AUSTRALIA
Sydney Morning Herald
March 4, 2015
Alan Dearn
Comment
We were sitting on the grass at the side of Knox Grammar School’s main oval in 1987; it must have been in my final few weeks of school. The memory of an awkward moment saying uncomplimentary things about Mr Fotis the religion teacher, while he was sitting behind me popped back into my mind when I saw his name deeply implicated in evidence before the royal commission into sexual abuse.
One of the things people who weren’t at Knox in my era find surprising was that the culture did not value learning or academic curiosity. After all, this was a school that closed its classics department and opened a business centre instead. What was valued was image. I vividly remember the headmaster, Ian Paterson, speaking in assemblies on topics like why Knox boys didn’t swear, because only members of the less privileged classes did that. Everything was appearance.
And sadly, I think that was what seduced my parents about the place. My father never finished school, spending a chunk of his adolescence in a Japanese internment camp instead. For him, Knox offered security, a network of old boys he thought would support his sons in later life, who would recognise the old school tie and help us on our way into our careers in the business world.
I nearly escaped in Year 11. The first couple of years were a bit of a blur of being miserable, sporadically bullied, and feeling constantly lonely. That never changed, although the bullying did. By Year 11, I was big enough and odd enough that people basically left me alone. I mainly lived in the library, to which fact I owe my encyclopaedic knowledge of World War II German military hardware. I did my work, so wasn’t generally bullied by the teachers either, and fortunately was neither a boarder, good looking or sporty. Nevertheless, Year 11 was a low ebb. I truanted, embraced depressing music and wrote awful poetry.
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