Beginning

I had left Oak Hill prep school a happy and inquisitive ‘A-stream’ child with a prize for one particular subject and a bit nippy in a race. I remember going to the open day at Birkfield, feeling a mixture of trepidation and excitement at this new chapter of my life. My older brother was there and he showed me round the place. In the gymnasium there was some kind of fête going on with a tombola, mouse racing, ‘bat the rat’ and bizarrely on the stage, I remember what appeared to be a competition to determine which of four or five boys could hold their breath for the longest in a bucket of water. 

What japes these ‘big boys’ get up to, egged on by a shouty and excitable De La Salle brother, sleeves rolled up and armed with a stopwatch while whipping up his audience. 

Cheeks bulge with drawn breaths. And go!... Heads splash into water. 

Fifteen seconds pass.  Great sport! After the crowd counts to twenty, the first boy comes up. An impressive thirty-eight seconds.  Now, "Jones" is up!...now "Mathieson!"... who will win ladies and gentlemen? 

One minute! Concern now. The contest is between "Jackson" and "DaSouza"

The crowd chants, "Jackson! Jackson!" 

One minute and fifteen...twenty now.... Jackson's hair flails water across the stage as he rises, red and gasping.

The De La Salle Brother, possibly Brother Peter who would years later take a swing for me, drunk on macho celebrity, plays the crowd whilst missing the mood. This is extraordinary! How long can DaSouza hold? Two minutes pass! Everyone knows something is wrong. I remember being hastily ushered out having caught sight of a blue-faced casualty on stage. This boy doesn't think he wants to come to this school really.

That was a portent of what was to come. I think it was either Brother Peter* or Brother Cuthman who, when I was introduced on my first day proper at St Joseph's, asked what my surname was. When I told him he snorted with disdain and said , "Oh really, well I hope you're going to work harder than your brother then".  

Now at the 'University of Life' I have learned a fair few things (I graduated long before being accepted simply by surviving five years at St. Joseph's). One of those things is to do with treating people kindly and not judging them immediately. Because that's the kind of thing that can piss off even the happiest-go-lucky of children. 

Was there a note in the De La Salle Handbook of Incompetent Teaching that stated, "Rule 1, Day 1: Seize every opportunity to insult the new boy's family, causing him to think, 'You bastard!' even though he doesn't yet know that word. For good measure, make him wonder for the first time ever what you'll do if he refuses to comply because of your rudeness. Well done. Have a whisky"?

Okay. So into the first year we head and (Credit where due) a decent 'brother' to ease us all into the rigours and expectations of secondary school. I must have elected to put the comment behind me and crack on with my academic efforts. These were measured by the regular dishing out of "testimonials". OMG, I'd forgotten those insane certificates until now! 

They were dished out with great gravitas. Gold (yellow) for the top achievers of the month or possibly fortnight I think it was. Then a tranche of white testimonials for your fair to middlings and for the underachieving 'dunces' in the room, the almost gleeful ritual humiliation of awarding the BLUE TESTIMONIAL to usually the same three of four kids presumably well on their way to a career in alcoholism. 

Thing is chaps, I was GOLD testimonial material but one of my best mates at the time was a blue boy. This, to my young mind, represented inequality and unjust treatment as prohibited by Jesus himself according to RE lessons. So what was a boy to make of, "If you don't work hard, you'll never get a good job" followed by, "God favours the poor over the rich". Wait! What?  

I may have been only eleven but I knew damn well that many of my friends had dads who hated their 'good jobs'. Still, crack on, work hard for that job in the army, air force, navy or banking, and hey, just ignore the fact we're all going to die at any minute when either the Russians or Americans nuke us all (unless we get under a kitchen table or the door we've hastily ripped from its hinges (makes 'Control the Virus' look a bit tame!)). 

So, welcome to St Joseph's.  Motto: Labore Et Tenacitate - "Work and stick to it". 

I notice that in more recent years they've tacked on Fides - fidelity.  This is something of a sick joke to me since St Joseph's, I know now, is accountable for its pedophile past. The school back then was without a shred of empathy for anyone with any creativity. I would say it's only my creative imagination that saved me by enabling me to invent and for years believe in a much rosier past, conveniently blanking out the traumatic.  

To those who peddle the 'false memory' narrative, insisting that sexual abuse survivors imagine their ordeals, I can testify any "embellishment" we add to our stories is that which lessens the ordeal to make it easier to cope, not that which adds to it.  What possible benefit to a survivor of sexual abuse (which, by the way, isn't solely physical touch) would exaggerating a trauma bring exactly?  

We are daily witnessing a worldwide uncovering of abuses committed. Survivors aren't staying silent any more. 

Many of us are simply about setting the record straight. Revenge is not in my playbook otherwise I would have called in the vigilantes and destroyed __'s house several times over. The longer the perpetrators remain covered, the more damage is done so if you were involved in crimes or are still covering for abuses committed at St. Joseph's, now is your opportunity to speak up. Seriously. Begin that process. 

*Few of these "Brothers" ever had surnames. Interesting that; as a layer of protective anonymity. At Oak Hill there was Bro. John Fisher so obviously it was an option.