Giraffe hunting

I was invited to attend a 'confidence' building seminar headed by the author of a series of 'self-help' books, one of which had been given to me as a gift several years previously. In the most ironic twist of fortune I've yet to encounter, I left feeling even less confident than when I went in. It was my fault for assuming that, just because this 'life coach' had her name plastered in glossy colours across the cover of a book - in addition to having her own YouTube channel and Facebook 'appreciation society' - she would hold the answer to all of my esteem issues. I've since learned the importance of making up my own mind about the extent of someone's 'professionalism', and about deciding for myself whether that person deserves to be lionised.

I happened to arrive a few minutes late, due to circumstances that were beyond my control. Even before I'd had a chance to place my name-tag on my chest, 'Coach' had shoved me under a burning spotlight before the group of ten people, a majority of whom were older than me and from different backgrounds.

"So Stanley. How do you define confidence?"

Is it really decent to put someone under pressure from the moment they enter the crowded room, when they have come in the hope of resolving self-esteem issues as a result of a mental illness?

As soon as this question was thrown at me - as when you might suddenly find a stick of dynamite in your hands with a burning fuse - I immediately felt all eyes in the room on me. I wanted to give a definition that was true to my personal beliefs, not something randomly plucked from the surface of conciousness (ie. a cliche). I also didn't want to offend anyone in the room - knowing that they were all vulnerable and sensative people - nor give the impression of myself as an opinionated ex-student. It would have killed me had I done so. My worst memories of student life were attending seminars populated by individuals who enjoyed the sound of their own voices. I didn't want anyone to think that of me. It didn't help that there was an individual present in the room - brooding darkly in the farthest corner - who had on every occassion that I'd been forced to interact with him previously, made me feel extremely uncomfortable. Beneath his scrutinous eyes, I felt judged and hated. Unable to cope with this sudden pressure, I answered at truthfully as I dared;

"Could you come back to me later please?"

"Certainly", 'Coach' replied.

She didn't. The notion didn't even occur to her.

As the seminar progressed, I began to notice that 'Coach' clearly didn't like me. She gave every other person in the group a chance to speak, either encouraging the quieter ones to share just a few fragments, or picking others like blades of grass. But I wasn't acknowledged once. As more stories were related and personal anecdotes brought forward, I felt as if a crucible within my soul was heaving. I wanted so much to say how I felt, to share my experiences and problems. But the oppressive group atmosphere, the burning eyes of the previously mentioned individuals, and the sheer fact I was not encouraged to speak up left me feeling tangled and unsatsified. I tried to speak several times, but my insecurities held me back - and, as always, the louder individuals jumped in first.

At the end of the seminar, 'Coach' presented a question to the group; "Name one thing that you are thankful for" - and procceeded to extract answers from around the table with her hands pointing at the speaker like a pistol. I slipped straight back to how I was when under fire at the very beginning of the seminar; I wanted to say something honest, and something that wouldn't offend anyone or give them the wrong impression of my character. The first lady spoke, and was honoured with a lengthily dissection of her comment from 'Coach' along with many encouraging words. I was looking forward to her giving me that same privelege. To have a 'famous' author comment on my feelings would be an honour.

The pistol found its way into my direction. The crucible within me flooded over, but not enough to stain the ground around it; "I'm thankful for parents who understand my circumstances"

I waited for her encouraging remarks, her 'professional opinion'. I recieved merely a grunt of acknowledgement, and the pistol swiftly moved to the next person, who - after speaking - was soon basking in the 'Coach's' flattery and encouragement. I also couldn't help noticing that I was the only person 'Coach' did not refer to by name during that final scrutiny around the table, despite the fact I had a name-tag like everyone else.

As I stood in the street a few minutes later, almost in tears as I related the story to my father over the phone, I couldn't understand what had happened. Were my contributions less valuable than those of every other individual in the room? Was I snubbed because she deemed my not 'ill' enough to merit her attention and encouragement? Was my self esteem 'too high' to merit begin in there in the first place? When talking to those who arranged the seminiar in the first place a week later, I was told 'Coach' probably treated me as she did because my first remark - asking her come back to me later after she put me on the spot - was interprited by her as cheek, a way of saying "I'm not going to comply with your demands". I never intended it that way. Perhaps it was this that 'Coach' interprited as me being 'too confident' to be in the seiminar in the first place. Or maybe she was simply too proud.

Although my feelings have been voiced to those who matter, I still find myself boiling with a mixture of disgust and injustice towards the way I was treated. There is also some sadness within that crucible, that someone who on whom I placed many high expectations - from myself and from others - was such a disappointment. It reminded me too vividly of a similar experience several years earlier at university, when I attempted to contact a professor - a celebrity among literary circles, and, like 'Coach', with a streem of titles to her name - for assistance in a personal project which she happened to be a renown specialist in. When I recieved nothing in response, my esteem to plummet, for it seemed not even 'famous' people deemed me worthy of their assistance.

But in both cases, I have no reason to be sad at being rejected by people I have no respect for - whose reputations are based entirely on news paper reviews and marketting statistics. Allowing their rejection to tear my soul would be no different to endorsing them by purchasing their 'books' and lining their pockets.

I agreed with only one of the 'Coach's' philosophies; that a lack of confidence comes from comparing ones self to others. But she spoiled the effect of her wisdom by shamelessly contradicting herself a few minutes later. There was - as is the case with most group gatherings - one individual who spoke up just a little more than everyone else, and thus secured most of the 'Coach's' attention. The general jist of his story was that he had been through dark times, but was on the way out of them. Shortly after, another individual was encouraged to speak, whose story related that she had only just begun her jounrey into the wastelands of mental health. 'Coach' - in a whimsical attempt to sow hope within her - told her to draw strength from the tale of the previous speaker, the undertone being; "Look at him! He's better now! And if can get better, so can you!" Had I the confidence that she denied me, I would have liked to have told 'Coach' that she had contradicting herself to by encouraigng the lady to draw on the experience of the man. By telling her to draw on the latter's story, she was encouraging her to compare herself to him - to set her expectations high. And what if those expectations are not met? This is the wrong thing to tell a vulnerable person, for not only does it set them up for disappointment, but it also undermines the extent of their issues. Just because one person recovers from bad health speedily and through a certain means does not mean that another will achieve the same results.

I don't believe a 'life coach' who snubs clients for brusing her pride and contradicts her own philosophies is in any position to be preaching about confidence. When I found her book a few months later while decluttering my room, I shredded it into as many pieces as I could manage and cast it away where it belonged - in the waste paper bin. I would have done far worse if I'd been feeling creative enough.

Auctore Deo - A Fragment... (III)

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Canto Twenty-Eight

Dear B__

When I intercepted my uncle’s email, informing my father that the news had reached Australia, his expression implied that it had been the first ejaculation to drool from his brother’s tongue once he had returned home.

'Don't mean to alarm you mate, but Robin's just got back and he's saying your boy's come out as gay'

I pictured him discharged the gossip dolefully in an East London accent lamed by a slight Australian drawl - “Mav’s boy, you know, the one who’s packin’ on a few pounds. Turns out he’s a poof”

I am no closer to my uncle Robin than the Earth is to Pluto. I had only one memory of him prior to the events that took place three years ago; yelling at me not to touch a toy train belonging to his daughter in case I lost ‘the bits’. I suspect that his tolerance for nieces and nephews expired after my sister was born, and simply couldn’t be bothered to get to know my brother and I. Beyond the medium of birthday cards and gift labels hastily taped to boxes of Boots brand body spray, I have no other recollection of him ever referring to me by name, let alone acknowledging my existence.

When he migrated to Australia, he inherited the archetypal role of ‘the uncle living overseas’ whose phone-call at the annual Christmas gathering is a focal point of the evening’s entertainment. I never learnt the reasons for his flight, except implications that it was a desperate bid to withdraw from the battlefield of responsibilities that come with having six siblings and a widowed mother. For several years, the only notion one ever had of his existence came in the form of home-made desktop calendars – substituting seasonal greeting cards – featuring a photograph of himself with wife and children bearing smiles like wedding outfits; bought for the occasion, and never used again.

When another of my uncles followed his example and immigrated to Australia a few years later, they secured themselves many months of coverage when bitterness between their wives escalated into a holy war. The hostilities became so complex that even Thucydides would have struggled to stay ahead.

Of my mother’s five brothers, I know nothing of Robin besides what I have pieced together from fragments of overheard telephone conversations and emails that have been left unattended, most concerning the war in Perth and other battles. The portrait I developed was one of a corporate atheist with the psyche of a school boy, devoted to materialism and interested solely in making others aware of his luxurious living conditions. His brief return to England for the Christmas holiday, publicised as if it were the final public appearence of an acclaimed celebrity, confirmed my suspicions.

The family was in the midst of a crisis. Money was needed from all seven siblings to correct an error that, if not treated, could have resulted in my grandmother loosing her home. My mother and aunt intended to ask Robin for his contribution in person when the inevitable Christmas gathering came around. But Robin was more content in giving a seminar on Australian tiger prawns. The crisis had to be averted without his assistance, and a wind of bitterness still sweeps the deserted arena.

It was during this visit that he learnt of my sexuality. My father received the email from my other uncle in Australia within a matter of days. My earliest suspicion was that it had been the work of a gossipmonger bent on stirring strife. I suspected that bird of ill omen to have been a certain fork-tongued cousin, a known sower of discord and reaper of venom. Then I suspected her step-father, a preacher of biological processes and homophobia; my aunt could have easily passed that intelligence onto him unintentionally, and he – still harbouring bitterness towards my parents from a previous drama – may have seen it as his opportunity to strike back. My already intense hatred towards them both threatened to boil over, even if I could not prove my suspicion.

It may have been far simpler. He may have guessed from some of my mannerisms. He may discovered the copy of “Another Gay Movie” among my video collection. He may have accidentally picked up my phone and seen the text messages from my [then] boyfriend.

The truth – of which I am still ignorant - no longer matters. He found out, and as soon as he returned to Australia, he told the rest of the family out there. It wasn’t his business to know in the first place, and it certainly wasn’t his business to tell them. For all he knew, I may not have wanted them to know. That he never took that into account demonstrated to me the extent of his ignorance – and proved what my parents had known all along; that he possessed no notion of respect for the wishes of others.

If Robin – the very last person I ever intended to tell of my private life – knows, it is likely that a majority of the family now know too. Thanks to him, the door to a private corner of my soul has been torn from its hinges, and exposed to the threat of gossip. I have no wish to be like my venomous cousin, whose private life receives regular front-page coverage at family gatherings. Having spent a large fragment of my life being whispered about and made the centre of unwanted attention and rumours, it would make a nice change not to feel the same exposure and nakedness among family members. For tearing away my armour, and killing my simple wish to keep my private life concealed, Robin will never have my forgiveness.

When discussing the matter with others, I am told that my indignation is a sign that I am not ‘proud’ of who I am. My response to this is simple; I have no reason to take pride in my sexuality in the same way that I have no reason to take pride in having ten fingers. I don’t want others to know because they have no reason to know. I choose not to make it a public issue because it needn't be one. The world does not need to know, especially uncles who can’t remember my name. I don't want the wider family knowing because I know it'll become the subject of gossip - and unlike my cousin, I take no pleasure in knowing that I am being whispered about.

It spoke volumes that the email implied Robin had spread the word of my sexuality from the moment he arrived home. Since he clearly did not care for me enough to even acknowledge my presence during the weeks he stayed that Christmas, I wondered why he was suddenly excited by the knowledge of my sexuality enough go out and spread it like an anecdote of pub trivia. Perhaps it was no different to his boasting over his financial success and Australian Tiger Prawns, a little branch of his pride – this time, under threat of being torn away and burnt.

Auctore Deo - A Fragment... (II)

A.D.
November 1998
To commemorate Guy Fawkes Night, Mr. G_____ set our form the challenge of composing a story about a terrorist plot, in which we were the ‘plotter’. Whilst questioning selected individuals on their chosen target and intended means of mass-destruction, a flat, phlegm- blocked voice monotonously declared at a perfectly timed lapse of silence;
“I’m gonna blow up Stan S____”
The laughter prompted by this remark still pummels through my head like a merciless drill gouging through soft, sensitive stone. I never realised Matthew hated me enough to want to murder me. But at times it seemed every other pupil who secured a place at the school had to surrender his conscience once the application had been accepted, as if it were an obligatory fraction of a contract. Therefore, it shouldn’t have surprised me.
Matthew V______ joined St. P_______ in the third year, when one of his parents became the new head. He was an instant personality; in those days it was unthinkable to have a parent working at your school. He received an elevated seat on the bench reserved for those of trendy society, admittance to the school choir without needing an audition, and a stream of cameos in collaborative creative writing projects.
My earliest memory of him was his saunter; he shuffled about as if one leg were shorter than the other. It wasn’t possible to determine whether he was truly lame, or whether pride had found its way even to his knee caps.
Being anything but popular, I interacted with him mainly at brass band practise. We seemed to get along, until one afternoon – while preparing for a form talent contest - I overheard him murmur “Not really” to another student who enquired of him as to whether I was ‘any good’ at playing the French Horn.
Upon migrating to secondary school, he lost the novelty of being the head’s son, and immediately sank amidst the masses.
Matthew was one of many individuals who treated me civilly in primary school, only for the social circumstances of secondary education to stimulate their inner ugliness to the realisation that they had someone onto whom they could project their insecurities, guaranteeing them a peaceful existence – for nobody would think to find fault in them if they joined the rest finding fault in me.
He was part of a privileged minority to escape the honour of having an insulting nickname attached to him (those attached to me would require a catalogue in its own right), likely a result of him being so bland and characterless that the dispensers of those nicknames had no reason to notice, let alone target him in the first place.
I interacted with him rarely, for he avoided me as if my vices were transmittable. But whenever his grey eyes fell on me, his features contracted into a look of contempt and disgust that gave his muddy brown lips the appearance of a clenched arsehole.
I hadn’t done anything to provoke his hatred enough to make him want to blow me up. Perhaps he convinced himself that my reputation as the form’s resident bender and band geek shrouded something sinister that it was his duty to expose. But I doubt he was witty enough to conceive of such a thought. Either he hated me that much, or he simply realised that he could use me as an excuse to make sure everyone else knew he was still there.
When I began wearing glasses for the first time in the third year, Matthew was the first to present his views.
“You don’t really need them”, he remarked acidly, fancying himself a psychologist.
I’ve occasionally imagined myself responding to his observation with equally acidic rebuttal; “You’re right. I didn’t really need them. I just want to draw even more unwanted attention onto myself”
His circle from our form comprised of others just as loathsome as himself. Walton always put me in the mind of an overweight hamster, with his bloated cheeks, pink hands and large front teeth permanently stained the colour of urine. On an English trip, he took it upon himself to warn those sitting next me that the darkened atmosphere of the theatre would make them vulnerable to a sexual assault. During the coach trip back, he entertained an audience with a speech on the loathsome sin of homosexuality in tones loud enough for me – seating across the aisle – to clearly hear.
West – his brow large enough to substitute an airport landing strip - was just as cold and devoid of a soul as the mutton that inspired his epithet. ‘Spam’ enjoyed informing me of the fact I was officially the ugliest boy in the form, implying that he possessed statistics to prove so.
In the fifth year, Matthew broke yet another taboo and became a member of the fabled Smoking Crew, a band of valiant devils who practised the unthinkable and smoked on the school premise between classes. If he did it in an attempt to immortalise himself in playground lore, he failed terribly, because, unlike most of the other ‘hard nuts’ who formed this posse, very few knew of his existence.
He wasn’t invited back to the Sixth Form.
I last saw him in person entertaining Walton and West outside the school gates with tales of his new existence working a stall in R______ Market. He had undergone no considerable change in appearance besides looking as if he had been pumped with several tanks of helium. That same walk – somewhere between an invalid’s shuffle and an idiot’s stride – carried him back into obscurity. He surfaced from that black mass of nothingness that is Facebook only once during the time that I used it, where I came across a photograph of him – with several additional chins – gripping a misty pint glass in a vice of sausages and grinning stupidly at the camera with a look that carried a stronger resemblance to constipation than tranquilly.
It was the same look that had flashed across his face as he bathed in the ovation of his audience that day in Mr. G______’s class.
There is nothing else to say about Matthew. He wouldn’t deserve anything more. He has probably forgotten about his plot to murder me. And if he hasn’t, I suspect it is because that one ejaculation of idiocy secured him alone to the attention of the masses for those fleeting seconds.
Just like these reality television candidates who continue to prostitute themselves to the media despite having appeared in a prehistoric edition of “Big Brother”, it seems only natural that he should choose to hang onto his single moment of glory.

The Bloody Chamber

Dear B___

‘Hate’ is a very strong word, one that – like ‘friend’ – others seem to throw around without considering what they are about to say. Life has so far shown me that those who sow hatred with the loudest voices are always the rashest - and succeed more in exposing the darkness within their own souls than the vices of their victims.

I am well acquainted with Hate. It took root and burst into a forest of thorns within my schoolmates once it was assumed that I carried the affliction of homosexuality. One Christmas Eve, a sour-faced girl acidly refused to sit next me at Midnight Mass, declaring – “I hate him” - having not once exchanged a syllable with me beforehand. During a brief term of employment at the local supermarket, I became the subject of vendetta - whispered taunts, mocking laughter and stabbing glares - after complaining to management about the insolence of certain members of the night-crew.

Now, the heat of blazing Hatred burns my skin from another direction. It used to hurt me when I learned that I was supposedly ‘the biggest figure of hate’ among that community, who – despite the fact I have had no ties whatsoever with them for four years – have blamed me for any slight blemish to their ego and made me the subject of bitter hate speeches, mocking videos and lamentably cliché-ridden parodies, one of which concludes with me being brutally mutilated.

But as history has proven more times than it is possible to catalogue, Hate is the thin, flimsy mask of Fear.

My apparent crime was nonexistent compared to those committed by others on previous occasions. And prior to the uproar that resulted in my exile, I led a modest and well-respected existence among the community, even establishing several traditions that it is still famed for today (though, predictably, any evidence of my contributions were erased following my departure, and attributed instead to others within the favouring circle of the Count). But it is clear to me now that I only carry that title of ‘the biggest figure of hate’ because I ventured into forbidden territory – the bloody chamber of Bluebeard’s castle.

I did not imagine those horrors. I wasn’t creative enough to conceive such narratives, and make-believe cannot move a body to the despair that I experienced. The fact I am now hated for trying to cast away the darkness within that chamber reinforces everything I came to realise by the time I detached myself from that cult. Now that they are united in their belief that I am the snake bent on contaminating their utopian paradise, they can remain deluded by the fantasy that has seeped silkily into their brains like ambrosia - and reject everything they dare to acknowledge. They deserve only pity for being so weak.

The parodies, videos and hate speeches that have been produced about me serve only to reinforce a bleak message to any other soul who dares to unmask Bluebeard again.

I don’t think it’s possible for them to truly hate me. None of them knew the person who sat behind the screen-name, of the living nightmare that poor soul was encased within on a daily basis like Andersen's mermaid silently enduring the stabbing pain of a thousand knives with every step on her new legs.

But I doubt that matters. I am not the one they hate. Neither am I offended by the thought of being parodied. It is the monster they believed me to be that has been immortalised in their history book as their 'biggest figure of hate', the stain that marks 'the darkest year'. Pierre existed only in cyber-space. As I am sure was the case with many of them also, he was a personality that I constructed, who embodied qualities that I lacked in the real world; confidence, wit, talent. He was a marionette who sang while I pulled the strings, unseen, in the lofts above. He was no more authentic than the characters celebrated by the cult.

Even if Pierre had elements of my soul within him, they are certainly there no longer. As a person, I am so vastly different to how I used to be during that ugly period that comparison would be futile. If they continue to hate Pierre as intensely as they claim, they may as well be directing their loathing at the air. He died the second I closed my account. The body that they mutilated and gaffered at proudly had turned to dust long before the court clowns - intent only on securing a seat close to the Count's rear-end - raised their ruthless pens.

Auctore Deo – A Fragment...

A.D.

March 2000

Pat carried the nickname ‘Ears’ because of the large stumpy objects that stuck out of his head like a pair of scarlet satellite dishes.
Short and scraggy, he was covered with so many freckles that it looked as if a bucket of sand had been thrown in his face. He rarely washed himself or his clothes, and a foul odour of old cheese and sweat followed him everywhere.
If he hadn’t been sent there for disrupting a class, Pat was frequently found standing outside the deputy head’s office dramatically rubbing his bruised arms and pretending to cry. His favourite activity consisted of provoking older boys to the point of no mercy, and running to teachers the second they retaliated.
If ever he felt his popularity slipping beyond salvage, he tried to win back his antagonist’s affection by engaging in animated arguments with teachers in the middle of lessons, hoping that his witty remarks would provide everyone with a source of entertainment. But they only made him more unpopular, for it was such performances that we frequently landed us in class detentions.
When not occupied by such activities, Pat spent most lessons slicing dead skin from the soles of his feet with a protractor, either pocketing it for light snack later or spitting it at the person sitting opposite.
Pat and I had a strange relationship. Some weeks he latched onto me like a leech, trying to convince me that we were destined allies – that the rest of the class hated us because they were jealous. He mainly resorted to this tactic on the days he needed money for the tuck-shop, or when he had forgotten to revise for a test.

Other days, he loathed me venomously. The class frequently rounded on him when his behaviour landed us in after-school detentions. Even if every individual in the room was heckling him once the teacher left the room, I was the person he cornered afterwards.
It didn’t matter what every else thought of him. To sink lower than the resident ‘gay-lord’ was too much.

One afternoon at registration, he gawfered mockingly across the room at me - “Ya’ gay! Ya’ got no friends!”

Next morning he gave me a novelty sweet tin shaped like a train.

In the afternoon he reported me to the head-of-year for giving him a Christmas card with a picture of Dumbo on the front.
It happened on a Wednesday during form period.

Pat and I sat together at the front of the room, this being one of the days on which were allied. The two boys sitting behind us were pestering him, stabbing him with rulers, flicking his ears and slipping things out of his bag.
Pat wailed defencelessly – “Stop it Matthew and Stephen! I’m trying to read my book of fiction!” – loud enough for Mr. G_____ to hear.
It was a very typical scene until midway into the hour, when Pat suddenly sprang to his feet, his eyes rolling in horror, his pink smudgy hands swiping at the air in front of him.
“Err! Err! Get away from me! Get away from me!”
That scene from Dumbo when Timothy Mouse scares the bullying female elephants springs to mind.
At first, I thought a wasp had landed on his ears. It was just like Pat to put on a performance whenever his life was under threat. Then he stabbed me with an accusing finger and squealed - “Get away from me, ya’ gay-lord!”

There was only one ‘gay-lord’ in the room/

I could only stare as he continued to scream and storm, dancing wildly up and down the aisle of desks. By now all eyes in the room were fixed on him – and every set of those eyes followed the direction of his stabbing finger. Nine years later, I wondered whether this was part of his act, the drama he put on for the rest of the class whenever he needed some favouring votes.

G_____ ordered him to move to a desk at the front of the class.
He snatched his coat away from the seat next to me as if I was going to contaminate it with ‘gayness’ if it remained in my presence any longer. I could only stare blankly at him. But this seemed to fuel his mania.
“Don’t fuckin’ look at me, ya’ gay-lord! Don’t fuckin’ look at me! Err! Err! Err!”
He emphasised his frustrated by showering violent blows on the table and thrashing violently in my direction. G_____ thundered at him to leave and go to the deputy-head’s office.
Pat gathered his property and flounced out of the room. He turned at the threshold and flashed a grimace of pure disgust at me.

"I’m gonna tell 'im we got a gay-lord in our class”, where his final words before the door was slammed shut in his face.

The remainder of the hour passed fleetingly. I couldn’t concentrate on my reading. I had no idea as to what I was

supposed to have done.

The bell sounded for morning break. As we moved to the dining hall, the others asked what had happened. I couldn’t answer.

As I joined my friends in the hall, Pat slithered grandly up to us with newly discovered confidence, as if he had acquired armour that would protect him from the plague I carried. He jammed one oily sausage-roll after another into his mouth as he addressed me, saliva, dead skin and crumbs spraying my face.
"Stiffy-Jiffy! Deputy head’s office – after break!”
When I did not honour him with a response, the satellite dishes turned a deep shade of indignant scarlet.
“Don’t speak me to that way, Stiffy! You’re in for it now, so hold your tongue and come quietly”
Realising that he was flaunting his newly found protection from the deputy-head, I chose to ignore him and continued to talk to my companions. Pat lingered around us all the while, proudly informing the others that he had been sent to prevent my escape. It was not the first time I felt like a quarantined animal during my time at the school – but that was the time I remember clearer than most.
When break ended, Pat marched me to the deputy-head’s office, and once I was invited inside, he sailed back to class, his head expanding by the second.
Mr B_____ read out the statement;
Stanley put his hand on my leg and asked me if he could rub my penis. At break time, he followed me into the toilet, squeezed my bottom and said “I love you Patrick! Will you marry me?”. I was deeply distressed and confused, and contemplated speaking to my form tutor. But I feared what Stanley would do next…
It went on for several pages, I heard no more of it then that. The sound of my angry tears drowned him out. I then had to listen an account of an incident he had dealt with several years previously, involving a pupil who ‘touched’ other boys in showers after Games.
He then said that it was a ‘very serious case of sexual harassment’.
Whilst frantically trying to bat away the rulers and pencils used to prod him from the couple sitting behind us, Pat’s shoe had come off. I had tried to alert him by pointing to the shoe on the floor. My hand happened to come level with his thigh. It was this fleeting act that he interpreted as my attempt to rape him.
But I didn’t tell B_____ that. I was too confused and angry to think rationally. The only thought running through my head was how I would slaughter the delicate little pachyderm when we next met.
I also failed to mention that, only a few weeks before the episode took place, Pat had asked me to fellate him in exchange for a pound in the middle of Geography.
Part of me was convinced that B_____ believed Pat’s lies, that he wouldn’t listen to me even if I told him the simple and ridiculous truth. If I had set aside my insecurities, I may have saved myself from the humiliation of being withdrawn from lessons for an entire day while B_____ undertook his ‘investigation’.

Since I was generally known for being the band geek who never got into trouble, the sight of me standing outside the deputy-head’s office at lunch generated a whirlwind of lashing rumours.

For reasons known only to themselves, some of the boys Bolton interviewed as part of his ‘investigation’ supporting Pat’s statement, despite their loathing of him.

B_____ eventually declared the case inconclusive due to a ‘lack of evidence’. I left his office in silence, unable to look him in the face for the remainder of my days at the school.
His verdict hardly mattered. Despite Pat being hated for his manipulation, his whinging and his lies, he had suffered the one thing they all feared – and for that, they had his sympathy.

Reading intentions for June 2009

Dear B___

I would like to take a moment to tell of you of my reading intentions for this month.

Gaskell - Gothic Tales
I first encountered Elizabeth Gaskell in my fifth year at secondary school, when I studied one of her short stories for GCSE Literature. My memories of ‘The Sexton’s Hero’ are vague, but I struggled with the archaic language, which seemed to cloud the plot. It only seemed to become apart what was happening every other paragraph, when certain words and phrases sprang out of the mist. I did not encounter Gaskell again until the spring of 2008, when I came across Gothic Tales in Waterstones. Still haunted by The Picture of Dorian Gray – the last novel I had studied before withdrawing from my course - I was curious to see how another author addressed the gothic genre. I was especially drawn to two tales in particular, ‘Curious, If True’ – which draws on imagery and characters from popular fairytales – and ‘The Poor Claire’ – involving a doppelganger motif, a theme that has left a great impression on me after reading (admittedly, a chapter short) Dostoyevsky’s The Double. However, as with ‘The Sexton’s Hero’, complicated language and imagery made reading the tales a struggle and I began to feel as if I were reading them for the sake of doing so rather than enjoyment.

Gaskell entered my life yet again at the end of year, when I received a colourful, leather bound edition of Cranford for Christmas. I knew nothing of the novel except that it had been the subject of a celebrated period drama – a genre I am not drawn to, since any thought of such stories takes me back to a lecture on Pride and Prejudice at the University of E____ in which we were told that ‘anyone who hasn’t read [this novel] is a dull elf’. I didn’t think I would ever find such a novel in my possession, but I did not want to let another person’s opinion darken my judgement without having experienced the genre for myself. Cranford became my first major literary journey of 2009. It was an interesting experience which gave me a more complimentary taste of Gaskell’s style, and a greater appreciation for her in general. The language once again presented a challenge. I had far greater difficulty remember the names and traits of each main character – for nearly all are referred to, on most occasions, by their surnames. But once I had built up mental images of each, the characters became more engaging. Like many novels, determination is required to penetrate that initial doubt, and very soon the language began to take on an affectionate tone. I really sensed that Gaskell had a touching fondness for her characters through her choice of words alone. It wasn’t until a considerable way into the novel that I realised it wasn’t so much a ‘story’ – in the sense of a narrative concerning a specific episode – but rather an elaborate, episodic portrait of life in this town 'in possession of the Amazons'. I was reminded of such novels as To Kill a Mockingbird and other such novels which relay – in depth – day-to-day occurrences in the lives of its characters, made a little more interesting by the occasional episode; in this case, ghosts, a magic show, burglars, unexpected marriage and lost relatives returning after years of separation. As each episode bleeds into the next, a secondary plot sits below the surface as the river-like flow of every day rushes by, rising to consciousness occasionally before submerging itself again to be resolved later.

Following on from Cranford, I have decided to return to Gothic Tales in my determination to appreciate the books I have to hand instead of purchasing new ones. I have steadily made my way through seven of the nine stories in the volume, and while they have given me an interesting glimpse of her style under a genre she is not as well known for (which, in this case, is vastly different to the social realism of Cranford) each story varies in degrees of entertainment. Some are ‘slow burners’, and the gothic elements sometimes take a while to surface. Some involve intensely detailed accounts of the character’s family history, to the extent that you find yourself having witnessed several generations passing by over the course of the story. Whilst it makes the characters more complex and ‘textured’ (as I like to put it), it can be a struggle to keep up with the significant details. I have decided to leave the two longer stories – ‘Lois the Witch’ and ‘The Poor Claire’ - till the summer, perhaps for our holiday in Scotland, where the rustic backdrop is sure to provide the perfect backdrop.

Lawrence - Sons & Lovers
Sons and Lovers is one of a mountain of novels that I purchased for my university course, but never got a chance to appreciate due to stress and time-restrictions. The literature units were structured in such a way that we addressed a different work each week, and it was heavily implied that we risked failing the unit if we did not read the selected text in time for the weekly lecture and seminar. It was this fear that prompted me to purchase as many of the books as possible, even though I knew I wouldn’t have the time to organize them alongside assignments. It was as if merely owning the text in the first place was a sign of effort. I should have realised the peril of falling behind was an empty threat, used by the department to prompt the lazier individuals to do some work. But I – with a naive tendency to take things literally - often found myself consumed with guilt and misery when finding it impossible to read and dissect every required book for each week, or simply not doing so out of laziness.

In order to handle the heavy work-load of the second year, it was necessary to wisely select works that you could easily manage and focus on for an essay, because it was ultimately the mark for that essay that would contribute towards the final degree. Being a slow reader – coupled with many other anxieties – I frequently resorted to the shorter works (or those I had studied at secondary school) to to make life easier. As a result, I often came away from lectures on longer and unfamiliar works such as Sons and Lovers wondering if I was ‘missing out’ on anything from having not read them. In addition to its length, I was put off Sons and Lovers by the proposal of Freudian and Oedipal undertones presented in a lecture on the novel, the variety of literary interpretation that fills me with frustration. Just like the previously mentioned lecture on Pride and Prejudice, I feel foolish for allowing another person’s individual interpretation of the novel to deform my judgement. I should have formed my own by reading it for myself – and that is partly why I wish to return to the novel properly now, no longer under the disheartening cloud of having to pull it apart for an essay.

Another reason I have chosen to read Sons and Lovers this month is to confront the negative feelings that are attached to the circumstances under which I originally encountered it. It was part of the reading list for a course called ‘Versions of Modernity’. ‘Modernity’ is not easily defined, and therefore it would be impossible to abridge the purpose of the course. But, in the mildest terms, it focused on works as early as the Renaissance through to the modern day, examining what it was that made them ‘modern’ for their time. This was my least favourite unit for a multitude of reasons. The secondary reason was that it involved volumes of archaic poetry from the likes of Wordsworth and Coleridge which I struggled with immensely, and which made me feel useless and unscholarly because it seemed I was the only person who couldn’t appreciate them. The primary reason was that my seminar group for ‘Versions’ was peppered with several aggressive and opinionated students whose behaviour – despite them being in a minority - quickly resulted in that class marking the lowest moment of my week. These individuals dominated every discussion from beginning to end, and addressed their ideas so aggressively that I feared contributing myself in-case they rounded on me. Their forwardness made me doubt my studying tactics, making me feel that I – like them – should be coming to class bursting with interpretations. This seminar was one of several major factors that had a damaging effect on my declining mental health, resulting in me withdrawing from the university altogether. Whenever my eyes have fallen on a book from the ‘Versions of Modernity’ course, the emotions that I experienced in that seminar – frustration, bitterness, hatred and loneliness – resurface as raw as when they were first experienced. But two years have passed, and I consider returning to the books as a means of facing those troubles – and, ultimately, defeating them.

Wells – War of the Worlds & Tono-Bungay

I have only just begun my voyage into the rich and captivating world of H. G. Wells, one of the few ‘classic’ authors I did not first encounter on my university course. The Invisible Man introduced me to the genre of science fiction, complimented by Wells' swift style, fast moving plot and interesting mix of comedy, tragedy and philosophy. I am entirely ignorant of his biography and philosophies, but I was captured by the way he took fantastical elements – something we associate mainly with myth and fantasy – and merged it with rational science. I understand that his novels address issues concerning the role of science in modern society, and its relation to the realm of fantasy – realms I have only ever seen as being completely opposite and in a state of eternal conflict. To find a connection between them is – for me – revolutionary. War of the Worlds is the next of Wells novels I wish to try, mainly because I’m curious to see how the notion of UFOs – something I have often perceived as being a very ‘modern’ thing, associated mainly with Hollywood - is addressed by an earlier author. I understand that Tono-Bungay can be read as a critique of corporate advertising. It will be interested to see how deep this critique penetrates, and whether the underlying themes it presents will be applicable to modern society, with its emphasis on image and ego-consciousness.

I look forward to returning from my quests over these literary mountains, and sharing my discoveries with you at a later date.