Ginger Thoughts

The following reflection is how I remember my time in high school. It’s not intended to be a complete reflection on my time, just snippets. To preserve animosity, nothing has been named, people or places. I don’t intend to offend anyone, or anyone’s memories. This is purely my reflection on six years of my life.

My old high school is closing soon. The building is set to be demolished, and the school will be merged with another on a new campus about a mile from its current site. In the lead-up to the closure, the school hosted open days—giving former pupils the chance to walk the corridors one last time.

It was an opportunity to reflect on the six or so years of memories the building held. The good times and the bad. The lessons learned, the personal growth. The classes they attended, the groups they joined. The friends they made, the arguments they had. Their first kiss, their first love, their first heartbreak.

There’s nothing that compels me to walk those halls again. No desire to revisit a classroom or bump into someone I spent six years in education with. And yet, how is it possible to feel this way? Surely high school is meant to be one of the best times of your life. I’m not suggesting anyone should peak in school—but let’s be honest. You’re a teenager, free from the burden of work, mortgages, or debt.

For those fortunate enough to grow up in a stable home, it’s a time to focus on learning and having fun. In an ideal world, it’s the perfect window for making great memories. The real choices—the hard ones—don’t come until the final years, when you’re deciding whether to pursue further education or enter the world of work.

Keep in mind, I’m talking about leaving school over two decades ago—before smartphones, social media, and TikTok trends began doing their bit to chip away at attention spans and self-esteem.

Still, when I think back to high school, it wasn’t an enjoyable time for me—and I often wonder why. Academically, I did reasonably well. I passed all my Standard Grades, picked up a couple of Highers and Intermediate 2s. I wasn’t top of the class, but I wasn’t at the bottom either—comfortably in the top quarter in most subjects.

English was the exception, particularly spelling. It wasn’t until around third year that someone identified the issue—what we’d now refer to as an Additional Support Needs (ASN) teacher. They had an impromptu conversation with my parents during a parents’ evening. They spent nearly an hour together, long enough that my parents missed appointments with other teachers. But it was time well spent. The ASN teacher discussed the challenges I was facing and gave thoughtful recommendations on how to support me.

My parents were always supportive and took their advice on board. They got me a digital spell checker and even arranged for extra English tuition. Thanks to that support, I managed to achieve a Grade 3 in English. I’ve always been grateful—not just for my parents’ efforts, but for that one teacher who took the time to notice something others had missed. That’s the kind of person you hope to find in education. Sadly, there just aren’t enough of them.

I was—and probably still am—a socially awkward person. I’m shy, uncomfortable with eye contact, and have never been a fan of small talk or large groups. If I were in school today, I’d likely be diagnosed with something more specific. But back then, I was simply “the quiet, weird kid” in the class.

I had a small number of people I considered friends, but even those connections were complicated. The ones I liked were often part of larger friendship groups that included people I didn’t get on with—or didn’t like at all. I never had a “best friend” or a consistent group where I truly felt I belonged.

In first and second year, I did have one good friend. We shared similar hobbies, played the same games, and were in many of the same classes. We spent hours playing Warhammer—my dad even helped us set up a games board in the attic. Then, without warning, he stopped coming to school. I remember a teacher asking if he’d said anything to me, but he hadn’t. He didn’t have a landline or mobile, so I had no way of contacting him. To this day, I still don’t know what happened to him.

Maybe that’s part of why I struggled to make another close friend like that—a fear they’d just disappear, without so much as a goodbye. There were other friendships, of course, but they faded as interests changed and people drifted away. I began to realise I was only really friends with people because we happened to go to the same school. That feeling was confirmed in the summer after sixth year. Contact dropped off quickly, and before long, I hardly saw any of them again.

If there’s one good thing—well, maybe three—that came out of high school, it’s that I met my wife on a school trip, and together we now have two awsome children. Funnily enough, I almost didn’t go on that trip. Two friends and I had planned to go together, but they pulled out at the last minute. They told me they’d cancelled, so the next day I went to the school intending to do the same. I spoke to the geography teacher who was organising it and explained that, with my friends no longer going, I didn’t want to go alone.

Thankfully, he talked me out of it. He encouraged me to go anyway, to take the chance and socialise with other pupils. I’m so glad he did. Had I cancelled, I would never have met the girl who would become my friend, my girlfriend, my wife—the mother of my children, my partner in life, and favourite person. I may cause her endless frustration, and wind her up daily, but she is my soulmate.

I do have some memories from school that have stuck with me:

• I remember taking up a musical instrument and learning how to play it to a reasonable level. Joining both the School and City Schools band and playing on stage in a venue that has hosted some of the most famous artists in the world.
• I remember playing cards in for coppers (1 and 2p’s) in the sixth year common room. Only to have a teacher come in and bust us.
• I remember sneaking away from a school disco for a kiss from my girlfriend, only for a teacher to catch us.
• I remember being in the library one afternoon in September and the librarian coming over to tell us a plane had crashed into the Twin Towers. The sombre mood that remained as we gathered news on what happening. The two hours in the newsagents waiting on the evening papers being printed so we could deliver them. With no idea how the world was about to change.
• I remember a few teachers who made subjects exciting and inspired me to do well in their class. And a few who had the opposite effect.
• I remember a School trip to Europe to see a total solar eclipse. Buying a six pack of beer in the supermarket, and a teacher confiscating it from me. They did hand it back to me on our return home.
• Playing football with classmates outside of School. During weekends and during the summer holidays. That slowly wound down our football once we noticed girls. I lost contact with them all once we finished sixth year.

In the weeks leading up to the school’s closure, the local paper published a series of photographs spanning its history—from its opening day to the present. As I scrolled through them, I recognised familiar faces of teachers and classmates, and the corridors I once walked daily. But I didn’t feel a wave of nostalgia. There were no warm memories stirred, no want to return for one final visit. If anything, the images left me with a quiet sense of relief. And, unexpectedly, a small sense of joy that the building was going to be torn down.

My wife still keeps in touch with a close-knit group of friends from school. Though they all now live in different cities, they make the effort to catch up every now and then. My wife and I recently attended one of their weddings, and I consider her and her husband good friends. They all grew up in the same estate, walking to school together each morning, a shared routine that built lasting bonds. On open day, they plan to take that walk one last time. It clearly holds special memories for them, and I’m genuinely happy it does. As for me, I’ll be taking the kids to the park. For me, that’s where my memories are being made now.

High school gave me qualifications, a handful of life lessons, and miraculously, the love of my life. For that I’m thankful. But nostalgia is optional. Sometimes moving on is the sweetest memory of all.