The perils of being Centre stage. Part 1
Can I share with you my views on a humiliating situation I got myself into not many years after leaving school?
Over the course of our 6 years in secondary/high school we had a “ guidance lead “for the year who followed us through cradle to grave.
These guidance teachers had to role into one embodiment being advisors , mentors and uniquely as I perceive from later wide discussions internationally the main disciplinarians for the year.
To our modern eye it is clearly utterly inappropriate to conflate such roles. Though the argument I suspect would be fielded has its truths : it is an in loco parentis role and parents embodied all these responsibilities too.
Over my five years at the school I had developed a very strong attachment to and respect for her. She had from time to time punished me for minor indiscretions in her role as my English teacher. Forgotten homework - 2 strokes of her black classroom standard issue 3 tail medium tawse. No tie -2 strokes. Late -2 strokes. Talking after warning. -2 strokes. It was entirely normal for the institution. No fuss made. You erred you were punished you moved on without rancour.
What was not normal was the attention and care she paid to your capabilities and potential. She had over the first 3 years encouraged me to look beyond the staples of shipyard and other industrial work to the professions. She introduced me to worlds my background had not permitted me to understand as accessible. It was with her help and my hard work of course that I was finally able to decline the electricians apprentice ship and step left into a senior profession. One where her creation of self worth I actually succeeded. The first of my profoundly working class family. People who know me now cannot guess as to the poverty of youth a transformation greatly engendered by her.
However there was one moment where my own resentment and behaviour nearly derailed this relationship. And afterwards did.
Ours was a highly discipyschool but ferality ruled outside and was never far. Fighting was understood at our school. It was perceived I guess as evolutionary All young mammalian males did it. Not too much fuss was made when you started the next day with a black eye or bust nose. But…You were expected to do it off school grounds and little would be said.
The teachers could track the evolving hierarchies and relationships.
But if you fought in the yard, literally hundreds of kids would gather round chanting “Fight! Fight! Fight!” The teachers had to wade into that anarchy and break it up. There was only one sanction for that: a belting at assembly.
Stupidly, the tensions between myself and a boy called Bryson got so high that we just exploded one morning break.
He was bigger than me handsome a bit more sporty. He belonged to a bigger cohort of lad than I did. Not quite gangs but “associations”.
I didn’t relish the mismatch. Heavy weight against medium weight. We both knew the mathematics of outcome. There was no one to appeal to. To break the omertà was to invite social death. I’d likely be told just as my father had told me. “ you might lose but lose hard. They won’t come back”. The Scottish way. He’d started that day harassing me I’d genuinely tried to walk away but he spat on the back of my head. I saw absolute red. I transformed and just went for him. Now this wasn’t expected. I was smart. No one expected me to go Kamakazi. I had just guaranteed an outcome he didn’t own. He was so shocked I got the early advantage over him and had landed several meaty facial blows before his power and weight told and he grounded me with a blow to the face.
No one who was involved in an event like that can forget it. We were instantly surrounded by hundreds of boys forming an arena. The chants of FIght! Fight ! Fight. Echoed around the yard. In the eye of that maelstrom it was almost quite almost hypervigilant. I felt none of the blows. I was aware that people were spitting on us as we scuffled. There is no point into dramatizing this into some noble challenge of bucks. It was filthy and primal. Suddenly the rings broke apart. Several burly teachers PE and tech were tossing kids right and left to get at us. They got to us just as I went down not to get up again.
I was glad they’d arrived to take me from that evolutionary cauldron I had detonated myself.
McAlpine the PE teacher lifted me bodily and shook me.
“Galloway for Fecks sake son what are you thinking. This Tube Bryson yes but you son. Why?”
I judged it not wise to point out the lack of curiosity they showed towards bullying nor the let nature rule itself approach”
We were split up, calmed down, and given a chit to tell our parents we were to receive “corporal discipline” that Friday morning. We both agreed to no further conflict and didn’t receive suspension. The norm back then.
A few of my guys thought I was a genius. I’d hurt him far more than he had hurt me. First blow and all that. We all knew given another few minutes and I would be in deadly problems. A few regarded my actions as strategic gambling on the teachers intervening before nature took its course. I didn’t disabuse them. I even got a reputation to be avoided as a “scheming evil wee bastard “. But the truth be told my actions at least on the “ ego “ level were purely instinctive. Perhaps a smart ID was at work.
It did work to a certain extent. Neither Bryson nor anyone else came near me again nor was I a “ contender”. It really did transform my life.
But back then there was a ferry man to be paid.
It was a difficult two days knowing what was ahead. Assembly beltings were always hard. They were deliberately making an example and I knew no mercy would be shown. But I was prepared for it. The pain would pass. And it was far safer than what Bryson might have done to me at a deserted car park at 7pm if I’d played the game his way.
I had an English literature class the afternoon prior and it was as though nothing was happening the next day. One hundred per cent normal. It all seemed surreal. My guidance teacher didn’t even reference or counsel me on what I had ahead of me the next morning.
Then came that morning.
They of course only fielded the best belters at these assemblies to ensure the message got across. But I hadn’t reckoned on the final emotional blow that was to come.
My heart sank as I saw it was Miss Bulloch my own guidance teacher who was running the assembly. It just happened to be her on the rota for that day.
She must have known the day before and hadn’t acknowledged it one jot. Not warned or prepared me in any way at all.
The hall seemed looming and yet claustrophobic at the same time. Enough seating for the 1000 upper school pupils sat in 2 wide columns of chairs facing the full curtained stage also used for dramatic events.
The murmur stopped when Miss Bulloch raised her hand and came to the front of the stage. She was wearing her academic gown as all did only at such formal events.
The silence only allowed me to hear the whooshing of my own venous blood pulse like in my head.
After the school hymn and business activities were concluded, ( such banalities as new school bus times, potential trips etc) she announced that there was a last unfortunate matter to be dealt with.
The room hushed. Everyone knew this was the main show. This was the moment where the Christians were thrown to the lions.
The susurration climbed to an excited babbling.
“Silence!” Her voice gullotined the rising noise.
She lectured the assembled students that they had to understand that within school fighting and unruly playground behaviour would be sanctioned severely. It couldn’t go unpunished no matter who was involved. .
“Would Galloway and Bryson ascend the stage please?”
We had been positioned at the back row of the hall, so we had to do the walk of shame through the entire space towards the stage.
My face was bright red I saw the rows turn and stare at us as we were led towards the stage stairs.
A teacher always accompanied you on that long march in case you decided to take a run for it.
There was a low whispery as we walked forward — hundreds of pupils shifting, whispering, the sound rising and falling under the high ceiling of the old concert hall. The place itself added to the oppression: dark wood, cold air, and the sense of being watched from every angle.
We arrived on the stage.
Sotto Voce Mr Miller who had led us to the aisle , unwilling brides said the only practical lind thing I was to hear that day ( “ on you go lads do yer best it always passes”.
I was literally mortified that it was her. Our relationship seemed totally inappropriate for what was about to play out. Why hadn’t she swapped? No words of consolation or encouragement.
Straight to business. Stoney faced.
“Six. Change with every stroke.”
She draped that bloody folded towel over my wrists and started. ( this was a statement. We are going to thrash you so hard and with such abandon that a stray stroke could seriously damage the softer skin and tendons of your wrist). All part of the pageantry.
She laid on the strokes as though I was a stranger. That hurt more than the belt.
No — I’m lying there.
She gave the strokes all she had. She spaced them by at least 15 seconds to ensure all traumatic numbness had passed and the next stroke was maximally effective. Not today the more merciful quick six that could be endured or not in the duration of one deep breath.
By the fifth I was panicking a bit, wondering if I was going to go. The pain was awful. I could feel the blood gushing in my ears. I could feel my throat tightening and my eyes start to betray me by filling with tears.
But I made it through. I could hear the cracks resonating round the hall. Time seemed slowed. I made it without publicly crying , but only just.
She had really tried to break me using vicious wrist flicks for the last 3. But had mistimed her escalation. Going first was strategically wise. I did t realise it then but she couldn’t be seen to fail twice.
All this realisation came later. Then I felt dead inside and betrayed as I was ushered to the side. My hands and wrists were on fire, hanging useless. I could not have grasped a door handle.
I was vaguely aware of Bryson getting it. My compatriots said she set about him full blast from the very start.
He broke about the fourth, giving the spectacle the podium wanted. Causing awed silence in the watching ranks. An early middle aged woman destroying a tough young hardman. .
“Please……”
Kerrrrtackkkkk
“I can’t… I can’t…”
Kerrackkkkk
he spun back to the audience but all could see his shoulders shake and hear his staccato nasal breathing.
We were left on stage as the whole school was dismissed , stood and said “Good morning, Miss”. But all eyes were on us. Bryson was actually sobbing.
In a way I won the masculinity contest we had started in that yard. Some prizes just aren’t worth the stake required.
You know, it took me many months to “forgive” her. I struggled that she never prepped me even a little in the lesson the day before. I was also shocked by her totally impersonal approach. At the next lesson she took up as though nothing had happened. There was no resolution or discussion of what had taken place. No closure at my end. I guess at seventeen I was still, to her, a child — an “in loco parentis” chattel. But I had started to grow into my adult sensibilities. I was too mature for what had happened All of that, more than the pain, distressed me.
I’ve never fully synthesized the event. But I did forgive her fully and she led me to a door opening grade.
It was to lead to a later utter humiliation
Over the course of our 6 years in secondary/high school we had a “ guidance lead “for the year who followed us through cradle to grave.
These guidance teachers had to role into one embodiment being advisors , mentors and uniquely as I perceive from later wide discussions internationally the main disciplinarians for the year.
To our modern eye it is clearly utterly inappropriate to conflate such roles. Though the argument I suspect would be fielded has its truths : it is an in loco parentis role and parents embodied all these responsibilities too.
Over my five years at the school I had developed a very strong attachment to and respect for her. She had from time to time punished me for minor indiscretions in her role as my English teacher. Forgotten homework - 2 strokes of her black classroom standard issue 3 tail medium tawse. No tie -2 strokes. Late -2 strokes. Talking after warning. -2 strokes. It was entirely normal for the institution. No fuss made. You erred you were punished you moved on without rancour.
What was not normal was the attention and care she paid to your capabilities and potential. She had over the first 3 years encouraged me to look beyond the staples of shipyard and other industrial work to the professions. She introduced me to worlds my background had not permitted me to understand as accessible. It was with her help and my hard work of course that I was finally able to decline the electricians apprentice ship and step left into a senior profession. One where her creation of self worth I actually succeeded. The first of my profoundly working class family. People who know me now cannot guess as to the poverty of youth a transformation greatly engendered by her.
However there was one moment where my own resentment and behaviour nearly derailed this relationship. And afterwards did.
Ours was a highly discipyschool but ferality ruled outside and was never far. Fighting was understood at our school. It was perceived I guess as evolutionary All young mammalian males did it. Not too much fuss was made when you started the next day with a black eye or bust nose. But…You were expected to do it off school grounds and little would be said.
The teachers could track the evolving hierarchies and relationships.
But if you fought in the yard, literally hundreds of kids would gather round chanting “Fight! Fight! Fight!” The teachers had to wade into that anarchy and break it up. There was only one sanction for that: a belting at assembly.
Stupidly, the tensions between myself and a boy called Bryson got so high that we just exploded one morning break.
He was bigger than me handsome a bit more sporty. He belonged to a bigger cohort of lad than I did. Not quite gangs but “associations”.
I didn’t relish the mismatch. Heavy weight against medium weight. We both knew the mathematics of outcome. There was no one to appeal to. To break the omertà was to invite social death. I’d likely be told just as my father had told me. “ you might lose but lose hard. They won’t come back”. The Scottish way. He’d started that day harassing me I’d genuinely tried to walk away but he spat on the back of my head. I saw absolute red. I transformed and just went for him. Now this wasn’t expected. I was smart. No one expected me to go Kamakazi. I had just guaranteed an outcome he didn’t own. He was so shocked I got the early advantage over him and had landed several meaty facial blows before his power and weight told and he grounded me with a blow to the face.
No one who was involved in an event like that can forget it. We were instantly surrounded by hundreds of boys forming an arena. The chants of FIght! Fight ! Fight. Echoed around the yard. In the eye of that maelstrom it was almost quite almost hypervigilant. I felt none of the blows. I was aware that people were spitting on us as we scuffled. There is no point into dramatizing this into some noble challenge of bucks. It was filthy and primal. Suddenly the rings broke apart. Several burly teachers PE and tech were tossing kids right and left to get at us. They got to us just as I went down not to get up again.
I was glad they’d arrived to take me from that evolutionary cauldron I had detonated myself.
McAlpine the PE teacher lifted me bodily and shook me.
“Galloway for Fecks sake son what are you thinking. This Tube Bryson yes but you son. Why?”
I judged it not wise to point out the lack of curiosity they showed towards bullying nor the let nature rule itself approach”
We were split up, calmed down, and given a chit to tell our parents we were to receive “corporal discipline” that Friday morning. We both agreed to no further conflict and didn’t receive suspension. The norm back then.
A few of my guys thought I was a genius. I’d hurt him far more than he had hurt me. First blow and all that. We all knew given another few minutes and I would be in deadly problems. A few regarded my actions as strategic gambling on the teachers intervening before nature took its course. I didn’t disabuse them. I even got a reputation to be avoided as a “scheming evil wee bastard “. But the truth be told my actions at least on the “ ego “ level were purely instinctive. Perhaps a smart ID was at work.
It did work to a certain extent. Neither Bryson nor anyone else came near me again nor was I a “ contender”. It really did transform my life.
But back then there was a ferry man to be paid.
It was a difficult two days knowing what was ahead. Assembly beltings were always hard. They were deliberately making an example and I knew no mercy would be shown. But I was prepared for it. The pain would pass. And it was far safer than what Bryson might have done to me at a deserted car park at 7pm if I’d played the game his way.
I had an English literature class the afternoon prior and it was as though nothing was happening the next day. One hundred per cent normal. It all seemed surreal. My guidance teacher didn’t even reference or counsel me on what I had ahead of me the next morning.
Then came that morning.
They of course only fielded the best belters at these assemblies to ensure the message got across. But I hadn’t reckoned on the final emotional blow that was to come.
My heart sank as I saw it was Miss Bulloch my own guidance teacher who was running the assembly. It just happened to be her on the rota for that day.
She must have known the day before and hadn’t acknowledged it one jot. Not warned or prepared me in any way at all.
The hall seemed looming and yet claustrophobic at the same time. Enough seating for the 1000 upper school pupils sat in 2 wide columns of chairs facing the full curtained stage also used for dramatic events.
The murmur stopped when Miss Bulloch raised her hand and came to the front of the stage. She was wearing her academic gown as all did only at such formal events.
The silence only allowed me to hear the whooshing of my own venous blood pulse like in my head.
After the school hymn and business activities were concluded, ( such banalities as new school bus times, potential trips etc) she announced that there was a last unfortunate matter to be dealt with.
The room hushed. Everyone knew this was the main show. This was the moment where the Christians were thrown to the lions.
The susurration climbed to an excited babbling.
“Silence!” Her voice gullotined the rising noise.
She lectured the assembled students that they had to understand that within school fighting and unruly playground behaviour would be sanctioned severely. It couldn’t go unpunished no matter who was involved. .
“Would Galloway and Bryson ascend the stage please?”
We had been positioned at the back row of the hall, so we had to do the walk of shame through the entire space towards the stage.
My face was bright red I saw the rows turn and stare at us as we were led towards the stage stairs.
A teacher always accompanied you on that long march in case you decided to take a run for it.
There was a low whispery as we walked forward — hundreds of pupils shifting, whispering, the sound rising and falling under the high ceiling of the old concert hall. The place itself added to the oppression: dark wood, cold air, and the sense of being watched from every angle.
We arrived on the stage.
Sotto Voce Mr Miller who had led us to the aisle , unwilling brides said the only practical lind thing I was to hear that day ( “ on you go lads do yer best it always passes”.
I was literally mortified that it was her. Our relationship seemed totally inappropriate for what was about to play out. Why hadn’t she swapped? No words of consolation or encouragement.
Straight to business. Stoney faced.
“Six. Change with every stroke.”
She draped that bloody folded towel over my wrists and started. ( this was a statement. We are going to thrash you so hard and with such abandon that a stray stroke could seriously damage the softer skin and tendons of your wrist). All part of the pageantry.
She laid on the strokes as though I was a stranger. That hurt more than the belt.
No — I’m lying there.
She gave the strokes all she had. She spaced them by at least 15 seconds to ensure all traumatic numbness had passed and the next stroke was maximally effective. Not today the more merciful quick six that could be endured or not in the duration of one deep breath.
By the fifth I was panicking a bit, wondering if I was going to go. The pain was awful. I could feel the blood gushing in my ears. I could feel my throat tightening and my eyes start to betray me by filling with tears.
But I made it through. I could hear the cracks resonating round the hall. Time seemed slowed. I made it without publicly crying , but only just.
She had really tried to break me using vicious wrist flicks for the last 3. But had mistimed her escalation. Going first was strategically wise. I did t realise it then but she couldn’t be seen to fail twice.
All this realisation came later. Then I felt dead inside and betrayed as I was ushered to the side. My hands and wrists were on fire, hanging useless. I could not have grasped a door handle.
I was vaguely aware of Bryson getting it. My compatriots said she set about him full blast from the very start.
He broke about the fourth, giving the spectacle the podium wanted. Causing awed silence in the watching ranks. An early middle aged woman destroying a tough young hardman. .
“Please……”
Kerrrrtackkkkk
“I can’t… I can’t…”
Kerrackkkkk
he spun back to the audience but all could see his shoulders shake and hear his staccato nasal breathing.
We were left on stage as the whole school was dismissed , stood and said “Good morning, Miss”. But all eyes were on us. Bryson was actually sobbing.
In a way I won the masculinity contest we had started in that yard. Some prizes just aren’t worth the stake required.
You know, it took me many months to “forgive” her. I struggled that she never prepped me even a little in the lesson the day before. I was also shocked by her totally impersonal approach. At the next lesson she took up as though nothing had happened. There was no resolution or discussion of what had taken place. No closure at my end. I guess at seventeen I was still, to her, a child — an “in loco parentis” chattel. But I had started to grow into my adult sensibilities. I was too mature for what had happened All of that, more than the pain, distressed me.
I’ve never fully synthesized the event. But I did forgive her fully and she led me to a door opening grade.
It was to lead to a later utter humiliation
