Private or Public?
Anecdotes of my own educational experience.
Published in 'Brunel University - Educational Journeys: The Education Book Volume 4'. Titled - ‘Swiss Army Knife’
My educational journey has been as elite as diverse, and as privileged as laid-back. It’s been an eye-opening hybrid of private and public education.
At 11, I was in the same boat as many of my friends at primary school, taking entrance exams for the three renowned secondary schools in Hampshire and holding out for a scholarship. Entering the gates of each historically rich institution for an exam and interview, I was in awe, feeling smaller and more obedient by the second as the 10-minute drive from the entrance to the reception took us past numerous rugby pitches, a bowling green and on one occasion a golf course. I aced all three. To avoid ruffling any feathers and letting go of cherished and soon-to-be history friendship groups, I went with the obvious choice and followed in the footsteps resembling craters of my elder brother and Mr Pointer senior.
I attended private school in Southampton for five years, where I was dragged along the raging current of entitlement by my book-clever classmates who didn’t have much over me, apart from their self-bestowed superiority and my self-inflicted mediocrity. The teachers revelled in their authority. There was a lot of glaring and roaring surnames, as if your deceased grandparents would be hanging their head in shame. Certain teachers felt they could do no wrong, immune to parent and certainly student criticism. My English teacher once decided he had more important matters to attend to and announced he was popping home to collect his pantomime costume he had left at home. Could you look after yourselves? We’ll look after our 13-year-old selves, Sir. On the flip side, the privileges were second to none. My passion for poetry and song writing has never faded since the local poetry slam trip. Gyles Brandreth shuffled on stage and, at the relief of all the lethargic pupils, informed the audience he had a short poem to read that day entitled ‘Ode To A Goldfish’. He bellowed, ‘Oh, Wet pet.’ And shuffled off. The teachers were unselfishly willing to give me all or none of their free time when it really mattered. However, if I took off the rose-tinted glasses, was it done with the best intentions, or was it the ultimate professional flex to their superiors that the class clown could achieve an A grade?
Two things saved me with six months remaining. My weed-dealing locker partner got expelled, and my straight A* girlfriend didn’t break up with me. Result. The exams were a breeze and pure bliss, so I decided I wanted to leave school with a bang. My bang was achieving higher grades than my befriended enemies in almost every subject where I had been teased. Bittersweet. A metaphorical slap to their patronising attitude.
I was let out my cage of creative confinement to find my true potential and I moved in with a host family in Shepherd’s Bush, West London, shortly before turning 17. They treated me like the long-lost grandson, and I went to sixth form at a state school college in Acton, West London. I was thrilled and then froze once reality hit. It was frantic, hysterical, frenzied, without order. My fight or flight was definitely flight. I was hearing innumerable languages spoken for the first time and witnessing a universal form of body language. My senses were overwhelmed, and I felt outnumbered by people who thrived with this environment. I could understand what everyone was saying as the words sounded so so familiar, but I didn’t have the foggiest of what they were implying. This went on for months. I felt like a foreign speaker asking an English native speaker the difference in pronunciation of ‘through, tough, thorough, thought and though?’ There was so much slang I didn’t have time to guess. I resorted to a laugh and a smile and the occasional passing throwaway comment ‘No way, really?’, but it turns out this wasn’t socially acceptable either. The teachers were human, imperfect and relatable, never hiding their ups and downs. My business teacher called me over without hesitation and asked me if I knew any older, attractive, Jamaican men I could set her up with. I assumed she meant mid to late 30s and not my mates six months older than me. People respected sincerity and individuality and the respect it earnt continued to encourage it. 2 unforgettable years and I graduated from the University of Life before even opening my UCAS.
In private school, knowledge was power and status was status, and both earned respect. The chance to build, secure and maintain your social reputation was the heavily prioritised daily struggle, constantly considering, how can I trick as many people as possible to believe I’m interesting? However, authenticity was the badge of honour in London. You’re a rugby player and you’re a dab hand at painting, whatever works. You’re a drone delivery entrepreneur and a DJ at weekends, we’re right behind you. You’re Welsh and white as a sheet and hang out in an Afro-Caribbean barbers, as long as you don’t skip the queue. Conversations were short and snappy; friendships were organic and social groups had less hierarchy.
As for myself, one experience gave me a foundation to my values, beliefs and sense of self and the other took a wrecking ball to it. It taught me that the latest technology, vast school grounds, foldaway furniture and royal blue cardigan were all important to being a presentable respectable young adult. Yet the person standing in front of me, and the people sat either side have had the greatest, long-term influence. My teachers’ and students’ significant influence on me allowed me to reflect what influence I was having on them. What kind of energy do I want to be greeted with in the morning? I’ll embody that energy. What kind of atmosphere do I want to learn in? I’ll generate that atmosphere. What kind of teacher do I want to have? I’ll embody that teacher. It’s clear to me that it matters a lot less the school you attend and more who you surround yourself with and what values, words and attitude you bring to that environment.
My educational journey is without a doubt, thankful to my wonderful and understanding parents, who set the best example of living and did some critical parenting by stepping back to let me learn from schoolboy mistakes. At private school, I was taught well, and I learnt how to show respect and create rapport. At state school, I was guided towards my goals with the knowledge that not everyone plays fair and the first to ask usually gets. The transition turned me into a Swiss army knife.