High school confidential: 40 years later.
Forty years have briskly elapsed since I first entered Campbell Collegiate, from which I eventually graduated with great distortion.
After all this time, the south-end school looks much the same. I wish that assessment also applied to this grizzled, greying scribe.
The reminiscing was mixed with some regrets the other day when I visited 102 Massey Road to do a story on Campbell Tartans linebacker Josh White.
Early in the interview, it became apparent how much Josh appreciates his coaches, his teammates, his classmates and his school.
This is an exemplary young man who has extracted the most from the high school experience. It will always be a highlight in his life.
Realizing that, I simultaneously interviewed and envied him.
I wish I could say that my high school years were great ones. The fact that they are not remembered as such is not intended in any way as a criticism of the school, the faculty, or the vast majority of the students.
The regrets stem from the fact that I did not derive every conceivable benefit from my five — yes, five — years at Campbell.
No, I did not fail a grade, despite my seeming determination to reach an academic nadir.
Back then, you see, Campbell had Grade 8 classes — to which I was introduced in September of 1977.
Instantly, the immensity of the school intimidated me. So did two idiots, who ensured that my early days in high school would be a struggle.
One of them routinely approached me, punched me in the shoulder, and dared me to respond with aggression. He seemed to revel in watching me cower in his presence, as did a few eyewitnesses who wouldn’t have dreamed of intervening on my behalf.
There weren’t any anti-bullying programs — none that I can recall, anyway. Instead of seeking justice by visiting the principal’s office, I timidly withdrew.
One day, I pretended to leave for school in the morning, only to hide in a tent in our backyard.
It took a year or two before I could start to come out of my shell — and, even then, I wasn’t myself.
One teacher referred to me as “that quiet boy.” Anyone who knows me now can confirm that “quiet” is not an apt description.
By the end of my time at Campbell, I was much more comfortable, and passably sociable. But I never felt invested in the school. I never allowed that to happen.
I still recall the final day at Campbell, in late June of 1982. One member of my graduating class was in tears as she walked out the front door for the final time as a student.
Although she was visibly upset, I wished that I could have shared her sentiments — that I could have loved high school as much as she did.
Even back then, I knew that I wanted to be a sports writer. So why didn’t I write for the school newspaper? “Robservations” could have been born in 1977, on the Gestetner-produced pages of the Tartan Times!
I loved sports, and was more athletic than nine out of 10 oxen, so why didn’t I get more involved in the school’s myriad sporting programs?
By participating in extracurricular activities of any description, I could have befriended people who had common interests — people who would have had my back. They probably would be friends to this day.
It was all there for me, on a platter.
The immensity of Campbell Collegiate, compared to Massey School, could have been used advantageously — considering the wealth of resources that were (and still are) available to all students.
Instead, I went home as quickly as possible so that I could confide in Snowball, the empathetic chihuahua-terrier.
Yet, I owe so much to Campbell Collegiate, and to one teacher in particular.
Although I aspired to become a sports writer, I did not feel compelled to build upon my 43-per-cent overachievement in Grade 8 French. Therefore, I dropped French.
Eventually, I discovered that one of the requirements for consideration by the University of Regina’s School of Journalism was a degree of fluency in a second language.
Alas, “foul” did not constitute a second language, so I figured that my journalistic goals would not be attained.
Mrs. Forrieter, my English teacher during the fall semester of the 1981-82 academic year, had other ideas.
This great lady, someone I think of every day, stopped me in the hall one afternoon and asked about my post-secondary plans. I promptly informed her of my half-hearted intention to become a math major.
“You’re not going into journalism?” she said with a mixture of surprise and alarm.
I then advised her of my foibles in French, the 43, etc.
“You can make up the French classes in university,” Mrs. Forrieter stated. “You have to take journalism.”
So I did.
And, 35 years later, journalism took me back to Campbell Collegiate.