Grey's Journal

I arrived at `Errol's Academy' one morning in the depressing English winter to find the school covered in a thin layer of snow.  It would have been a tranquil scene if not for the several hundred boys involved in a snowball fight spreading in all directions.  Most of the battle moved across the sports fields in great waves as groups of boys gained and lost ground like troops in the first World War.  Smaller tactical skirmishes also took place among the cars in the parking lot or between the trees around the school and a few enterprising individuals brought snow indoors to snipe from the safety of the upper-floor windows.

It was carnage and mayhem and beyond the ability of the teachers to control; we didn't try.

Fortunately, we didn't need to reign in the madness.  The interaction of the boys' desire to hit us with snowballs, and the knowledge that All Fun Would End if they ever actually did, gave us protection -- a teacher snowball deflection field that had the property of attracting snowballs at great distances but repelling them at short distances.  However, because projectiles are beyond the ability of their thrower to influence once in the air, the deflection field only worked if you traveled at a constant speed in a straight line.  Make a sudden stop, a turn or, God forbid, look behind you and all bets were off.  Walking between buildings was a leap of faith like the invisible bridge in Indiana Jones: close your eyes, walk confidently forward and all will be well.

Later that day, sitting in the teachers' lounge, one of the science staff called me to the window.

``The future engineers of England,'' he said as he gestured toward the window.

Outside I saw, made of snow and prominently displayed at the front of the school, a six-foot-tall, anatomically correct, erect penis.  For a large radius around the structure, there was no snow left on the ground.  Several boys traveled back and forth from the penis to the edge of the circle, working like industrious ants, bringing in snow from further and further away to keep increasing its size.

It was not the first and certainly not the last time when I was torn between the serious, put-a-stop-to-this-nonsense role I'm supposed to play as a teacher and the that's-really-funny reaction I have as a student.

A small crowd of teachers gathered at the window to watch the construction.  While this was entertaining, we knew that it was our responsibility to put a stop to it.  Six-foot snow penises, no matter how anatomically correct or architecturally impressive, were not the image the school wished to project onto hundreds of passing motorists.  Nonetheless, no teacher wanted to be the one to actually go outside and order it razed -- and as long as they didn't see us watching them, no one had to.  The end result was that when one boy turned to face the lounge, the teachers ducked below the window and out of sight, as though we were misbehaving boys ourselves.

``Shouldn't someone tell them to take it down?''  I asked my colleagues crouched low on the couch.

``I'm not going out there,'' said one.  ``Besides, if we leave it long enough, it will deflate just as the real thing would.''

* * *

One of the many fads to sweep Errol's Academy during my time there was `statement bands' -- plastic bracelets with a positive message written on them in support of good causes: cancer research, anti-war, save the trees, etc.

While watching over an experiment in class, I noticed one of my year nines wearing a band I had not seen before which read: `stand up and be heard'.

``What's that one for?'' I asked.

``It's against racism, Sir.  I think it's a bit vague, though.  `Stand up and be heard' could mean anything.''

``Well,'' I said, always trying to encourage my students to think, ``what would you have it say to make it more clear?''

He paused a long while before saying: ``I'd have it say `don't be such a fucking racist'.  That's much more to the point.''

* * *

``Can we drink it, Sir?''

``No.''

``Is it poison?''

``No.''

``But if it's not poison, why can't I drink it?''

This was an argument I faced every lesson with my younger students.  The idea that all fluids and solids encountered should not be immediately consumed was still incomprehensible to them.

``So, Sir, just how bad is this acid?  Like, would it burn off my whole head or just my face?''

``Neither.''

``Can I rub it on my arm to test it?''

``No.''

``Can I rub it on his arm to test it?''

``No.''

``This bottle says `alcohol', can I drink it?''

``First, you are seven years short of the legal drinking age.  Second, it's methylated spirits and will make you go blind.''

``Would I go blind instantly or would it take a while?''

``I'm not sure.''

``How much would I have to drink before I went blind.''

``Let's not find out.''

* * *

While preparing for a class after lunch, one of my year-seven boys, showed up in the doorway, his whole torso wrapped in string -- his arms tied to his sides and his backpack tied to him.

``Guess what happened, Mr Grey!''

Not sure how to respond, I played it safe.  ``Did it involve string, `Simon'?''

``It did, Sir!  One of the sixth-form boys tied me to a door!''

Contrary to what my expectations of being tied to a door would be, Simon couldn't have been happier.  He had a huge smile on his face and excitedly told me the story as I tried to free him using the blunt laboratory safety scissors.  During this long process, my other boys started to trickle in, and they wanted to hear his story as well.  This resulted in many retellings until I finally managed to free him.

``The sixth formers are probably still downstairs,'' Simon said.  ``Let's go!''

I told my year sevens to wait in the hall while he led me down the stairs and pointed out the offending boys.

I gave them a yelling, sighting all the boring, adult reasons why they should not have done such a thing (what if he had fallen on the stairs, he's half your size, it's not funny).  But, as with the snow penis, I again felt conflicted between by new role as the teacher and my old role as the student.  Simon had enjoyed the attention and it was funny, no matter how hard I tried to pretend it wasn't.

When I turned around to get back to my class, I saw my year sevens lined up on the stairs, like kids in a Disney movie trying to spy on Santa, watching Mr Grey give a yelling to the sixth formers.

Later that day, I related the story to one of the science teachers.

``Who were the sixth formers who did that?'' He asked.

``I didn't get their names.  I didn't really want to take it that far.''

``Oh, I didn't want to get them in trouble,'' He said.  ``I would have given them a commendation.''

So much for being like one of the real teachers.

* * *

Returning after the Easter holidays, I found that my first class of boys was half empty.

``Where is everyone?'' I asked.

They exploded into excited babbling.  Despite being the supposed intellectual elite of London, I knew not one class of boys at the school who understood that, if they talked simultaneously, none of them would be understood.

``All right, all right,'' I said trying to institute order.  ``Everyone quiet.  Now, you tell me what's going on.''

The selected boy talked quickly and incomprehensibly about some terrible skin disease passing among the boys.  Something that itched, spread to uncomfortable places and left tissues red.

Not sure if I could trust the boys information, I looked to the observing teacher in the back of the room for confirmation.  She nodded in affirmation.  Then added silently by mouthing the words to me: ``Don't touch them.''

* * *

Most schools on the last day of the term hold a talent show to keep the students from going crazy.  However, because Errol's Academy was too large to accommodate all the students in one hall, the talent show was changed into a review and limited to the sixth-form boys.

As I opened the doors to the theater where the review was underway, I discovered what 200 adolescent boys packed into a windowless room on a hot summer day smell like, and nearly turned back.  I had grown used to the omnipresent locker-room scent of hundreds of boys with no girls around to impress, but this was a new level of unpleasantness.

``Now, our next act,'' said the boy emceeing the event, ``consists of `Jack', `Ralph', `Roger', `Sebastian' and `William'.''  These were the names of the school's well know homosexuals.

The one thing I expected to be an enormous problem at a boys' school, homophobia, was a non-issue.  Many more boys than I expected were openly gay and the other boys had no issue with it.  I've read that in some human cultures gender roles are not limited to male and female as in the West.  Other cultures may have from three to five genders that interact with each other.  At `Errol's Academy' it seemed that this was the case.  The straight boys treated the gay boys as a separate gender class and thus there was no fighting with them to conform to the larger group.  They were accepted and welcomed into the community as I would not have expected -- as the next few minutes proved.

``So, if you want to come out on stage and join them, now's your last chance,'' the emcee continued.  ``Don't be shy, after all, they've had more pricks than a dart board.''

The emcee left the stage and the theater went dark.  And so began the most homoerotic event I've ever seen.

Smoke filled the stage and Frankie Goes to Hollywood's Relax played over the speakers.  Then, bathed in light and wearing only a thong and a pair of fish-net stockings, appeared one of the gay boys, microphone in hand, singing along with the song.

Closer inspection revealed he attached a `#1 blue ribbon' to his crotch -- the kind used in the school horse shows.  After a minute of dancing the four other boys joined him, three dressed in form-fitting, latex doctor outfits and the other as a shirtless police officer.

I'd never actually listened to the lyrics of Relax, but as I watched two shirt-less boys dancing together surrounded by three doctors putting on creepy, long rubber gloves, it became obvious.

When the lyrics got to ``I'm coming! I'm coming!'', the doctors sprayed the two boys with whipped cream which they rubbed into each other as the house lights went down and the crowed cheered.

``And that's what happens,'' said the emcee when he regained the stage, ``when you go to a boys' school for thirteen years.''