Year 2: An Eventful Year, filled with Lessons and (yet more) Humiliations. First Blossoming of Intellectual Awareness, Awareness of my Difference, Independence of Thought. The Beginning of the Apocalyptic End of all Happiness and Sanity
Having not been selected in the so-called “Independent
Class” for year 2, I was put in 2E. My teacher in this class was Mrs Evans.
Mrs Evans was an old woman. She
was such an old woman, in fact, that I remember her telling us, on more than
one occasion, that she was “103”. I don’t think I ever quite believed this, and
certainly dismissed it on reflection – although she clearly was pretty old for
a teacher. Maybe 70?
Madame Evans adored art. She was truly
infatuated with art and crafts, and devoted an inordinate amount of class time
to it. In hindsight, it almost seems as if we did an artistic activity every
day. I know that we did have a regular routine of visiting the “Kiln” down
below the playground. I think it might even have been weekly visits to the kiln
– however that does make you wonder about the limits of novelty in amateur pottery
manufacture. Certainly, we did do a lot of arts and craft. Indeed, from very
early on in the year, arts and craft became an obsession.
In the summer holidays before the
school year began, I remember that I had managed to persuade my mum to finally buy
me a big set of textas. Textas were cool and super fashionable back then, and
having a lot of them was a real status symbol, particularly due to the
potential abundance afforded you to create highly elaborate and impressive texta
guns, or texta chains (and the look of a pencil case bulging with textas was
all the rage – it was a real turn-on). Unfortunately, I remember that when we
all shuffled into Mrs Evans’ class for the first time, one of the first things she
told us was that she did not abide textas, and instead wanted everyone to go out
and buy Texta-brand “twisting crayons”. This was a massive disappointment for
everyone. I seem to recall there was a huge sigh upon the announcement of the
news, followed by a series of protestations.
Despite the generality of the
dismay, I do believe it was more disappointing for me than anyone else, because
all the hopes, dreams and fantasies that had been swirling about in my head
during the prelusive weeks had been so unceremoniously crushed. What a
devastating blow! I realised immediately that I would receive no boost in
status from my extra textas, and would probably barely use them, leaving them
to moulder at home instead. It was hard to imagine anything more tragic than
that.
When we then enjoined our parents
to buy the ersatz textas, we learned (with a mixture of disappointment and
curiosity) that twisting crayons were these long, slender plastic implements
that were not quite like a pen, a pencil or a texta. Indeed, they were a
near-perfect hybrid: they vaguely resembled textas, with their bright, shiny,
sleek appearance; they felt like pens, with their narrow, easily pinchable
shape; and the actual imprinting substance was soft and degradable like
graphite, with extra length available by the simple, mechanical process of
twisting a plastic collar (a bit like sharpening a pencil).
We did an awful lot with these
unusual art implements. I remember, in particular, one occasion where we had to
write our name in big, “bubble letters” on a background we’d already filled in
ourselves. I think it might have been an artwork that was going to be hung up
as a symbol of our identity.
Now, before I go on, I’d like to
make clear that I was truly abysmal at art in year 2. While I quickly rose to
the top of the class academically, and established a firm and impregnable
intellectual dominance, I was quite literally at the opposite extreme in the
aesthetic disciplines. Yes, it was that polarised: I was king of academics and
peasant of aesthetics. I liked to doodle well enough (in fact, probably more
than my peers), but I was truly hopeless at any kind of structured artistic
exercise.
Nowhere can this be better
demonstrated than in the case of the “bubble letter” artwork. As embarrassing
and probably incredible as it sounds, I had always struggled with bubble
letters. Not only that, but I had been fiercely jealous of those who had the
ability to emblazon their books with bubbly designs. How dexterous they were! My
main problem was that I tended to misapply the rules of normal writing to
bubble writing, never thinking through the schematic differences between the
two typographies. For example, I know that I used to draw the two big strokes
of the T when I was doing bubble Ts, even though that immediately makes it
impossible to draw a normal-looking bubble T. I also used to draw the entire
standard ‘e’ before trying to bubblise it, which also doesn’t work. Was it a
product of low spatial cognition? I think I was just an unusual child, with a slightly
weird brain. I think I have always lacked common sense to some degree. When I
am assisting my dad in various menial labours around the house, for example, I
often do very silly things. Moreover, I have always had the habit of forgetting
to put down the objects associated with one task while starting another. Anyway,
in the case of this one artwork where we had to write our name in bubble
letters, I seem to recall I kept stuffing up. Not just once, but a few times.
If I’m not mistaken, I think I even had to scrap my first two gos. Eventually,
I think I got the bubbly T right and had everything in order until I suddenly
realised that I was running out of space and would have to start drawing
smaller bubble letters. In the end, my name was lopsided and deformed, with the
last few letters receding dramatically and sloping downwards. Mrs Evans was
very disappointed, and chastised me for my idiocy. Nobody else had failed so
badly as me. I felt awful.
It is quite odd to think about
the polarisation of my fortunes in that class. As well as memories of artistic
failure, I have a number of memories of intellectual supremacy in 2E. Indeed,
my sense of intellectual supremacy is perhaps the most salient feature of that
entire year apart from my artistic nullitude. I don’t think I had viewed myself
as in any way gifted before year 2, but in this unselective class, it was quite
clear that I was the best from the outset (and that I should really have been one
of the first picked for the “Independent class”, not omitted entirely). The
dominant impression I have is of finding everything so easy. I struggled to understand why people took so long to pick up things
that were, for me, essentially intuitive.
I soon discovered I was peerless in mental arithmetic, despite having made
no active effort to learn the times tables; I was peerless in English reading
and comprehension, and began to find the slowness of others excruciating; and I
also discovered that I had much more “general knowledge” – more knowledge of
interesting facts, world events, culture and human psychology – than any one of
my classmates. God it was boring. One example of my supremacy is in learning
how to read analogue clocks. Just minutes after starting the exercise in our
“Maths book” on how to read analogue clocks, I remember realising, with a surge
of joy, that I now knew how to do that quintessentially mature activity of
telling the time. I could now know the time without asking a parent! What a
wonderful thing! By contrast, others in my class struggled badly with the
exercise, and I know that some of them didn’t even learn how to read a clock by
the end of the year (and beyond).
Another time, I remember a series
of mums came in to help teach us to read multiple-digit numbers.
As
soon as they arrived, everyone in the class was split up into groups of three
or four, each of which was assigned a mum. I was put in a circle led by Alex
Jarmyn’s mum, with three other kids whose identities I don’t remember. After we
were settled, Ms Jarmyn began to present us with these green cards on which
random numbers were printed. As soon as she showed us one of these cards, we
were meant to read out the number. The idea was the digitude would gradually
increase with every success, and the hope was that the mums might eventually
get to the superhuman challenge of four or five digit cards. I was ready for
the high numbers from the start. Before the class had started, I could already
read two-digit, three-digit numbers and four-digit numbers with ease, and I
easily recognised the conventions for reading five and six. As I demolished card
after card, Ms Jarmyn began to evince increasing admiration for my abilities. Eventually,
she resolved to unveil the artefact she had previously thought unattainable,
the greatest challenge of all – a five-digit number. I was now the sole focus
of her attention, and the other kids around me were left to sit there agog at
my precocity. If I remember correctly (through the fog of time), the gargantuan
number she presented me with began with “four”. Although nobody had ever asked
me to say a five-digit number before, the extrapolation of the pattern from
smaller digits was simple enough. I knew that the number was now referring to “40
quantities of a thousand” not “4 quantities of a thousand”, and the rest
followed on easily enough. Tragically, I was frazzled by the spotlight, and I
ended up starting my recitation with “Four thousand” (as opposed to “Forty-x
thousand”). Although I realised my blunder immediately, I think Ms Jarmyn
quickly assumed that five digits was my limit, because she quickly put away the
card and pronounced our session over. Though she praised my acuity, I recall
being disappointed that I had failed to demonstrate my true capacities.
Another time, I remember breaking
the curve on a spelling test, which gave me a “spelling age” of 13 (which I
think was the cap). I know this fact because it was mentioned in the
parent-teacher interview. I also remember finding dictation a cinch.
One of the most vivid memories I
have of 2E also pertains to my intellectual dominance, though not in a good way.
At some point during the year, Mrs Evans recognised that it would be a good
idea to give me extension exercises, and I thus began to spend increasing time
segregated from the rest of the class. One of these times, something very
embarrassing happened. I won’t say more here, because I wrote a third-person, Portait of the Artist-style narrative of
this memory 18 months ago:
“He was staring at Mrs Evans: she
had a wrinkly, unevenly pigmented and powdery face, and colourful spectacles
dangled off the chain on her reptilian neck. She was speaking to him: “Tom, do
these comprehension sheets while I teach the other kids”.
“Ok,” he replied quietly as she
handed them to him. He grasped them and looked down at them. He examined the
first question: What does Tom want from Joe? It looked pretty easy, no problem.
And he was so smart, doing these extension exercises while the other kids still
had to learn – he was so much smarter than all of them.
“Sit over there,” she said,
pointing at the empty table behind him, towards which he turned and nodded in
acknowledgement. “And let me know when you’re finished.”
“Ok,” he said. He turned around
and started walking over towards the table. Mrs Evans then spoke, and he turned
around to look at the scene behind him as he continued walking towards the
desk: she was addressing the rest of the class, the dummies, all the people he
was smarter than, there was Hall sitting crossleggèd on the floor, there was
Jack and Jake and Harrison and Daniel and Simon and Lana Chakerian, she was not
as dumb as the rest she could almost be up here coz she got the 9 × 7 = 63
quicker than him that one time when they were on the floor doing the
timetables. They were all now looking upwards in obedience as she started
speaking, “Pay attention everyone. Stop talking. We’re going to look at verbs
again.” A low murmur persisted. “Harrison, stop talking.”
Harrison quickly turned his head
to look at her.
“What did I just say?” Mrs Evans
said, staring at him fiercely.
“We’re going to look at verbs
again,” Harrison replied.
“You’re lucky. Now don’t talk
again.”
“Ok”.
Tom turned back, sat down on the
chair below him and placed the papers on the desk. He pulled the chair in as
Mrs Evans continued – “We’re going to start with verbs: what’s the word that’s
a little bit stronger than Good?” – the answer’s Better, that’s so easy. He
started reading the text that was on the first sheet in front of him:
Jim was very angry. Lucy had said something bad about him the day
before and he wanted to do the same. In the kitchen with his mum…
It was easy. Simple. He began to
answer the first question. In the background the other kids answered even
easier questions about grammar.
He worked diligently for a few
minutes, but as he was answering the second question, he suddenly felt an
overwhelming urge to pick his nose. It felt like there was a great chunk of
snot just at the base of his right nostril, obstructing the passage of air. It
needed to be removed. He rubbed his nose with the back of his right hand, then,
after quickly looking at the rest of his class mates to check if any of them
were looking, inserted his right index finger into his nose and fished it out.
He looked at the piece, now stuck on his finger: it was a delicate little
sliver, and of such a subtle green colour as to be almost translucent. He
turned back towards the rest of the class again: Jack Vignes was staring right
at him. Oh shit, he had seen. He suddenly shouted: “Eww Tom just picked his
nose!” Everyone was looking at Tom now, all the girls, everyone – even Mrs
Evans. It was so embarrassing. He felt his face flushing.
“I didn’t, I just rubbed it. I
didn’t pick it. Like this.” He brought his finger to his nose and scratched
around the entrance.
“Nah, I saw you!” Jack retorted.
Mrs Evans now loudly spoke: “Ok,
let’s focus on what we’re doing again.”
Gradually everyone quietened down
and turned their heads towards her. The lesson had resumed. Tom resumed
writing, humiliation lingering. He no longer felt special or smart at all.”
To be honest, I can’t remember if
it really was Jack Vignes who spotted me picking my nose and alerted the class.
Whoever it was, though, it really was a humiliating moment. It really took me
down a peg or two (despite my literal elevation above the rest of the class
when it happened). It also shocked and saddened me that the other boys in the
class revelled in pulling me down. It really made me feel isolated; I was truly
alone.
I did pick my nose a lot as a
child. It wasn’t true that I had only scratched the entrance. I still pick my
nose now. I never managed to kick the habit, though I have tried a number of
times. I used to think that the frequent, rather intense nosebleeds that I
suffered at night as a child had something to do with my nosepicking. In
retrospect, the fact they stopped even though I didn’t suggests there might
have been some other cause.
I have many memories of waking up
in the middle of the night with a running nose, and raising my hand to wipe
away the fluid only to find that it kept flowing and that I could taste blood
in my mouth. This always drove me to the bathroom to wash off my hands and try
to stop the sanguinary stream. Due to the frequency of this kind of event, my
old mattress developed huge, burgundy bloodstains, and my pillow (which has
remained the same for more than a decade and a half) is deeply infused with
plasma.
Anyhow, to return to 2E, I should
say that I wasn’t totally infallible academically, and I know this because I
have a memory that testifies to it. I seem to remember only one homework task
from 2E. It was an exercise where we had to work out the comparatives and
superlatives for a series of adjectives. If you have no idea what I’m talking
about, an example is the following question:
“Happy, happier, [ ]”
This kind of thing was very easy,
as you might expect, and I think I cruised through the first few examples. But
suddenly, out of the blue, the word “good” appeared. It was sitting in the
first row of a table, followed by two blanks. I was baffled. I had no idea what
they wanted. “Gooder” and “Goodest” just did not sound right, and I had certainly
never heard any adult use them before. Before I attempted any answer, I saw
that the next question was just as perplexing, requesting that I fill in two
blanks for the word “bad”. I had also never heard any adult say “Badder” or
“Baddest” before. I tried to think of alternatives; nothing came. In the end, I
decided to write the very ugly and wrong-sounding words in the spaces, while
also appending a marginalium in which I explained both my confusion and my
recognition that “Gooder” and “Badder” sounded wrong. Given that I could see no
possible alternative, it seemed most probable to me that the exercise was
flawed, and so I also wrote something to that effect in the note. It was all a
very unnerving experience. I hated the feeling of not knowing.
When Mrs Evans returned the
marked exercises a few days later, I remember that she spoke briefly about
people “writing notes” on their paper. She said that it was nice to read but
unnecessary, or something like that. The important point is that I hadn’t got
100% on the exercise. Apparently, “better” and “best” were regarded as the
correct extensions of “good”, and “worse” and “worst” were the correct extensions
of “bad”. Although I was happy to concede that “Gooder” and “Badder” were
incorrect responses, I still thought that was a little dodgy. Even now, I think
that’s a touch dodgy. Like, sure, those words seem to work pretty well
together, but I don’t think “Good” and “Better” are as semantically unified as
“Happy” and “Happier”. “John is good” and “John is better than Nancy” have very
different implications for John. The first is most likely a moral statement,
whereas the second is most likely not. “Bad, worse” is just as dodgy, if not
more. “John is bad” or “John’s a bad man” do not compare with “John is worse
than Bob” or “John is a worse man than Bob”. The most natural interpretation of
the first two claims is that they are kind of moral statements of some kind,
perhaps even eroticised, raunchy ones (as in “Bad to the bone”, “Bad boy” etc).
The most natural interpretation of the first comparative claim is that it is a
statement of differing competence. And the most natural interpretation of the
second comparative claim is that it is a moral statement, but not one that
could be used in the same intriguing way as “John’s a bad man”.
Anyway, the fact remains that I
should have been smart enough to realise what they were after.
To return to Mrs Evans’ obsession
with art, some of the other artistic projects we did over the course of the
year were:
·
Painting a flower pot for father’s day. My flower
pot ended up being painted in green and white stripes on account of my
obsession with this World Cup 2002 soccer game I had been playing on our
Windows 98 family computer, which I had won with the Republic of Ireland. I
don’t know why I chose to play with the Republic of Ireland, given they were
pretty average, but as I progressed through the tournament I remember my
affection for the nation and its people grew exponentially. Incidentally, one
of the most devastating moments in my life occurred when, after a holiday or
something, I opened up the disc drawer on the tower of the computer to find
that the disc had grown some kind of blotchy white mould on its underside (the
legible side) and was no longer playable.
Words cannot express the despair I felt when I made this discovery.
·
Painting a Monet-inspired, florid vista with
water colours on a little square of canvas. I think this was one of my only
artistic successes in 2E. In contrast to everything else, I wasn’t terrible at
dabbing the canvas with red paint to crudely simulate the look of a field of
flowers.
·
Creating a little colourful coaster out of clay
and glazes. As aforementioned, we did visit the kiln quite frequently and no
doubt made a few other things that I’ve forgotten. This coaster had painted on
it a picture of a house. I remember I was never sure whether the one I ended up
receiving back was mine, because I had painted my initials, TA, on the back of
mine and Alexandra Thompson had painted her initials, AT, on the back of hers,
and for some reason it was ambiguous which was which (perhaps because one set
of initials was inverted relative to the face of the coaster). Anyhow, I got
something back which I still have.
One other memory I have of Mrs
Evans was that she was very proud of her son called (I think) James, who played
Rugby at a relatively high level. I think she alluded to his prowess on the
rugby field on more than one occasion, and there was a photo near her desk of
him in a maul or something.
Another memory I have is of
Samuel Dawson calling out in class that something or other “sucks”, and Mrs
Evans suddenly pronouncing her perplexity at the usage.
“Why does that suck? You suck a
lollipop. That’s what the word means.”
I think this response produced
giggles among the boys, who clearly understood (to varying extents) the
etymology of “suck” in the pejorative, intransitive sense. I did not join in
the laugh, and was instead appalled that it was happening. It was the height of
impertinence – not to say savagery – to implicate our dear old teacher in depravity
of that sort. I wasn’t sure if Mrs Evans realised the more debauched
connotations or not, but the situation disturbed me either way. Such
disrespect.
Also, to skip ahead to the end of
year 2, I won the Academic Excellence medal for 2E at Presentation Day. While it’s not a surprise given what I’ve described, I thought I’d mention it because
it was very gratifying and important to me at the time.
Socially, year 2 was a pretty bad
year for me. I had friends, but I also saw for the first time the significance
of evolutionary psychology – in particular, the truth that our social
hierarchies are still often very primitive and that human chauvinism with
respect to evolution is very much a mistaken attitude. What on earth do I mean
by that? Well, I’ll explain.
Since I was a boy (and not Edward
Poate), I hung out with the boys. Since I was in 2E and had not forged any
really strong relationships with anyone in the other year 2 class, I hung out specifically
with boys from 2E.
I don’t think it took me too long
in year 2 to become aware of the importance of masculinity, swagger and brash
confidence, and the inevitability of one’s place in the hierarchy based on
those traits. Jake Pearce was essentially the alpha male of our year. He was an
incredibly stupid boy who had repeated year 2 presumably because of his
stupidity. But the real distinguishing feature of Jake Pearce was not his
stupidity (since there were equally stupid people in 2E), but his masculinity.
He was olive-skinned and conspicuously handsome; his name was awesome and
desirable, with its jagged, harsh, ruthless quality; he rarely or never smiled,
and had little or no sense of humour; and he was brooding, muscular and
athletic. All the signs of highly elevated testosterone levels were there, at
the ripe old age of eight. Crucially, to everyone in our year except me, this
smouldering masculinity was magnetic.
He was like some kind of immense celestial body, pulling all smaller objects
into his gravitational field. Only my intelligence and philosophical genius had
the power to resist this force. I am not even exaggerating. This guy’s
manliness truly did have an inexorable impact on everyone else, as if the
dynamic was literally nature taking its course, as fundamental as the sun rising
in the morning or water flowing in a river. Indeed, I quickly did file it away
as a law of nature, formulated in the following form: most men gravitate
towards the alpha male, and immediately begin to grovel. It is an axiom that has
been continuously confirmed ever since. I try to ignore everyone who proves it,
though unfortunately that means my pool of possible friends is only 5-10% of
the male population, excluding the alpha males themselves (because they are
still more repulsive than any of their acolytes).
Of course, I have been simplifying
the social dynamics of 2E a little. This is not to say that any of that was
false, just that the hierarchy was more complex than a monarchy, with Jake
Pearce the king and everyone else his subjects and serfs. Instead, there were
discernible levels. There were several people also right near the top of the
hierarchy, there were several social climbers and desperadoes, and there were a
few at the bottom. Personally, I tried to avoid the hierarchies altogether, and
I don’t think I ever talked to Jake Pearce. I guess this meant I was on my own
level – alienated intellectual. I’m not entirely sure about the evolution of
the friend groups from 2E over the year, although I do remember some details.
One of the reasons my previous
picture of the social arrangements was simplistic is that there was never one
big friend group incorporating every boy in our class. Instead, I think the
system of groups was fairly changeable, but possibly with a dominant trend of
bifurcation – there would be one group essentially led by Jake Pearce, and
another essentially led by a boy who I haven’t mentioned, Harrison Wearne. Of
the two, I would always be in the second.
Harrison Wearne was a subtly
ginger-haired, somewhat stocky boy who was highly charismatic and confident, played
rugby, had a good sense of humour, had ADD, had extremely indulgent parents (is
it telling that the dad was American and the mum was a housewife?), had an
addiction to video games, and had an impressive and much-admired older brother.
He was also a precociously sexual boy, if only in words (certainly not deeds), a
pathology which was probably partly a product of his strong relationship with
his older, jockish brother (who was called Cooper, by the way). While I’m on
the subject of his lewdness, it behooves me to mention the one memory I have
from year 2 that attests to it.
One lunchtime, I was running
around in a group essentially led by Harrison. For whatever reason, we stopped
running to stand on a footpath in this dark, semi-forested area behind the year
1 classrooms, away from other kids. A conversation began in the shade. One of
the things that was brought up (perhaps the first thing that was brought up)
was sex – in particular, sexual readiness. To wit, Harrison had asked everyone
if they thought they were ready to have sex. What’s funny is that while all his
interlocutors expressed a certain tentativeness and equivocality, Mr. Wearne himself
was utterly adamant about his maturity. Quoth he, “I would have sex with
Elizabeth right now, if I could”. (Elizabeth was, back then, a slim, blonde
girl who conformed very well to conventional standards of attractiveness. Incidentally,
she was also Christian.)
Naturally, I was sceptical of the
truth of Harrison’s words, and for reasons not of psychological doubt but
simple biological fact. Harrison showed, at that time, no sign of being
particularly mature. He was as much of a boy as any of us, with a high voice, a
glabrous body and so on. When I thought of my own penis and how it might
interact with an orifice – which I do remember thinking about, as the
conversation occurred – I was quite certain that nothing remotely approaching
adult “sex” could possibly come of the situation. It would just be a kind of
weird, pointless and insensate wiggling. I highly doubted that Harrison had an
adult-sized, fully erectable phallus at the age of seven (I think he would have
been seven, unless it was after October), so even if he was eager to copulate,
I doubt he could physically have done anything about it (certainly not by any
orthodox definitions of fornication).
So that was the kind of boy Harrison was.
Another pertinent datum is that he was allowed to watch South Park and various
other licentious programs much earlier than the rest of us, so was peculiarly
exposed to fairly mature ideas much earlier than most kids. And when I said his
parents were indulgent before, I really did mean it. The basement level of the
Wearne’s house was almost entirely taken up by a fully kitted-out rumpus room,
with a massive TV, an Xbox and a computer. Harrison would spend most of his
time in this recreation area, playing Halo, Age of Empires and whatever other
games he had at his disposal. I remember this room very well, because over my
years at primary school, I would go to his house many times and always relished
the experience (as you might expect). I think I might have first gone to his
house when I was in year 2. I’m not sure he’d started doing his famous
sleepovers back then (I’ll talk more about them later), but I do have what
seems to be a very old memory of visiting Harrison’s house, probably for the
first time, and I remember we discussed Age of Empires and cheat codes, and
really bonded over some shared history. His house was really a paradise for me.
It was truly a child’s dream. His ridiculously permissive mum was a child’s
dream mum, too.
All these factors probably
explain (in part) why Harrison was always a little fucked up. Notably, his fuckedupness,
greater status and masculine confidence didn’t prevent him from actually taking
a liking to me in year 2, and despite often being in different classes, we
maintained a fairly strong friendship right until the end of year 6. I will
talk more about this later, when I discuss year 6.
I have a couple of other memories
of Harrison in year 2, which I’ll mention now. The first pertains to a little
playground innovation that I thought up, which Harrison immediately endorsed
and started executing with me and a couple of other folks. I think it all
started with our little troupe being a little bored one lunch-time, and
somewhat stumped for ideas. At the time, I remember that one of the few
significant objects on Finlay Oval was this brick lying on the sandy ground on its
far side, just adjacent to the old metal fence that runs along Finlay Road. Knowing
that Harrison and I had a shared history of Age of Empires play, I hit upon a
most marvellous notion: we could use the brick as a prop for an imaginative
re-enactment of Age of Empires gameplay. Specifically, we could act just like
the villagers in the game, hitting the brick with some kind of makeshift hammer
and pretending to watch it grow into a fully-sized building. Of course, in
hindsight, it seems like the kind of idea a severely brain-damaged amoeba
would come up with, but with rich seven-year-old imaginations, it didn’t seem
that stupid at the time. In fact, to Harrison, it was a veritable bijou of an
idea. He immediately declared his approval, and I immediately swelled with
pride and satisfaction. Consequently, with a couple of other followers, we
hunkered down and got to work. The game went as follows: we would hit the brick
with a stick, pretend that stuff was happening (and that’s about it). I don’t
know how long this escapade lasted. It doesn’t seem that sustainable. But I
think it lasted longer than you might think. We possibly even returned to this
activity on more than one occasion thereafter.
Great success!! (as Borat would say).
The other memory was not so rosy.
This time, it was also lunch-time, and I was once again running around in a
group essentially led by Harrison. I remember we were standing next to the big
mound of wood-chips that had been dumped by some kind of delivery truck in
preparation for their distribution over one of the garden beds in the school (and
then been left there for quite a long time (can’t remember how long)). (Incidentally,
on another occasion, I was in this area when someone discovered a tumescent,
bulging witchety grub on the mound.) Anyhow, this time something very strange
was going on: Harrison was crying. Harrison was the last person in the world I
expected to see crying, and yet here he was, for all to see – weeping. The
weirdest thing about the whole situation was his face. His face had suddenly
become severely contorted, almost as if it was made out of hot candle wax. I
remember being disturbed by the scene, and feeling rather shocked that he had
succumbed to such a humiliating state. He had lost face (as it were). Most
interestingly, I recall not feeling pity but disgust and contempt. He really
did look fucking pathetic (and in the contemporary sense of that word). From
memory, there wasn’t an obvious catalyst for his breakdown, and I certainly
don’t remember what he was decrying once the waterworks began and his visage
went all mushy. I do remember that it was a rather momentous occasion, though.
Another important social event to
occur to me in year 2 was a moment of ostracism. This was probably the nadir of
my year 2 experience. I’m not exactly sure how it happened, but one day the
group I was in just disintegrated and I was left to wander the playground
alone.
It
was a very lonely experience, and I didn’t know where to turn. Despite my
aimlessness, however, I was aware of the activities of the Independence Class
group my old friend Matt Gore was in, whose members were playing handball in
the shaded area on the Blytheswood side of the junior campus, very close to the
Assembly Hall. At that time, I think this group included Matt, Kimbrian Canavan
(one of two bespectacled people in our year), James Vodicka, Josh Clucas and
possibly Patrick Sweeney. Somehow, at some point, I worked up the courage to
approach this group and ask Matt if I could join in their game. I think I faced
some hostility from Kimbrian and I can’t remember if I was allowed to
participate this first time. I know that I definitely was later. Indeed, I
think I might even have become a semi-permanent fixture of their group. This
was better for me, because it was a group composed of people more like me than
anyone in 2E, particularly Matt, whose parents were (I think) beginning to form
a friendship with mine on account of shared political and cultural interests (particularly
in the natural environment) and roughly similar personalities. Recalling this
memory of being partly inducted into their group and allowed into their
handball game has reminded me of something else: one of the big games that all
of the 2E boys participated in was “Wall-ball”. This was basically a variant of
handball where everyone was essentially ‘versing’ the wall. The rules are
fairly simple, though take a long time to write out if you are aiming for even
approximate precision:
·
Like handball, you have to hit the ball forward
with your hand, ensuring that it bounces once before connecting with the target
(the wall)
·
You are not allowed to hit the ball towards the
wall twice in-a-row
·
The ball cannot hit the wall on the full
·
If you hit the ball towards the wall twice
in-a-row, that is a foul
·
If you hit the ball onto the wall on the full,
that is a foul
·
If you are nearest to the person who just hit
the ball towards the wall successfully and the ball is now richoceting back,
you are obliged to hit the ball towards the wall yourself
·
If you are this nearest person and you fail to hit
the ball that is ricocheting back before it has bounced for a second time, that
is a foul
·
All fouls mean immediate banishment to the wall
itself
·
If you are banished to the wall itself, you must
stand against this wall, facing towards the players who are still in the game
·
If you get hit on any part of your body with the
ball while standing on the wall, you are eliminated from the game entirely
·
(On one variant), you are allowed to shuffle
sideways to try to dodge the incoming balls, but you cannot twist
·
If you catch a ball while standing on the wall
(with your back against the wall), you swap places with the player who hit that
ball
·
The game is over when there is one person standing
and no-one left on the wall
I remember there was also an
informal rule that you couldn’t be too outrageous about your shots, even if
they conformed technically to the rules, because that would just ruin the game.
For example, if there were only two people left and you did a tiny little
mousey shot that just kissed the wall and then started rolling, then that would
be regarded as poor sportsmanship. Likewise, if you did a massive, flamboyant “power
shot” that ended up landing several metres behind your opponent, you probably
wouldn’t get away with that either.
I remember often finding myself
acting as some kind of law-enforcer or judge in wall-ball disputes, or a police
of cheating. I used to find it extremely frustrating when people flouted the
rules. I was one of the few voices of order and reason in a world of anarchy.
I think it was my experience with
wallball that meant I wasn’t so bad at handball, and felt confident trying to
join the new group. Although I don’t remember spending the rest of my year playing
with these kids from the other class, I know that I would have been invited to
Matthew Gore’s birthday party, possibly Josh Clucas’ birthday party, and I
remember very clearly my special attendance at James Vodicka’s bizarre birthday
party.
Now that I’m on the subject of
birthday parties, it’s probably a good time to discuss my childhood experiences
of anniversarial festivities for the first time. It surprises me that I have
hirtherto forgotten the topic. It seems like quite an oversight! The analytical
surgery is about to commence. I have donned my latex gloves (with a sterile
snap), prepared my instruments (sharpened my scalpels and so on) and thoroughly
drugged up my patient. I am just now pulling down the light, the heart
monitor’s beeping and I’ve got a demonic rictus engraved into my face as I
approach the supple skin of his tumid belly, knife in hand.
I slip and I slash open the
stomach and yellowy-red globs of fat spill out, in much the same way as the
innards in a gutted fish. I lick my lips. The massacre commences.
That is a totally inapposite
metaphor and I do not understand why I used it, except perhaps the influence of
the violent video game I have been playing recently, Fallout 4. It was a totally asinine move.
To return to what I was saying, what
makes the oversight more curious is that birthday parties are really central to
the childhood experience – the infant condition (at least in the first-world).
Of course, I haven’t completely omitted the subject, because I did earlier mention
the first birthday party I remember, that of the Asian boy I called Daniel (I
don’t think that was his name). But I certainly have omitted the few memories I
have of my 5th and 6th birthday parties!
In truth, I think it’s pointless
to dwell too long on birthday parties. Everyone understands them. In any case,
I don’t actually remember that many in much detail, so I couldn’t dwell too
long on birthday parties even if I wanted to. I think childhood birthday
parties were also sufficiently similar in outline to be summed up without much
effort. The primary features of all the celebrations I remember were “passing
the parcel”, “musical chairs”, “apple bobbing” (slightly rare), popping
balloons, playing tip, gorging on delicious food (including the ceremony of the
birthday cake), sitting down for a present session where the birthday boy was
meant to practise the adult skill of showing disingenuous gratitude, and
(finally) collecting party bags at the end, which were filled with so many
sugary goodies you would get diabetes if you tried to eat them in one go.
Of course, when I say “primary
features”, I certainly don’t mean invariant features. There were, after all, some
more novel parties, and many parties that just didn’t take place at the home.
One popular party destination when I was a young lad was this jungle gym that
used to be in Westfield Hornsby. I can’t remember what it was called, but I
know it was a franchise of some kind, and that they specialised in birthday
parties. The word “Club” is coming to me; maybe it was called “Kids Club” or
something. I should say that one still did have delicious food and the birthday
cake ceremony in these parties, just none of the other “primary features”.
Another popular destination (but perhaps mainly in later years) was ten-pin
bowling. Again, the closest bowling alley to most of us was in Hornsby, an AMF
place which had all the standard attributes of such places, including the foul
hot dogs and the strange custom of showing video clips on the plasma screens hanging
down from the roof. Incidentally, one of the earliest ten-pin bowling birthday
parties I attended was that of my cousin Angus (maternal side) in Newcastle,
when he was turning maybe 10 or 11 (not sure which). I remember that I was a
bit nervous to meet all his older friends (on account of my shyness), but that
I ended up enjoying it quite a lot, and got on really well with at least a few
of them. In particular, I remember feeling that my sense of humour resonated very
well with theirs. I even remember one joke that greatly amused me at the time.
The way it happened was this: one of the boys from Angus’ friend group said
something like “Don’t you reckon the Wiggles’ dance moves look like someone
shooting at people?” and then proceeded to mime the index-finger-outstretched-thumb-up
Wiggles gestures. I then giggled uncontrollably (it really did look like
someone carrying out a massacre). Now, before you begin to worry that I was a
psychopathic demon child, I should make clear that my laugh was not a direct
response to the diabolical image of a rampaging lunatic; instead, it was a
response to the more sophisticated and abstract idea of a totally sunny,
inoffensive and manifestly benign kid’s presenter unknowingly imitating a
rampaging lunatic. You see, I wasn’t psychopathic, but urbane!
While I’m on the subject of the
Wiggles, it’s also important to mention the Wiggles concert I went to around
the age of four or five,
which
I think might also have been in Newcastle. I believe I was there with my other
maternal cousin Charlotte. It was not a happy experience. Showing the early
manifestations of my innate anhedonism and overanalysis of revelry, I utterly
loathed this concert, and felt absolutely zero inclination to dance or scream,
despite the frenetic arm-flailing of those around me and their deafening howls.
I just couldn’t understand what was so exciting about looking down at some
people I didn’t particularly like from fifty metres up. It was so dull. They
weren’t funny at all, their songs weren’t interesting, and I certainly didn’t
feel as if I was in the presence of some superior beings, as the minions around
me clearly did. Even if I
had
worshipped the Wiggles, the proximity still wouldn’t have provoked a frenzy in
me, because I realised I wasn’t
really
in their presence. The spectacle was utterly unreal, and there was clearly a
decisive separation between us kids and the Wiggles, both physically and
attitudinally (I knew they didn’t really care about kids). I also felt no
obligation to obey their demands to “Raise my arms”, “Dance around” and “Tell
Jeff to wake up”. It seemed utterly absurd. Why should I obey them? What reason
do I have? What is the point? Most curiously: why on earth are all these
hideous children around me so servile? Why do they enjoy dancing so much? An awful
experience, I must say.
From year 3 or 4 on, the most
popular destination for birthday parties was probably laser tag. You can
understand why.
I remember more of my own
birthday parties from the ages of 5-7 than I do of anyone else’s, perhaps in
part because of the photos we have. In accordance with this weak photo
hypothesis, I do have strongest recall of sitting around the wooden table on
the verandah (which was our designated birthday table), and almost no memory of
doing any birthday activities inside. I think the other reason for my strong
recollection of sitting around the table was this recurring cakey misfortune
that befell me every year until my seventh birthday.
The bakery we always frequent to
get crusty bread and various other things is called Pierre’s Patisserie and is located in Turramurra. When I was a
young child, this was always where my mum used to buy birthday cakes for me. Unfortunately,
there wasn’t always a very large range (apart from fruity cakes (eg lemon
slice, apple tarte tatin and cherry clafoutis)), and my mum thus always decided
to get their chocolatey cake. Though it ostensibly contained no alcohol, I
always remember this cake having a highly unpleasant, alcoholic aftertaste, which
always ruined my birthday. I think it was on my sixth birthday that this tragic
trend reached its apogee. Before my mum went off to buy me my cake, I had
entreated her to avoid buying the alcoholic cake at all costs. I could no
longer bear the horror, and I expected my mum would realise this and follow my
request. But she did not. She did ask the woman at the counter if the only
chocolatey cake on display was alcoholic and got a “No” reply, however this was
inadequate verification of the taste of the cake. When my mum brought it home,
I knew immediately that it was the same cake as I had had last year, and I
immediately began to fear that it would have the same taste. I asked my mum why
she hadn’t just opted for a different gatêau,
and she replied that she didn’t want to get me a fruity cake. I was perplexed
by this, as I had given her no indication of any distaste for fruity cakes. I
did hold out hope that they might have changed the formula or that my tastebuds
might have changed, but alas, it was not so.
After blowing out the candles and
listening to everyone belting out a stirring rendition of Happy Birthday, I
took the first slice of cake and put it in my mouth. Within a couple of chews,
the verdict was clear: I was eating the same sullied cake as last year. It was
revolting, and I revolted. “Mum, why did you buy it again? I told you not to.
It tastes like alcohol.” I soon tried to curry favour with my friends,
particularly those next to me. “Don’t you reckon it tastes funny? Like alcohol?
I can’t eat it; it’s too disgusting.” Though some were eating it happily,
others recognised the rancidity and joined my cause. The power I felt almost
made up for the vomitousness of the cake.
But I don’t think anything really
happened after that, except perhaps a reprimand administered to me by my aunt
Meg, who was living with us at that time. Incidentally, Meg lived with us for
many years and it’s strange I haven’t mentioned her, because she was a fairly
important part of our lives. Not an entirely good one, though, apart from her
role in introducing me to Age of Empires.
To be precise, I remember being a little irritated by her quite often – for
example, concerning her habit of replying to the question “What’s for dinner?” (always
posed to my parents) with the extremely witty, almost Wildean interjection,
“Food”. (I know it’s food, but I want to know what food dammit!) I suppose she
thought she was doing my parents a favour by obviating the question, but I
doubt they appreciated her subjecting their progeny to such discourtesy.
I remember getting very excited
about creating party bags on one of my birthdays, as I also did with balloons
(although I remember I only learnt to tie them very late on). I recall that
including Wizz-Fizzes in my party bags was a unique element, and one that I
thought everyone would enjoy. At all my birthday parties, I think I also would
have prescribed a high ratio of sour sweets (like sour snakes) and coke bottles
to more bland and saccharine ones (like Allen’s “Strawberries and cream”
lollies, or green or red frogs). Unlike some people, I did appreciate a good
lolly banana, though. Unlike some people, though, I despised all licorice-based
sweets, including licorice “All-sorts”. I still don’t appreciate licorice. It’s
not really a lolly, in my opinion. It just tastes gross, like eating unusually
soft leather covered in a noxious, highly musky polish or resin. It’s wrong.
I also have one memory of playing
pass-the-parcel. It was ok. A pretty stupid game, however, because the rewards
are always terrible, and the process is not at all exciting.
To return to year 2, I will now
discuss the childhood birthday that I remember best, that of my seventh
birthday, which would have occurred right after the start of year 2. I was
extremely excited about my seventh birthday. This was chiefly for the reason
that it was going to be a grander and more magnificent party than I’d ever
tried to orchestrate before (and certainly since). The theme, I had decided,
was to be “pirates” (or piracy), and everyone was to wear a costume. As the big
day approached, preparations really ramped up. I think my dad made a big flag
with the classic pirate logo emblazoned on it; certain piratical decorations
were hoisted in various places, particularly around the centrepiece of the
party, the verandah (which you could perhaps imagine as the deck of a ship); a walkable
plank was installed just behind the back of the verandah, at the south-eastern
corner; a big crucifix was erected outside the cubby house
with
the words “Beware of Pirates” inscribed in white paint on the crossbar; a
treasure hunt was set up in the lantana-infested, turpentine, rainforest-like bushland
behind our house; and most importantly, my mum finally decided (on persuasion)
to make use of this special book of craft cakes influenced by cartoons and pop
culture, and began to craft a cake in the shape of a big treasure chest. To my
disappointment, my mum did skimp a bit on the extremely finicky and involved
procedures required for this recipe, and I suspect she didn’t procure all the
rather niche and fancy ingredients necessary to make the cake perfectly (eg “sugar
glue”, used extensively in all the recipes in this mesmeric book). As a result,
the cake didn’t look much like the picture, and it was also pink, which was
totally at odds with the image I had in my head. Nevertheless, it was still a
laudable achievement.
In the end, the party itself was
a roaring success. That said, I think other kids kind of overshadowed me in
certain respects, and I didn’t really like that. I think this is liable to
happen at parties with overly structured activities. The other kids get really
into the task at hand and then beat you at it, and that makes you feel
decidedly unspecial. Of course, none of this is to take away from the party. I
do recall enjoying it quite a lot overall, especially all the swordfights.
I will now discuss the other
memories I have from year 2 that pertain in some way to birthday parties. One
memory that I find quite amusing (in hindsight) took place in a car during the
birthday party of someone who was in the car (perhaps Josh Clucas). I think we
might have been on our way to the Indoor Action Sports Centre at Thornleigh,
which was a popular site for birthday parties that I haven’t yet mentioned. This
particular party no doubt took place after my decision to start hanging out a
bit more with some of the kids from the Independent Class. I know this because
the party was essentially an Independent Class party. Anyway, the memory is
simple: Kimbrian (I think it was Kimbrian – either him or Matt) started talking
about “square roots” (in typical nerdy fashion) and boasting about how they
learnt this mathematical procedure in class ahead of the curriculum, (possibly)
because Grant Kynaston had already learnt them and was gloating about this. (Grant
Kynaston being the bespectacled, ginger-haired super nerd of Warrawee who would
leave for Knox the next year, then get a scholarship to Sydney Grammar for high
school and eventually top four subjects in the HSC, get a perfect ATAR and
appear on the front cover of the Sydney Morning Herald (and become a friend of
mine, sort of).) Kimbrian and Matt then pronounced that square roots were
easier than you might think, and gave me a few examples. I can’t remember if
they did a good job of explaining it (they probably didn’t) or if I fully
grasped the idea that the square root of n
is just the number that you square to get n.
But I might have. Anyhow, it is funny regardless.
Previously, I mentioned my
attendance at James Vodicka’s party, and described it as being somewhat
strange. I’ll explain this now. For some unfathomable reason, I was the only
person invited to the birthday party of one of the most popular kids in the
year, and I wasn’t even that good friends with him. I don’t understand how it
happened at all. I remember we went to some concert, and that was the reason
why he was only able to invite one person. Since I was the only one attending,
my parents agreed that I should get an elaborate present, and we ended up
purchasing this big foam-rocket blaster from the National Geographic shop in
Hornsby Westfield. I then arrived at his house, was thanked by his mother for
getting him “two presents” (one of the rockets was wrapped separately from the
rocket blaster), and after firing his present a few times – resulting in losing
one of our rockets on the roof – we left for the concert. I have no memory of
what we saw.
The last birthday-related memory
from year 2 I shall discuss was not one I participated in, but observed from
afar. As I was not very cool and had no aspirations to be cool in the standard
manner of the supposed “cool people” of 2E
, I
was largely excluded from the 2E social life of all those who self-identified
as “cool” or were desperate to be. One of these vapid and contemptible human
beings who self-identified as cool was a boy with a French dad and curly
golden-brown hair called Daniel Cascales. Daniel rode around on a skateboard,
was never serious about anything, was totally unemotional (I remember him often
laughing at others’ misfortune) and utterly narcissistic. He was no worse than
anyone else, though. Anyhow, he had his birthday party at some point during the
year, and I know that he took all the attendees to Luna Park. Presumably, they
had some fun being delinquents at Luna Park and believing themselves great
rebels against society (despite the truth being, as I wrote in the footnote, that
they were quite the opposite), but I know it wasn’t all fun and games, because
the Monday after the party (I assume it was Monday), I remember Daniel Cascales
being mocked for his reluctance to go on the “Wild Mouse”. The Wild Mouse was
the only big and scary rollercoaster at Luna Park, and the real centrepiece of
the Luna Park experience. I thought this attitude towards Daniel was so cruel
and ruthless, and betrayed the deep callousness of so many of my male
classmates (q.v. my brief comments earlier about evolutionary psychology, as
well as my footnote about what these boys thought was “cool”). I think I felt
glad that I hadn’t been at the Luna Park party after seeing the attendees’ treatment
of a birthday boy who simply feared being sent 50 metres into the air on a
little carriage rattling along a narrow, railless, sharply twisting track, and
then being thrown down absurdly steep descents so fast a reasonable man could
be forgiven for thinking his face was going to come loose from his skull. I
suspected I also might have chickened out, despite my bravery on “Thunder
Mountain” at Disneyland the year before, and thus very much empathised.
I should note at this point that,
though I definitely disdained the cultural preferences and comportment of the
aspirant “cool” boys in 2E, it was not exactly for the high-minded, somewhat
intellectual and philosophic notions I have been invoking in my retrospective
analysis. I did, of course, only have a vague and very untutored notion of
evolutionary psychology (I wouldn’t have even known the phrase), and when it
came to the Americanised and corporatised popular culture fixations of the boys
around me, I mainly felt a curmudgeonly contempt inherited from my dad, rather
than any reflective distaste. The latter fact can be illustrated by my beliefs
about music at the time. While all the kids around me were listening to So Fresh 2004 and all the boys enjoyed shouting
the Outkast song with the line “Roses really smell like poo poo poo” as an
affirmation of their gender, my favourite band was – wait for it – XTC. Yes, my favourite band was the
somewhat indie, somewhat experimental, lyrically-interesting eighties pop-rock
band known as XTC. My dad had their
greatest hits album, which had a little lamb on the cover flying over a bucolic
landscape and featured such tracks as “Life Begins at the Hop”, “Generals and
Majors”, “Making Plans for Nigel”, “Senses Working Overtime”, “Love on a
Farmboy’s Wages”, “Dear God” (which I found really thought-provoking at the
time), “Mayor of Simpleton” and my all-time favourite, “Peter Pumpkinhead”. I
always made mondegreens of XTC’s lyrics,
much to my dad’s amusement. I think I was probably also starting to get into
Led Zeppelin, enjoyed Muse songs, very much enjoyed the Queen Greatest Hits
album we had, enjoyed many of the contemporary indie artists that my dad played
(the album Suburban Songbook by Bob
Evans (real name Kevin Mitchell) was played routinely on roadtrips and became a
favourite, as did the albums of that excellent band The Shins), and also was learning to love many of
my dad’s favourite classical pieces through exposure on those rare occasions
(usually on weekends) when he decided to blast Bach, Beethoven, Verdi, Ravel
(or whoever) through the house. I had an extremely diverse music education,
which I’ll expand on a bit more when I discuss my saxophone playing. Anyway,
the important point is that I was massively influenced by my dad, and my dad
was a curmudgeon who had very strong opinions on culture, and I basically
absorbed these uncritically. One time, I remember Lucy Lancaster bringing in
music for some reason (perhaps some kind of presentation) and choosing that
extremely catchy song “Play that Funky Music”. Not only did I mishear the
lyrics as “Play that Funky Music Whiteboard” (and therefore never understand
the meaning), but I also didn’t really like the song, primarily (I think) just because
I was suspicious of things other people liked. On another occasion, the dunce Josh
Warren voiced his appreciation of The Red
Hot Chili Peppers. This time, I think I was more open to the sensibilities
of the common man, but when I came home and asked my dad of his opinion of that
band, he was totally contemptuous. My views ossified in an instant.
I think there must have been some
routine in 2E of allowing people to bring in music they liked, because I
remember I myself brought in a CD to play to the class towards the end of the
year. And the album I took was… The
Greatest Hits of XTC. It never got played, for some reason. Mrs Evans didn’t
know what it was, and therefore couldn’t approve it or something.
Speaking of XTC, just about the only time Oscar Mckay actually came to my
house, I forced him to listen to the hilarious song Peter Pumpkinhead, which I
had mentioned to him a few times on account of how funny the lyrics were. This
didn’t go that well, because it’s a long song and not that funny. I guess I
hoped he’d immediately start liking XTC, as I did. It was not to be.
The first song I ever liked
totally independent of my dad was the 2004 classic “Take me Out” by that shitty
Scottish band, Franz Ferdinand. I heard this for the first time (at least I
think it was the first time) at an AFL game, which I had been taken to by
Daniel van den Bovenkamp and his dad. Incidentally, I can’t really remember
when I started going to Daniel van den Bovenkamp’s house a lot, but I guess it
might have been 2004. His sister Amelia was in Miranda’s year and had been her
friend for a while (though she was quite prickly, apparently). In retrospect, this
first exposure to “Take me Out” was significant in a lot of respects. It was my
first AFL game, probably the first sporting match I hadn’t attended with my
dad, and the first time I had ever listened to a song and straight away decided
I liked it. The video clip had the band members playing their instruments in a
kind of x-ray vision, revealing their cybord bodies. Along with the music, it was
highly compelling. The match I don’t remember so well. Possibly Barry Hall
kicked a penalty, and lots of booing went on, including from Daniel van den
Bovenkamp’s dad.
Later, I would hear the song
again when Miranda bought the So Fresh
2004 CD. This time, it really caught my attention, and even led to me
professing my fondness for the song to my family. The cycle was complete when I
asked for the album as a birthday present for my 8th birthday. In
the end, I received this along with my own personal CD player, which was a
little spheroid thing with the CD turn-table placed at the top. This player
would get a lot of use over the next two or three years. The album itself probably
got played two hundred times inside this player, despite the fact that it was
(looking back) a pretty terrible album. Even at the time, I only really liked
two or three songs. I also remember I had a pretty long phase where every
afternoon when I came home, I would put the Franz Ferdinand album into the big
audio system downstairs, skip to track three, and have a good, hard listen to
“Take me Out”. Boy was I obsessed. I was disappointed to learn that the lyrics
were almost certainly about dating, however. I was also a little bit
crestfallen when I made my dad listen to the song attentively and he wasn’t
that enthused.
A hell of a lot happened when I
was in year 2, and it’s really taking a long time to get through it all. One of
the most significant things to occur was that I started playing the saxophone.
Need I say more? Yes, I suppose
so.
My dad had somehow managed to
foster in me a love for the saxophone as a child. His extensive record
collection (including actual records and a vinyl player, which we have since
consigned to the garage) incorporated music from the Middle Ages to 21st
Century indie pop, and naturally various saxophone pieces abounded. Ironically,
my dad wasn’t a huge fan of jazz, although he did like certain jazz styles and
I know I was exposed to a fair amount of jazz saxophone as a child. He also
really liked Maurice Ravel, who used the saxophone quite a lot. All the types
of saxophone are, of course, immensely expressive instruments, capable of very
different tones and timbres, from delicate, vibrato chortling to reedy,
guttural barking. I didn’t really know which one I liked best as a young child
(I probably couldn’t rattle off the four main types, Baritone, Tenor, Alto,
Soprano), but I did know that I really wanted to play the saxophone.
I remember my parents (maybe my
mum in particular) were keen on getting me to play the euphonium (and later
graduate to the tuba), and adduced my much older cousin Alex’s playing of the
tuba as a reason for me to play it. I never really understood this, and thus never
seriously considered the possibility of opting for the manifestly unsexy,
cetacean tuba in place of the radiantly sexy and rather magisterial saxophone.
When the day finally arrived for
the Warrawee musical neophytes to try out their shortlisted instruments for the
first time, I knew that I was going to have to try the euphonium out (to
placate my parents) but that I was almost certainly going to pick the
saxophone, if I had anything to say about it. From memory, when I got into the
inauguration room, full of musical instruments and their senior players, I went
to the tuba first (on the sufferance of my parents) and successfully made a
noise on my second attempt (I think). After that, however, I went straight to
the saxophone in the room – an alto – which was being supervised by a girl. This
was easy to play on first go, and, for me, that was enough to seal the deal.
Sign the papers, mumma, I commanded, and I walked into the moonlight with an
ugly brown saxophone case, beaming as I strolled away into the darkness of the
night just as the moon beams through the cosmic tenebrosity, conducting the
tides of time and fate and cosmic mystery like the moon conducts the tides
every day, in and out, in and out, an endless rhythm, forever coming, forever
going, the ebb and flow of life, ying and yang, the duality of everything, etc.
I am a stellar (or should I say
lunar) humourist, am I not?
It was probably on this same
night that my parents were given the contact details of some possible teachers.
Ultimately, my saxophone teacher ended up being a relatively young woman who
also conducted the Stage Band at Warrawee (kind of like the school “big band”)
and lived with her parents in Hornsby Heights. Let’s say she was called
Annabelle. I think she was a very intelligent person who’d been raised in a
working-class family and gone to a non-selective school. Her mother was some
kind of domestically based beautician, I think, and her father maybe a former
labourer who drove some bus occasionally (possibly for disabled kids), and so
she was in a rather strange situation with her multiple musical diplomas (she
was a skilled pianist as well as a saxophonist and clarinettist), taste for
fine culture and composing ability (I remember seeing a framed certificate in
the music room of her house declaring her success in a music composition
competition sponsored by Mcdonalds). I didn’t really think about any of this at
the time, though. In fact, I never saw her house until maybe my second year of
tutelage, because I was initially taught at school, during the afternoons
(can’t remember which day now – possibly Wednesday). In particular, I was
taught in the room next to the Independent Class classroom along with Ryan
Jones, the aforementioned, NPD-afflicted boy I also played cricket with.
We always had a routine with
these lessons. First Ryan would play for half an hour, as I sat around waiting,
then I would play for half an hour. The book both of us used was Off to a Great Start Book 1 by Mark
Walton, which progressed from ‘songs’ where you just played the note B lots of
times (the one in the middle of the treble clef), in order to learn how to
interpret time signatures, then progressed to basic melodies like “Mary had a
Little Lamb” and “Twinkle Twinkle
Little Star”, then to slightly more complex melodies, and finally to songs like
“English Country Garden”, which included quavers and quite an extensive range
of notes. I remember there was also a new note introduced on every page (or
close to it), accompanied by a little fingering chart. This new note then
became part of whatever song or songs were on that same page. The book was a
very good pedagogical tool and I think I advanced rapidly. Admittedly, the
saxophone is the easiest instrument to learn in the entire orchestra (but not
easy to become excellent at).
I can’t remember now if I did the
First Grade saxophone exam late in year 2 or early in year 3, but whatever the
case, I must have started preparations for it in my first year. This would have
involved buying a few more books, learning scales for the first time and taking
up some kind of practice regimen. I have always been above average in laziness,
and I think I never ever got above three practice sessions a week for the
saxophone. Nevertheless, I know I learnt the songs I had to play pretty well.
That said, I do remember that I was a little shocked to discover only two or
three weeks before my First Grade exam was scheduled that Annabelle usually
expected her First Grade students to memorise their pieces. I hadn’t memorised
them at that point, and briefly worried that I would be unable to. However,
upon putting some effort into it, I easily committed them to memory.
Before my exam, I didn’t really
know what grade I would get. I even had some visions of total failure, partly
inspired by the account my mum had told me of one scholarly Warrawee student in
my sister’s year who had mentally disintegrated during her First Grade exam and
ended up only just scraping a pass, with the grade C-minus. In my case, though,
the examiner turned out to have far lower standards than I expected. Notwithstanding
this fact, you may be leery of predicting my success in this matter, cognisant
that the only theme of this book is that the cruel mistress of fate seems to
have a particular enmity towards me (perhaps I was a philanderer and cheated on
her in a past life). The consequence this had for our present concern, my First
Grade saxophone exam, is that my First Grade saxophone exam did not go to plan
in one major respect. While I had memorised my pieces, as I said, I had still brought
the three books in which they were printed along into the exam room (which I
possibly did for administrative purposes as well as to give the piano part to
Annabelle, who was my accompanist). Indeed, all of the books were sitting on my
stand as I played. The problem was that the examiner didn’t seem to notice that
I wasn’t reading them as I played. Naturally,
this was almost entirely my fault, because I could have put the stand to one
side to very clearly signify my freedom from direct external input, and I
didn’t. I guess I just assumed the examiner would realise the books were closed
on my stand. Anyway, I’m still not even sure if he did or didn’t notice, but
what happened towards the end of the exam suggests that the latter is far more
likely. After noticing that I was giving the impression of reliance on
manuscript despite not reading any sheet music, Annabelle decided to take
matters into her own hands. She got up from her seat by the piano in the
interval between my second and third songs and moved my stand several metres
away from me. I then played the last song as I had the other two, complete with
not only correct notes but also all the subtle intonation and volume-changes I
had learnt. When I did finish this final piece, the examiner suddenly seemed
really impressed and came up to me expressing joyful surprise, “Did you really
perform that from memory, with all those crescendos and diminuendos? Wow, well
done!” I was taken aback by this sudden effusive praise, and wondered what the
heck was so special about that last piece (unless he hadn’t realised I had
memorised the others, too!). But all I actually did was nod politely. My
shyness prevented me from making clear to him that I had memorised all the
pieces, and that there was relly nothing special about that one. A shame. I got
an A, but I reckon I could have gotten an A+ if he knew that my entire
performance was memorised.
I think I also joined the
Warrawee Junior Band in year 2. It seems unlikely that they would have let year
2s join the band at the very start of the year, but maybe a little later it was
allowed. One of the pieces we played was a Queen medley, and we probably also
played a couple of simplistic arrangements of movie scores. I have almost no
memories of this first year of band. I do know that it would have culminated in
the band camp, which was always held at Baden Powell Scout Centre in Thornleigh,
a place where we always had a lot of fun playing ball games and the food was
delicious (there was this rumour running around the place that the chefs once
cooked for the Queen or something). Band camp also involved a lot of work, and
ever wind or brass player always ended up with very sore ‘chops’. This was the
main downside, along with homesickness, but it was always a good experience
overall.
One of the last things that
happened in year 2 with “International Day”, for which our class was nominated
France. This meant we would have to learn lots about France, decorate our
country in Gallic paraphernalia, and bring in French food and music for the big
day. There obviously would have been
International Days when I was in year 1 and kindergarten but I don’t really
remember them (hence why I haven’t mentioned them). I think I probably remember
this one best because I was a substantial contributor to the festivities,
perhaps the biggest in the class. I had this rôle, of course, because I had
been to France the year before and my dad had brought back French CDs that I
could play, as well as given me knowledge that I wanted to apply. I’m not sure
if I ended up bringing food (though I think I wanted to, because curmudgeonly
me suspected (correctly) that the people assigned would end up bringing in
bastardised versions of French food products, whereas I would be able to get
the most authentic possible). In any case, I know I did bring the CDs, which
featured a lot of piano accordion and were probably quite boring for children.
As usual, I didn’t really count myself among the unwashed masses. I was like a
missionary, an emissary of light bringing culture to the barbarians.
To change the subject completely,
I’d now like to give a brief account of the place of religion in my life around
2004.
I think I was never really a
believer. Since my parents were not religious (though my mum has slight
leanings, perhaps), I didn’t get baptised, and I was never indoctrinated in any
other way while I was an infant. At school, however, my parents chose for me to
be in the Scripture classes, rather than just playing with toys in the computer
lab or whatever, as the non-Christian children did. Scripture classes were
actually extremely odd, in hindsight. We got given these strange exercise
books, filled with cartoon pictures of scenes that allegedly took place
thousands of years ago in the Middle East, and were taught various Biblical
“facts” that we had to use to answer questions. An apocryphal miracle here and
there, and so many fucking quaint names of Kings, prophets, places, peoples and
wars. All of it totally irrelevant and pointless. I remember almost none of it.
Also, at the back, there were lyrics to a set of utterly ridiculous, maudlin
and embarrassing songs. One of these probably got played every lesson, to
no-one’s excitement.
One of the few tales that did
inspire me, though, was the tale of David and Goliath. When I say “I was never
really a believer”, I’m not entirely sure that that’s the truth. I think I did
kind of accept at face value a lot of the things the Scripture teachers told us
(that’s what’s scary about the church proselytising to children who don’t know how
to think yet) and I think I did occasionally believe in God. I certainly prayed
to Him on occasion, when things weren’t going too well, although I really wasn’t
sure if He was there, or if He was listening. The important fact is that I definitely
believed in the tale of David and Goliath, and I know this because of a comment
I remember making to my mum. This story is a slightly odd one. Basically, my
favourite bananas back in year 2 were “Lady finger” bananas. Lady finger
bananas were this short and squat variety that tasted kind of unripe and very,
very sweet. I never liked bananas that were even a tiny bit overripe, so this
was the natural choice for me. One day, I think I decided to take two Lady
finger bananas for my lunch. When break-time came, I remember munching away on
these bananas in the corner of the playground, near the Finlay toilets, and
thinking about the parable of David and Goliath. Feeling very manly about
eating two big, fat bananas, I suddenly had this great associative epiphany:
eating lots of Lady finger bananas is exactly the sort of thing Goliath would
do. That afternoon, when mum asked about my day, I told her about this thought.
She smiled. That is it.
I have a fair few year 2 memories
of arriving early in the playground. I remember cold mornings where I would
walk into the grey playground wearing only shorts and a thin jumper and sit
down on a bench feeling very chilly. I remember getting in Meg’s car one
morning and being asked incredulously if I was really only going to wear shorts,
and replying that my legs didn’t get cold (it’s still true, my legs don’t get
cold – I just need socks). I also remember one very warm morning either at the
beginning or the end of the year where rumours were circulating that school
might even be cancelled due to the extreme heat. I recall that I was very
excited about this possibility and had my fingers crossed the whole time.
Nothing came of it – except a lot of sweat on the schoolbus-ride home.
Incidentally, now that I’ve mentioned school buses, I’d like to mention that
there was this one bus driver (everybody’s favourite) who used to say “I taught
I saw a Puddy Tat” all the time. He was an odd fellow (seemingly not a pedo,
though!). What’s even odder is that I remember one time when I was in year 4 or
5, he was engaged in a music-related conversation with Daniel Baber, a younger
boy who lived in my street, and told Baber that his favourite artists were
“Mozart and Beethoven”. He asked Daniel if he knew who they were, and Daniel
said “No”. I was so appalled at his ignorance that I felt like blowing up the
bus there and then.
I will finish this main body of year 2
anecdotes by relating one of the most embarrassing (and yet lucky) moments of
my life. It took place at lunchtime, though it had its origin in the preceding
hour. As soon as I say the following sentence, you will be able to guess the
nature of the event. On some 2004 day around noon, I was busting in class. I
either didn’t ask to go to the bathroom during class, or my request was
rejected (perhaps because it was close to lunch). Regardless of the prelude to
this tragic event, I know that I found myself bolting out of the classroom as
soon as the bell sounded, and made a beeline straight for the toilets. As far
as the bustingness goes, I remember that I was right on the point of no return.
Tragically, I then discovered that the toilets were barred shut. I mean, I
think I might have feared this as I approached (it was possibly some kind of
early lunchtime routine). I recall an awareness that they would be opened
within fifteen minutes or so, but I recognised that waiting would be almost
impossible.
The crux is
that there was nothing I could do, unless I was going to be really bold and
brave and ask a teacher for help. I was not that bold and brave. Instead, I
waddled anxiously back towards the eating area on the other side of the playground,
praying that I could hold the pee in. When I got back to the benches, I think
everyone had started eating. And so I did too. I sat down with some other kids
in my class, zipped open my school bag and cracked upon my lunch box. One of
the items my mum had included that day was a small, white Tupperware container
of very juicy pineapple chunks. This was to be significant. I don’t know if the
pineapple chunks were the first thing I started eating, but I do recall they
ended up being a minor topic of conversation when I did start eating them.
Perhaps some boy thought it was weird that I was eating pieces of pineapple for
lunch or something. I do know that I was dribbling a bit of juice as I chewed
them; I think that might have been commented on by someone also.
Notably,
I recall that there was a layer of yellow liquid inside the container.
As I was
eating these chunks of pineapple, the urge to pee grew inexorably stronger. The
struggle to maintain a normal expression was immense. It really was so painful
to hold the liquid at bay, and I was terrified that the damn would burst and
that megatonnes would flow out, devastating the landscape, flattening trees,
contaminating pristine waterways, killing countless endeagered animals (humour
comes from absurd extension of a metaphor!). No really, it was fucking
terrifying. I’m not sure I can describe it to you. Perhaps it is best compared to
that famous scene in The Shining. I’m
the woman; her expression when Johnny’s splintering the door with his axe was
my expression as I sat on the bench – it was just hidden beneath my mask of
equanimity. An equally apposite analogue is the figure in that famous 1893
Edward Munch painting “The Scream”.
The fact
is that I was right to be terrified, because near the end of my pineapple
munching, the Thing actually happened. I froze. I was in shock. Mortified,
petrified, fossilised. What should I
do? A warm stream was emerging from my groin, seeping through my underpants,
rapidly darkening the crotch on my grey pants, and beginning even to leak out
onto the ground. Oh shit. And then one of them noticed. The first words this
noticer said were,
“Your
pineapple container is leaking.”
For a
second, I wasn’t sure if he was sincere or serious, but my adrenaline-flooded
brain quickly computed that he was (the reason I’m just using the pronoun is
that I can’t remember who it was). Though unbelievably optimific in the
situation, this reaction was quite baffling to me: this person genuinely
thought it was pineapple juice that explained the darkening of my crotch and
the gradually increasing puddle on the concrete below us. How could he think
that? Later, I would see that his reaction did make some sense. The idea of a
seven year old randomly, with no precedent, pissing his pants would have been
quite far from his thoughts, so pineapple-juice-leakage (or spillage) had to be
it. And, miraculously, I was still holding a pineapple juice container in my
hand at that point (albeit one whose juice level hadn’t gone down). It is for
this reason that the others seemed to come to the same conclusion about the
source of the leaking liquid. I was still mortified after this development, but
the relief was immense. Fucking hell.
I still
knew I had to get out of there, though. I recognised that they could easily
find out the truth, either from the ammonic reek of my pants or various other
clues present at the scene. I did realise that there might still be clues even
if I left, but leaving was my best chance of avoiding humiliation. I told them
I had to get myself cleaned up and immediately headed for the nurse’s office. Even
after I’d escaped, it was still horrifying to have to reveal to the nurse that
I’d pissed myself and that I needed spare pants, and I’m not sure my heart-rate
went down as I neared her office. But when I had donned a pair of spare pants,
I’m sure it went down a little. An extremely lucky break. As far as I know,
no-one ever found out the truth. And hopefully they won’t, because it is not
improbable that none of those present will ever read this.
Although
it didn’t feel like it at the time, the fact that I just happened to have
pineapple chunks for lunch on the day that I would piss my pants suggests that
God was partly on my side, kind of half-smiling at me (while the other half of
him jerked himself off at the distress and misery he had caused).
