Primary School Confidential (22 page)

O CAPTAIN!

Okay, so primary school politics is probably not as dramatic as that, but there is a certain amount of intrigue regarding the selection process of the school leadership team. To be honoured with a school captain's badge—well, that is just about the highest pinnacle of achievement for parents all over the country.

And my parents should know, with a strike rate of four out of five. The fifth being me.

I was the black sheep of the shining, socially brilliant, thoughtful, intelligent and sporty band of siblings that gathered at the family dining table each evening. As the rest of them rattled off lists of the day's achievements, I would push my food around my plate in silence. Occasionally I was able to regale them with irrelevant tales, like how I got assaulted by Libby Taylor.

Hell, even though it's irrelevant, I bet you'd like to hear it too . . .

Each Thursday after school, I caught the bus to the local pool for my swimming lesson. And each Thursday, I would be followed from the bus stop to the pool by the evil Libby Taylor, a girl whose excessive nastiness was matched by her exceedingly good aim. Lizzy would chuck rocks and insults at me for about a block. I found it very traumatic.

But my weekly agony at the hands of Lizzy Taylor evoked no interest, not when my siblings were getting picked for the debating team, winning a scholarship to this or that, or going on some student exchange to Dubbo (where you were to be billeted out with a family that hopefully were quite normal, and not vegetarian!) or, the holy grail, being elected school captain.

The school captain was actually elected by the students, so you'd think that the most popular kid at school would romp it in. But that never happened, because quite often the most popular person was the least suitable person, so in the end the staff chose.

Still, the candidates had to go through the motions, running a campaign in which you shared your vision for the school and implored others to vote for you. There was a speech, a presentation and many meet-and-greets. Ambitious mothers would bake cupcakes all night for their offspring to give out as bribes.

The ideal school captain is an all-rounder, involved in all aspects of school and community life. It helps if you are academic, sporty, do something with a musical instrument and, maybe, just maybe, are slightly religious. The challenge is that you need to appeal to both students
and
teachers. So on the one hand you need to convince the punters that you are very likely to cut the length of the school day dramatically and are committed to having a vending machine in every classroom, while on the other you have to suck up to the teachers. Perhaps remind them that you haven't had a sick day all year, as much due to your commitment to your academic career as to your robust health. And volunteer for everything! Put your hand up to visit old people in the local aged-care home. Bring in a cake for the teachers to enjoy at their staff meeting. Run the MS Read-a-thon, the Skip-a-thon, the Mother's Day stall. Be everything to everyone. But be aware that even this strategy might fail.

The shit really went down at one Catholic primary school in the Hunter district of New South Wales when, despite the student vote overwhelmingly favouring two popular students, the principal relegated them to the lesser positions of vice-captain and instead awarded the top jobs to two kids whose parents worked in the Catholic education system.

There was such an outcry that the local diocese was forced to carry out an investigation into the voting process. The principal was cleared of any wrongdoing. Dirty deeds, done dirt cheap? Perhaps. But let us remember that we are talking about eleven-year-olds here.

Despite my parents' encouragement, I didn't even bother to run for the position of school captain. It was obvious to me that Kim
Johnson had it in the bag. I mean, she was a state runner, for Christ's sake! She was smart, she had hair that always looked shiny and nice, and her uniform was always impeccably ironed. She was not likely to kiss any boys in the library at lunchtime behind the hanging wall of big books, nor was she likely to sit up the back of the bus. Kim Johnson danced in a wholesome way at school socials. While me? Not so much.

The standout of the whole campaign that year, however, was this one boy who gave his nomination speech in the accent of Michael Crawford's character Frank, from the British TV series
Some Mothers Do 'Ave 'Em
. He had the whole school weeping with laughter. From memory, he even kind of looked like Frank.

‘Oh, Betty . . .' he would begin, causing us all to erupt hysterically.

On completion of his speech, he waved his hands in victory, and was promptly given a standing ovation.

He did not get the role. But he should have.

My older sister (school captain, North Richmond Public School, 1984) has three children, all of whom were school captains. She is considering running some sort of course in how to groom your kids for greatness.

But, really, does being a primary school captain have any bearing on the future course of your life? Are you likely to get that promotion into middle management because you won a school election twenty years ago?

The short answer is no. No one cares. At the time it can be a huge big deal, but the truth is, it means nothing. Bragging rights
for your parents, but that's about it. Oh, and you get to sit on the stage during assemblies.

21

WE ARE GATHERED HERE TODAY

Ah, school assemblies. Has there ever really been a need for them?

Our school assembly was the most bum-numbing, brain-sapping, head-scratching (if you had lice) time of the week. We would file into the old hall, where we were seated according to our year level, with kindy kids up the front and Year 6 down the back. The hall was invariably like an oven in summer and an igloo in winter. These climatic extremes were combated either by two listless ceiling fans or a single lame bar heater.

The hall was a traditional one, with a stage up one end bedecked with nasty old red-velvet curtains with gold trim. On the walls were hung Boards of Merit, listing past school captains, principals and recipients of the dux award. The rest of the decor was given over to fire extinguishers and plentiful signs to indicate the whereabouts of the fire escapes. The hall was adjacent to the canteen, you see, where the cooking was done, and the whole thing was made of timber.

The deputy principal, wearing long shorts, long socks and slip-on shoes in a pale hue, would tell us all to shut the fuck up (but in slightly more acceptable words), and then he would do that trick where you just stand there . . . doing . . . nothing. (Yes, the old waiting trick I went on to use myself when I was a teacher.) He just stood there, hoping that us kids would eventually notice that he was about to completely lose his shit and quieten down. Sometimes it worked, but more often it didn't, so he would make an example of someone, usually Shane Ryan, and send him or her to the office with the promise of dire consequences for his rowdy behaviour. This was usually enough to induce the rest of us to, well, shut the fuck up.

‘Please stand.'

The deputy would then invite Year 3 teacher, Mrs Browne, who was eighty-seven in the shade, to lead the school in singing ‘God Save the Queen'. Watched on by a portrait of the great lady, we would tunelessly bellow our expressions of loyalty.

‘Please be seated.'

We sank back onto the floor (those cold hard floorboards were a pain in the arse, literally) as, one by one, self-important teachers stood up to hector us on dull subjects like rubbish bins, or bike racks, or one of any number of other things that we were doing wrong.

It was then time for the Assembly Item. Perhaps, for something different, the Year 1 class might favour us with a percussion version of ‘Popcorn.'