'Working very well and producing a good standard' / Vispo

RTomens, 2020

So my Secondary school education began. Riding on the back of my success at Junior school which culminated in winning Pupil of the Year (it's true!) I was on an educational roll. I created 'Careful, thoughtful work' in English and 'work of a good standard' in Modern Studies. You know, I can't remember what the hell Modern Studies entailed. I guess it was History. Our History teacher had a prosthetic hand, which he always covered with a glove. He turned this into an advantage when whacking pupils' heads. It was a terrifying weapon which, thankfully, I never felt, mainly because I had seen it administered too often and had learnt enough to gauge by the sound it made on contact with a skull that it was considerably weighty. Other pupils either did not have the sense to work that out or just couldn't help being bad.

I, meanwhile, was good. As you can see. I was 'a cheerful, helpful member of the form' and 'an integral part of the community'.  The community? Hold on, that's not what I think of when recalling that school. I suppose that's the teacher's ideal, rather than reality. It's a nice idea, 'community'. What it actually was was a jungle of ferocious adolescent beasts intent on tearing each other apart at any opportunity. Cruel nicknames based on immutable physical characteristics, bullying and violence were common. I wouldn't say it was completely out of control, but by my fourth year I recall the school's toughest bully wearing a Head Boy badge which he didn't earn, obviously, but went unchallenged. 

Naturally I produced a 'good standard' in Visual Education. I say 'naturally' since I was never taught, or never paid attention, so where did it come from? Neither of my parents were creative. That's a deep subject which I'll put to one side for now. I enjoyed Visual Education, mostly through drawing and painted what I liked rather than applying any skills the teacher tried to teach us. I just didn't take to being told what to do, no matter how beneficial it would have been. Rebel without a cause, right? 

Well, the rebel streak grew stronger as I aged. By the fourth year I was a lost cause. One teacher thought I could be 'saved', took me to one side and asked 'What went wrong?'. To this day I don't know the answer to that.