you feel the same,” announced the teacher. I immediately noticed he was wearing exactly the same clothes as me: Flared trousers, wide collared shirt with a knitted tank top.
A lad from behind spoke up, “He’s all style sir, like yer-self.” My face flushed at the resultant peals of laughter from the rest of the class. I looked down at the white topped desk, and could almost see my reddening face reflected in it.
Mere moments into my first day and the class were laughing at me. It didn’t occur to me that the lad may have had an honest appreciation of our style. No, as far as I was concerned, the teacher and I were being derided for what we wore. My embarrassed-discomfort lifted; but little did I know things were to turn significantly hair-raising.
That first class was called ‘Combined-Studies’ and as the class neared its end, I had no idea what ‘Studies’ were ‘Combined'. Morning break beckoned; I braced myself. Where does the new boy go at break-time when he doesn’t have a friend, let alone a circle? In Manchester, I had a circle of friends to help cushion the blow of starting secondary school. In Ireland, I wondered if I’d ever find that cylindrical-net. The break-buzzer created a cacophony of clatter and chatter as kids packed books into bags and made for the door, eager to be free of classroom confines.
The incident took me by surprise, I had no time to prepare as he whacked me from behind. Instinctively, I ducked-down to protect myself from another blow. He leapt in front of me, a look of disdain on his face. He grabbed my shoulder and yanked me forward with impressive strength as he roared, “COME ON WILL YA – THE LAST ONE TO THE MALL HAS A HAIRY-MICKEY!” He took off at speed towards the winners' podium.
I looked behind to see lads and lassies dallying towards the mall. The lad’s call to competition was ignored by his class mates, all completely unconcerned with what he considered a loser’s burden.
My first day at school in Cavan ended relatively well, I scored second place in that hair-racing-incident.
Now, when I reflect back, I realise I’m very lucky – I do have some wonderful memories from my tenure at The Tech.
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