My first-born son is a pre-teen and just started first form in secondary school. Heavenly Father, protect him – and guide me!
I said “son”. And “pre-teen”, didn’t I? And “first form”? Let’s say it again, with the accompanying horror with which that constellation of words has come to be associated. You ask why? That question would be asked only by those of you who (a) have not yet reached this parenting stage; (b) do not know of others who have; (c) have passed this stage long, long ago; (d) shared a bed with Rip van Winkle; (e) don’t care. For those of you (except group e), the answer to your question appears below.
Ladies, you will have no need for either perms or chemical straighteners. Just get anecdotes from your secondary schoolchild and that will do the trick (my own hair fell out in response). I now purchase Ms Clairol (Tawny Chestnut) by the vat and dip the remaining hair I have in it, sometimes daily, as it is now fully grey in reaction to school news.
Yes, my son is a young male, and, as such, must grow into manhood. But must he know words now, at 12, that I learnt at university (yes, I had perhaps an unusually sheltered upbringing, but, really?)?
For the love of God and all things holy, must first formers be introduced (even hypothetically) to the concepts of orgies, lap dances and masturbation (thanks, Spartacus), and let’s not forget extensive discourses on the best brands and flavours of condoms?
Then there is the romantic element. Aren’t pre-teen boys supposed to find girls mainly annoying? Why are Taylor Swift and Amanda from Cover Drive the subject of detailed anatomical analysis that would make Professor Walrond proud? Why are they admiring the “sweet” shape of the posterior of fellow female students? (Excuse me; must go for paper bag, because I am hyperventilating again).
I just want to reiterate, for the record, my view that our secondary schools should have single-sex classes (preferably they should be single-sex period, but I guess the horse is out of the barn on that one). I know I am merely a voice crying forlornly in the wilderness.
This was proven to me within weeks of the commencement of school: somehow the hormones to which surely first form girls are also subjected to do not prevent them from sitting quietly in class, being attentive, studying conscientiously and getting good grades. The male hormone, apparently, in contrast, makes the average boy genetically unable to do the same. (This apparent natural female superiority necessitated our subjugation historically to ensure male dominance.)
And the peer group challenges! That’s another essay altogether.
Am I just a naïve? Out of date? Or I am just a sadly inexperienced mother? I thought these issues arose around 16 (18 would have been preferable.) Are there any classes/support groups out there, because my therapy bills are becoming astronomical? Should I just accept modern reality and get with the programme?
On the plus side, it is somewhat consoling to have confirmation that the first-born’s alleged romantic interest (if he did have any, she hastens to add) is emphatically traditional. And the plumbing is in good working order. At least I take significant solace that I have been told that I am fortunate that the first-born son shares details of his school day – even if it’s because he enjoys the “shock value” and the spectacle of my reaction thereto.
I pray he has the “testicular fortitude” – pun intended – to ignore his friends who decry him for doing so and that he continues to value our communication more. Indeed, how can he pass up on the entertainment of my reaction?
On the issue of race, what is with this apparent modern redefinition of “blackness”? Apparently nowadays, if one speaks standard English, comes from a private school, interacts socially with other races, and is paler than a certain shade and/or has hair that is not kinky – one is now “white” or an “Oreo”? I know I went to school a few years ago, but this is troubling to me. And so is the general state of all our secondary schools. Faeces on the toilet floors? Urine on the toilet tissue rolls? Intercourse in the bathrooms/girls giving birth in bathrooms? It seems we are in the middle of a holy war to save our youths from Satan (Minister Jones, I agree with you). God bless our nation’s teachers for doing battle in the execution of their vocation and critical service to our nation against incredible odds.
Seriously, these issues are related to my view that there appears to have developed two very different Barbadoses with very different, often contradictory, norms and values that make me fear for my beloved country’s future.
And I leave you with an even more horrifying concept (well to me, probably hilarious to you, dear readers). In preparation therefore, I am drinking gallon-sized Ferol compound and have booked, in advance, a bulk package of therapy sessions (as mentioned, why should the emergency room community be the sole beneficiary of our financial largesse):
My ten-year-old second-born son has exactly the same interests as the first-born. And the 6-year-old can define, with significant accuracy, a “hot” girl. Wait a minute . . . . I am starting to almost yearn for a couple broken bones in lieu of the above issues.
Or perhaps I am really too young for this.
• Paula Moore-Dent is a mother of three boys trying to navigate the vagaries of secondary school without losing her mind.
