school rebellion

A Little Rebellion

I believe I was quite an innocuous wee girl at primary school. I did my work, liked to read, liked to colour in. My friends and I squabbled incessantly, but question authority? It wouldn’t have occurred to me. You have to respect those put in authority don’t you?

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The School Concert

Every Friday, there was a collection in class for the ‘Black Babies’ charity. We had all been issued a card divided into thirty small squares. For each penny we contributed, one square would be ticked off. When thirty squares had been filled in, it was for each of us to choose a name to bestow on ‘our’ baby.

One day an announcement was made that a more exciting way of raising money for the Foreign Missions had been decided upon. This was to take the form of a concert in the local Miners’ Welfare Hall.

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Stacey on the Lunch

Warning: this piece contains strong language

Decelerated positron emissions born a thousand centuries earlier bathed her face in the warmth of a late Spring morning. This time was ours and no aspects of cliché, of empathy, of knowing smiles could take away the fact that she was my princess. I knew she was for I had admired her for months, waiting for a suitable time to slay the dragon who held her prisoner.

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Keywords: 
school rebellion, love

Cheese and Wine

In 1983, I was in 6th year at a small secondary school. One Friday in the spring, when the school was quiet and the teachers were too pre-occupied to notice, my friends and I decided to seize upon an unexpected opportunity. We all had every Friday morning after 11am as study time and got to spend this in our common room, which happened to double as the library. It was on the top floor of the school near the art department and the art teacher happened to be away that day on a field trip with the year below.

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Challenging Authority

I have Miss Muir, my primary teacher, to thank for the person I am today.

We lived in a small village where everyone knew one another. I had a wonderful childhood growing up with two loving parents and an extended family. A mining community, we looked out for each other and were taught to have a healthy respect for authority. If you “got into trouble” at school then you knew you had double the trouble wiating when you arrived home. Such was the support for the local school. Life was extremely good until I started Primary 7.

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A Juvenile Success

The dictatorial, purple-faced, square-shaped department head ae Religious Education, Mr Blank, had been summoned. Five ae us were in trouble. Three were good boys led astray and oot ae their element. Me? Ah had experience and wis a little scared, but better prepared fir the disproportionate onslaught. The final guy, a misbehaving maestro and ma mate, Richie, wis a living, breathing nutter, who would crack jokes in a foxhole. He couldnae care less if you paid him in PlayStation games and sanctioned days aff school.  

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Mr. Hamilton

He was hip. He wore crisp shirts and wide neckties. He had a Seventies mustache and Burt Reynolds hair. His right hand almost always held chalk. His left hand was usually in his front pocket. His Levis were so tight that to remove his hand from his pocket he had to put down the chalk, reach across his body and pinch a bit of fabric on his upper left thigh. In this way he would pin down the interior pocket and keep it from pulling inside-out as he removed his hand. This always left a spot of chalk dust on his pants that he would carefully brush off.

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