Surviving School

Those of you who read my earlier book will have learned of some of my interesting experiences at school. School for me was both a trial and a triumph. I loved the process of learning, every aspect, although history did not excite me. The abuse I suffered from a teacher and fellow pupil left scars, both physical and emotional. I can still remember the abusers’ names and to this day I still have moments when I find it hard to deal with; however, there were also times of complete joy - being dux of the class, winning races at athletics, having a teacher who would spend an hour or more of his own time after school with me until I fully comprehended certain issues I was finding hard to grasp. School was also my first experience of, excuse the expression, ejaculation!

I was at St. Louis College and I always sat in the front row against the wall. During a particularly boring class, probably history, I sat with my hand in my lap just sort of gently playing with myself, as one does at eleven years of age, when suddenly I experienced the strangest feelings. It was scary, weird but ultimately wonderful! As my whole body shuddered a stain slowly appeared through my khaki shorts. Horror of horrors - I thought I had some kind of disease! I have no idea what the teacher, Mr Bartels, thought was happening to me - some kind of minor anxiety attack perhaps, but thankfully nothing was said. I quickly found my cousin who was the same age and in the same class who verified that he too had had a similar experience but in his bed at night. Trust me to have had my experience in the front row of a class of forty boys!

In spite of the above incident, and the aforementioned abuse, school remained mostly fascinating for me. Having teachers who loved their work and their particular subject helped enormously. In those days we had a different teacher for each subject - one for religion, one for history, one for French and so on. I was a bit of a class clown even though I was extremely shy and would have the desk lid up doing impressions of various teachers, especially our maths teacher Mr Heinrich, whom I used to call Spot, because he would look at me and say ‘I’ve spotted you son. Close that lid and pay attention!’ One day he had a particularly nasty cold and climbed over a boy’s desk and spat out the window but the wind blew it all back onto the lad’s leg! As Mr Heinrich was on his knees cleaning the boy’s leg I went into total hysterics. I laughed so much that I started to retch and had to leave the class room, followed by a prefect who, thinking I was ill, took me upstairs to the school nurse who was a tartar. If she thought a pupil was faking it - and she obviously thought I was - she would give them a glass of warm salty water to drink down in one gulp, which she administered to me, causing me to almost heave my heart out! I soon stopped laughing but have always been a bit of a giggler.

In my last book I wrote at length about my abuse at school, both physical and sexual. I survived and probably came through it all a tad stronger. I have been surprised by the number of people who contacted me after the release of ‘My Hi-de-Highlife’ who suffered much worse abuse than I and they also felt that they were able to grow from their experiences. Sadly, many more fall by the wayside and slip through the gaps. Their abuse was so deeply scarring that in many cases they were not able to see any light at the end of that awful long tunnel. I am especially saddened by the peer abuse of young gay, lesbian and transgender persons today in these supposedly enlightened times, particularly on the social media. Sach and I still occasionally have a nasty comment thrown at us and it is never easy to just shrug it off. It still hurts!

As I was learning piano I was often asked to play the organ at Benediction in the school chapel. It was a pedal or pump organ and my legs barely reached the pedals. After a hymn such as Tantum Ergo Sacramentum I would be so exhausted from pumping away and singing that I had to put my head between my legs before I passed out. I only reached third grade in my pianoforte lessons because the nun teaching me kept whacking me on the knuckles with a ruler whenever I hit a wrong note, so one day I grabbed the ruler out of her hand, snapped it in half and quit! To think - I could have been the next Liberace! I was a bit sad about quitting piano lessons when the acclaimed Australian pianist, Eileen Joyce, visited the school and spent an hour playing the most exquisite music I had ever heard. Her fingers seemed to barely touch the keys yet this heavenly music filled the room.

Speaking of attending chapel at school and being very religious - I desperately wanted to be a priest at one time - I loved attending Benediction, which is not the Mass but is a very old devotion in the Church. As a hymn of praise is sung the priest incenses the censer and then blesses the congregation with the Blessed Sacrament, while making the sign of the cross. Whenever the incense was lit the chapel or church was filled with the most wonderful aroma that almost sent me into a trance. I would be on my knees as an altar boy behind the priest, breathing in deeply and swaying gently - probably an earlier and milder version of being stoned! After I had marred Su Pollard she often wanted to attend Mass and Benediction. On one occasion when she met the priest afterwards she told him, ‘I loved your “drag” and flaming hand bag!’ - which was the censer filled with the smoking incense that the priest swung in the form of a cross. I was amusingly mortified by her comments but the priest, thankfully, thought it was hilarious!

On another occasion during Mass when the collection plate was passed amongst the congregation Su only had a very large denomination note, which she placed into the plate, but as the congregation waited she also counted out some change which she placed back into her purse! My ambitions to become a priest never came to fruition but my faith remains strong to this day. At least twice a day I say private prayers for special intentions, family and friends who are ill, others going through hard times and occasionally I sneak in a few prayers for myself. I believe with all my heart that some special persons who have passed away have been acting as guardian angels and watching over me for a long time. It’s not a presence I can feel but an almost instinctive sense of their protection at times. The thought of dying still fills me with such fear, in spite of my strong faith. The idea of every aspect of me disappearing into nothingness makes life seem both precious every day and yet very sad, if there is nothing after we leave this world.