Primary School Confidential

by Woog

  Our local public school has been trialling ethics classes in the upper years, which I think is terrific. The aims of the ethics classes are as follows:

  • To introduce the language of ethics and, in doing so, to provide the tools to survey the values and principles we live by.

  • To encourage openness towards important personal and public issues.

  • To introduce dialogue as a means of resolving ethical issues.

  • In short, to deepen the ethical sense of future generations.

  These ethics lessons are designed to teach you to be a more thoughtful person. And, in my opinion, everyone could do with a dose of that.

  But then enter a dinosaur: a fella by the name of Fred Nile.

  Fred Nile is (or was, depending when you are reading my book) the leader of the Christian Democratic Party, a political group that promotes Christian values in Parliament and evaluates all legislation on Biblical principles.

  He also HATES the thought that our kids can learn ethics at school. HATES.

  The truth is that ethics has nothing to do with religion, but Fred insists that it will affect the ‘bums on seats’ movement. Ethics is a strand of philosophy, and heaven forbid our kids might make meaningful and empathetic decisions on their own.

  Considering a lot of our politicians are morally bankrupt themselves, is it any wonder that this is not a mandatory part of the Australian curriculum?

  23

  CRIME AND PUNISHMENT

  At my primary school, the most feared punishment was detention—though detention’s bark was worse than its bite. There were a lot of myths circulating about what happened when you were on detention. One was that a teacher would draw a dot of chalk on the blackboard and you had to spend the entire lunchtime standing with your nose pressed to that dot. Another was that you would be forced to stand against a wall in the blazing sun for an hour with your hands on your head as your peers played in front of you.

  The reality was not as physically arduous, although it was indeed degrading: you had to spend the lunch hour in a supervised classroom writing out your crime with the words ‘I must not’ in front of it.

  I must not throw a duster at Morris’s head

  I must not throw a duster at Morris’s head

  I must not throw a duster at Morris’s head

  I must not throw a duster at Morris’s head

  I must not throw a duster at Morris’s head

  I must not throw a duster at Morris’s head

  I must not throw a duster at Morris’s head

  I must not throw a duster at Morris’s head

  At the end of lunch, you took your lines up to the teacher/warden at the front and showed her.

  She would ask the question: ‘What must you not do?’

  ‘I must not throw a duster at Morris’s head.’

  And back to class you would go, to look at the back of Morris’s head, which still had a faint chalk mark on the back of it. And it was all you could do not to empty the contents of your sharpener down the back of his shirt . . . Or so I am told.

  Back in my day, a bit of physical and emotional abuse was an accepted part of the school day.

  Take my Year 5 teacher, Mr Golloway. A tall, thin man whose face was stamped with a permanent sneer, you could describe him as ‘old school’, which is another way of saying he hated children.

  Mr Golloway’s favourite pastime was humiliating his students. He would quite often throw a chalk-laden duster at me with alarmingly good aim, and yell: ‘Sit down, you drongo!’

  The reason I was standing in the first place was because each morning we had to recite our times tables. I was completely stuck on the sevens. Mr Golloway would draw a circle on the backboard and write the numbers 1 to 12 around it. First he would choose a number, and then he would choose his victim.

  If your name was called you would stand and wait while Mr Golloway readied his stopwatch. His eyes would narrow, his lizard-like tongue would dart out to wet his thin mean lips, and then he would yell: ‘GO!’

  And if it was me who was standing, I would simultaneously freeze and wet my pants a little. Then, panicking, I would stammer and stutter out random numbers, hoping that some of them might even be right. Eventually Mr Golloway would crack the shits and peg the duster at me.

  ‘Sit down, you drongo!’

  Although sometimes he would mix it up a bit and call me a dunderhead. Just for shits and giggles. When he got completely fed up, he would order us all to do silent reading, while he went out to the car park to have a smoke.

  Now imagine the repercussions today if a primary school teacher, or any teacher for that matter, threw an object at a student (other than a ball during PE) and belittled said student with unflattering names? There would be an international outcry.

  As recently as 2014, it was suggested that Australian students might actually benefit if we were to bring back corporal punishment. A so-called expert by the name of Kevin Donnelly actually argued that bringing back the cane would stem the rising tide of suspensions that are handed out each year.

  Corporal punishment was phased out in the late 1980s, but I still have vivid memories of kids copping the cane at school. You would see them coming out of the principal’s office, massive welts on the palms of their hands. It was enough to scare me straight.

  On the upside, corporal punishment was swift at least. Many schools now have discipline policies that would rival War and Peace when it comes to complexity and length. Here’s a typical step-by-step outline of the punishment process:

  • Offending student reminded of what constitutes acceptable behaviour.

  • Student given time out.

  • Student moved to another class.

  • Student moved to an isolated room.

  • Behaviour plan negotiated.

  • Parents invited into the process.

  • Interagency referral team contacted.

  • Student suspended.

  • Re-entry plan negotiated.

  • Parents reflect on when it all turned to shit.

  When you think about all those hours, all those resources and the cost incurred following the procedures outlined above, a couple of sharp ones can start to seem like a better way to go. But then you consider the effect on a child of the physical abuse and emotional turmoil. Mr Golloway’s approach was hardly beneficial to students; just ask Shane . . .

  Shane started at our school in Year 5 and, like me, he was in Mr Golloway’s class. Shane was tall and handsome, with hair as black as night, and even at the age of eleven you could see he was headed for trouble. Which, of course, was extremely appealing.

  Yes, I fell for the boy from the wrong side of the tracks. And I mean that stuff about the wrong side of the tracks literally; I lived in Windsor and he lived in South Windsor, on the other side of the rail line that divided the haves from the have-nots. South Windsor was known for its transient population and public housing tenants. It was rumoured that Shane’s dad was incarcerated in the local prison, that he’d been convicted of armed robbery. (Although I must stress, this was just a rumour; there was no evidence to back it up.) My infatuation with Shane was unrequited, however; as far as he was concerned, I was just some dork who didn’t know her times tables.

  Right from the outset, Mr Golloway and Shane were engaged in a mighty battle of wills. From the moment they first locked eyes, it was game on.

  Mr Golloway would order Shane to stand and undergo the dreaded times table challenge, only to be met with a firm ‘nup’. If the teacher insisted, Shane would quite openly flip him the one-fingered salute, which would drive Mr Golloway incandescent with fury.

  Shane had the attitude and swagger of a fifteen-year-old. A really fucked-up fifteen-year-old who was on a one-way ticket to juvie. He spent an inordinate amount of time sitting outside the principal’s office, under the watchful eye of the office ladies.

  And then one morning he did something totally bizarre.

  He rode a horse to school.<
br />
  He cantered into the playground on a huge pinto horse, and we all went hysterical—some with glee, others with fright.

  The word soon reached the staffroom, where a meeting was taking place. Mr Golloway rushed to the scene, his face purple with rage as he demanded that Shane bring the horse to a halt.

  But Shane ignored him. Around and around the playground he went, faster and faster on that huge horse, heedless of the kindergarten kids or anyone else who got in his way. Finally, after one last lap of the playground, he stuck his finger up at the lot of us and shot out of the front gate, never to be seen again.

  FEAR OF EMBARRASSMENT

  We all fear humiliation in the playground. This story is mortifying:

  For me primary school was all about the morbid fear of being embarrassed. By parents; by younger siblings; by teachers. This is probably as a direct consequence of the excruciating moment for all of us in 5L when, on a camping excursion to the Warrumbungles, one of our class sat on a bull ants’ nest. In response to the girl’s screams, Mrs Gore lifted the girl up off the nest and without any consideration of the true consequence of her actions, pulled down the girl’s undies. In front of us all. It was like a car crash—you just couldn’t look away.

  24

  LIFE IS A CELEBRATION!

  If there is one thing that primary schools across our fair nation like to do, they LOVE to celebrate! Heck, they even teach Celebrating Together as a unit in the Human Society and Its Environment curriculum. (This is what we used to call Social Science if you can remember that far back.)

  I have a friend, who you will meet in an upcoming chapter, who is a Gets-Shit-Done Mum. She texts me whenever there is a celebration on.

  BEEP BEEP—Harmony day. Wear orange.

  You want to know something? My kids both have a severe lack of orange clothing, so they tend to wear red and white and ask their teachers to look at them through blurry vision.

  BEEP BEEP—NAIDOC week. Kids need $2 each for damper making.

  I could think of nothing more disgusting than eating burnt on the outside, raw on the inside globs of dough that have been pummelled by hundreds of grotty hands. No. Thank. You.

  BEEP BEEP—Crazy hair day. I have checked with the chemist and they have run out of coloured hairspray. Just thought I would let you know.

  Of course the chemist has run out of coloured hairspray because they are a chemist, not a bloody two-dollar shop. Crazy hair day has caught me out for an impressive six years now. I get creative with gel.

  BEEP BEEP—Year 6 cupcake stall today. Send cupcakes. Label your container so you can get it back.

  I choose to totally ignore this text.

  BEEP BEEP—Don’t forget that it is the sports carnival today!

  Much like a ballet concert, you wait around for hours and hours to spend a few seconds watching your kid run in a race. You get sunburnt as buggery, go slightly deaf from all of the war-cries and talk to the other mums about how darn hot it is. The sports carnival is also a place where swarms of flies like to frequent.

  BEEP BEEP—You are on canteen duty RIGHT NOW. RUN!

  This is a common occurrence because of my lack of respect for communications.

  My friend is such a useful person in my life. I should really put her on the payroll. You see, our school newsletter is now delivered via an app, and I tend to ignore it. I know, we are all trying to be environmentally friendly these days, but paper works best for me.

  BEEP BEEP—It is book week.

  Book week should be re-named piss-weak when it came to my own efforts as a kid. I was an avid reader and I was deeply invested in The Folk of the Faraway Tree. Jo, Bessie and Fanny were totes cool in my opinion, and I even began to warm to Connie. But I had a non-sewing mum and one year things were very desperate, so I just grabbed the sheet from my bed and went as a ghost.

  When I had to tell my character’s name to the teacher who was announcing to the crowd what the kids were actually dressed as, I had no idea. So when it was my turn to walk around the quadrangle, she announced verbatim what I had said: ‘And here is a ghost from some book of her sister’s whose name she has forgotten . . .’

  I mean, how many ghosts could I have come up with on the spot? Surely Casper. But I was known as the ‘ghost from some book of her sister’s whose name she has forgotten’ because my imagination was having a wee holiday.

  THE SWIMMING CARNIVAL

  The swimming carnival is the great leveller of playground politics.

  I recall a near-drowning experience of my own when trying to complete the 50 metres as a wee tacker. Fuck winning the race; it was a matter of survival and trying to avoid the ultimate public humiliation of being fished out by a giant pole.

  I do remember, however, the highlight of the swimming carnival was the canteen at the pool, which stocked, among other things, Redskins and Wizz Fizz. This is where you most likely would have found me.

  These days, like most things, we have got far too structured and there is scheduled FREE PLAY at the modern swimming carnival, although there is quite often a very lolly-centric canteen much to the delight of the students.

  Woogs are not known for great swimming abilities, and I am grateful for this. Those gifted with supreme swimming abilities have very sleepy parents who drive them to early morning training. And that gig is something I can avoid, THANK GOD.

  One thing I have noticed is that kids who are gifted with great swimming abilities more often than not have multiple siblings who are also similarly gifted. In my day, it was the Upton sisters who dominated the pool. There were three of them—Susie, Julie and Kathy—and they could all be relied on to (pardon the pun) sweep the pool with their speed and power.

  This still happens: ‘Could we get Kirsty Brown, Sam Brown, Adam Brown and Lucy Brown to the marshalling area for the 4 x 50 metre individual medley, please.’ And then Mrs Brown would walk up and down and up and down the sideline with four stop watches.

  I have been to many a swimming carnival. I have watched hundreds of kids throw themselves in. I have always cheered on the kid who was doing his best impersonation of Eric the Eel, and am almost reduced to tears as they just manage to get to the end before drowning.

  I will never forget a particular carnival when this one kid finished his race, got out of the pool and stopped just in front of me. He leant over and unleashed the world’s biggest vomit. The whole thing was done silently and, if it were not for the tremendous splash onto the pavement, it might have gone unnoticed. Those who know me understand my very sensitive gag reflex so I fled to a far-flung corner of the aquatic centre and practised my deep breathing while trying not to hurl my own cookies. My take-home lesson? DO NOT DRINK THREE CANS OF FANTA BEFORE YOU SWIM 50 METRES OF BUTTERFLY. No good can come from it.

  25

  SO FANCY

  You know the stories right? About how your grandmother walked for three hours through the snow with nothing on her feet apart from a few old boxes tied up with twine to get to school? How she carried a burlap sack with a crust of bread and half an orange for her daily sustenance? And how she had to fight off savage beasts with her bare hands, before copping the cane when she eventually got to school, because she was nine seconds late?

  Yeah, you know them. And it begs the question: when did it all get so fancy?

  As I drop my kids at school each day, I line my car up with the others, all shiny late-model four-wheel drives what will never see a farm or the bush. Known as Toorak Tractors, they are typically Volkswagen Touaregs or BMW X5s. Well, they are where I live anyway.

  In the back of these beasts are our kids, their eyes glued to the built-in DVD player all the way to kiss-and-drop zone, where they reach for school bags containing any or all of the following:

  • Organic lunch in insulated container.

  • Permission notes.

  • A flute.

  • A tennis racquet.

  • Money in an envelope for an excursion to the Opera House.

  • A ta
blet loaded with school-approved apps for learning.

  • A speech about who inspires you and why printed out on little cards.

  • A water bottle labelled with your kid’s name.

  • Birthday invitations designed by some hotshot graphic designer, containing details of your child’s birthday party (a trip to a water park, then a meal at a hatted restaurant followed by a sleepover at the Hilton).

  • A pencil case from Smiggle with coordinated pens, rubbers and other such crap.

  • A small piece of unidentifiable rotten fruit, because it doesn’t matter how fancy you are, some things never change.

  Of course, this brand of fanciness is specific, not universal, and is confined to areas such as Sydney’s North Shore or Eastern Suburbs, Melbourne’s Toorak or, down the coast, Portsea, and Cottesloe in Perth. But that doesn’t change the fact that, overall, the education system has become extremely fancy compared to what our ancestors had to contend with. Not to mention what we had to contend with . . .

  Personally, I’m lucky to be alive, as I was a child of the Unflued Gas Heating Era. Perhaps you were as well?

  Did you used to sit on those blue metal heaters in the classroom to thaw your freezing arse? Turns out, we were all being slowly poisoned by the Department of Education. Known as an unflued gas heater, that blue metal baby was in fact emitting invisible poisonous gases; nasty stuff like nitrogen dioxide, formaldehyde, carbon dioxide and that old chestnut, carbon monoxide. We were breathing in these toxic vapours all day, as we sat and rote learnt our seven times tables. As we filled in the blanks of the comprehension sheets. As we sniffed the shit out of those comprehension sheets that were fresh off the spirit duplicator. We were also sniffing the shit out of mono-fluoro tri-chloro methane and ethylene glycol monoethyl ether.