In the olden days, when school was more than a vehicle for children to develop ADHD or call any teacher that showed more than a passing interest in their development a “paedo”, there came a time in a pupil’s life when they were given a choice of what subjects they wanted to take in their final years.
In my school, this was in the third year of high school, and back then it was called ‘choosing your options’, though now it’s probably called Skillset Streamlining or SuperPath v3.2 or something. It was pretty insane. You were supposed to be choosing subjects with a view to them leading into your supposed future career, but since 13 year olds all just want to be astronauts or sweets testers or professional rockpool explorers, subjects were mainly chosen on which teachers would probably dish out the least homework.
The impression of free choice so heavily promoted was also a complete sham. Even if you hated all modern languages as you’d been bought up by racists, you still had to pick at least one, and spend two years conjugating verb forms that were vastly inferior to English ones. What was actually on offer was not free will, but a very limited amount of maneuvering within certain subject fields, and of course all the worst subjects, like maths and religious education, were compulsory.
I assume this system was partly to avoid some subjects being oversubscribed – you can’t have the entire school doing eight periods of PE every day, after all. The only way it failed was in the practical/manual subject field, almost every boy choosing woodwork or technical drawing to avoid the other options – home economics (cookery), ceramics, art, etc – that would definitely pin them as “a gayer”, no matter how many girls he’d given a chewy to in the park that summer.
I hated the sciences; physics, chemistry and biology. They didn’t, and don’t, suit the way my brain is wired, and though I enjoyed throwing copper sulphate into the flame of a bunsen burner as much as the next person, I’m sure they wouldn’t just let you do THAT for two years, and I just couldn’t see myself getting on with the exam classes.
I had to choose one, though. After some consideration, I went with physics. The exam class teacher was someone who had repeatedly told us we would all likely end up in middle management jobs, and his low expectations appealed to me. He’d also played ‘Spirit in the Sky’ on tape in school assembly and said “Jesus is top of the charts”, which in a Catholic school, is about as hip as teachers are allowed to get.
My choice troubled no-one, apart from my Dad. My dad was a chemistry teacher (at a different school). I can still remember the battle of minds as we sat down with my options form and both tried to work out specific choice scenarios where I would have to avoid/take chemistry. It was a battle royale of logic and willpower, and in the end, my arguments about wanting to be a graphic designer – taking this course somehow meant I only had to take one science – won through. I took my signed options form into school the next day with the triumphalism (and fashion sense) of a champion chess player.
I spent the summer looking forward to a virtually science-free school year, completely oblivious that I was in fact about to be roasted in the bunsen burner of parental control like so many crumbs of copper sulphate (is that the one that turned the flame green? I was really bad at chemistry).
September arrived, and my dad informed me that I would, after all, be taking Chemistry. “But Dad,” I said cockily, “The options forms have all been processed. Timetables have been organised. I don’t think you can change things now. The school won’t like it.”
“You’re not learning it at school,” he countered. “I’m going to teach you the exam syllabus at home.”
The initial shellshock of the blast was nothing compared to the far-reaching after-effects. The details came to me like a general learning he was gradually losing regiments on all fronts. The classes would be taught for three hours on Sunday mornings. That, plus church, plus homework meant an instant 50 percent of my weekends GONE. Also, he was to teach me a two-year syllabus in one year, meaning huge academic pressure. The fact that I was being taught one more subject than anyone else in my year AND being homeschooled at the weekends also bought its own collateral damage, instantly conferring the title of swot/nerd/probable gaylord onto me.
If I had only just agreed to taking Chemistry in the first place, I would have had a normal year. I wanted to change my mind, but the options forms had all been processed. Timetables had been organised. I couldn’t change things now. The school wouldn’t like it.
And so it was that Sunday mornings suddenly took on the atmosphere of a kidnap victim being coaxed into friendly cooperation by his captors. Sullenly resistant at first, I loathed being inside on the last sunny weekends of autumn, while my peers were all out honing their sporting skills or making headway with the opposite sex. Probably both at the same time. And me? I was semi-purposely failing to grasp chemical equations and the periodic table while my Dad looked on with a delicate mixture of hope and despair.
Some months in, and I came as close to Stockholm Syndrome as I was really going to get. By now I was resigned to taking the exams, so had upped my effort levels and thought that I may as well get something out of it, aside from extending the date when I would lose my virginity by incalculable years and the unlikelihood of getting back into the Sunday League football team. I became something I could never have hoped for: an adequate Chemistry student.
Exam time came round and much to the suspicion of my fellow students, who all had another year to wait before their exams, I took my Chemistry ‘O’ Level. In the weeks that passed before the results came out, I spent time thinking about the worst possible outcome. Obviously, any kind of pass mark (grades A-C) would be a victory, ensuring freedom. An abysmal grade (E-Unclassified) would also work, suggesting I was a lost chemical cause.
Imagine my joy, then, to get a ‘D’ grade. Not quite a pass, and not quite bad enough to persuade my Dad that I was a lost cause. “We’ll retake, obviously,” he said. Yeah. Obviously. The re-sit exams were only four months or so later, and this time, I gave it my all, not wanting to get into some endless pattern of retaking Chemistry exams, even into my twenties and thirties, my Dad still convinced I could do it, having to travel back to my family home every Sunday from wherever I was in the world.
Fate smiled. I scraped a C. ‘C’ for ‘Christ, can I please stop studying Chemistry now?’.
I don’t know what my point is. See, I don’t even have a scientific enough brain to formulate a cohesive essay structure, but I look (obviously not actual physical looking, but it brings the story to a nice end) at that faded, pointless Chemistry certificate, and all I see are those lost Sundays. My Dad, of course, probably sees it as validation and that he boosted his son’s academic prospects. Me? I hope I can use it to fuel a Bunsen Burner one day (they run on paper, right?).
Epilogue: My younger brother also avoided choosing Chemistry three years later, but was NOT subject to the homeschool lessons. He was better at football and with the opposite sex. Draw your own conclusions from THAT experiment, Einstein.
