Act of compartmentalization

Forest school for boys 1978.

The one thing I recall about starting my secondary education was compartmentalization; it was not done for our benefit, it was a cool, methodological, calculated act of superiority to gain control. To place us where we would feel the most inadequate, the most insecure and the most threatened; simply because, like the three hundred or so frightened sheep that we had become, we would turn to our shepherds in times of crisis to feel comfort, as our masters remoulded us into what they wanted us to become.
Our identities were already lost to us by our parents; who had spent the summer buying black shiny shoes, black socks, black pressed trousers, blue shirts, blue ties, with the emblem of a lion upon it, grey v, neck sweaters and black blazers. The only real differences that stood out were the colour of our hair, the colour of our eyes, and our equally terrified faces; as we held on to our tiny squares of paper with either a number one or two typed onto it. They had been handed to us by one of the larger pupils as we entered the hall with our tear filled mothers and our strong jawed fathers a moment or two ago. Our bleating in the “refectory” -for that was the name of the room where we had been placed- slowly began to rise, as our parents slowly left.
The Refectory was a huge, blue grey room. On the left hand wall the windows were hidden by large thick navy blue green curtains. The Right hand wall had an array of openings that were at that time covered by large wooden shutters. The ceiling was a dull grey white, and had three long lines of halogen strip lights equally placed apart; at the far end of the room there was a raised area, which had a varnished wooden door to the right. The room stank of nervous sweat and overcooked cabbage; a stench that I had come to despise from my grandmother’s house. As the bleating increased, I noticed the door open at the front of the hall on the staged area open and four tall men, two of whom were wearing square mortar board hats, and large black open coats over severe starched suits, stared aggressively down upon us.
The Headmaster was called S------------. I can remember that he looked down at us with kind gentle eyes; His oval face was warm as he told us who he was and that we were hear for the next five years to learn to find our place. I recall a real and genuine sense of fondness though, perhaps, that’s just what I want to remember. Then the two deputy masters took over as we were first asked to either stand on the right hand side of the hall, if we had the number one; or the left if we had the number two. After a moment of confusion we moved to our respective places, as we were told that now we were in either the X half or the Z half. I looked at my crumpled “2” with ominous disdain.
Then our names were then called out in rigid alphabetical order, last name first, then Christian, if we didn’t reply within the first calling, then the name was shouted out twice, there was no third chance. I heard my name I raised my hand, and was told that my house would be “Newton,” and my tutor group teacher would be “M------.” From that point on, I was segregated and placed. But it did not end there; over the next few weeks, the tutor group was segregated even more into sets of ability... the theory being the pupils who needed the greater help were placed in the lower sets... However It didn’t work like that.
So we left the refectory and made our way to our tutor group; but, as we were leaving, another tall man called P------- greeted us at the swinging double doors, which we, as individuals, had just past through half an hour previously. I recall that he had Iron black hair like my fathers, and a strong square jaw and large wide spread green eyes. He spoke with a drawling north England accent; however, like the head master, he did not wear a mortar board. He told us that he was the head of the first year and it was his job to help us though this difficult phase of our lives here. He also said that he would be seeing us all individually very soon, as he passed us a copy of the Gideon New testament.
I recall very vividly, the strange look in his eye, as I received the book from his nervous, hot, sweaty hand; and the way his trembling forefinger very gently caressed my knuckle. I didn’t like that look. I hated it and I was terrified of it... very soon I would come to know why.