Jane displays her usual quirky way of looking at things; in this case the nuns who
tried very hard to educate her!
WORKING THE SYSTEM
The educational system was an interesting one. Well grounded if reluctantly in music,
verse and song, the actual level of learning was many tiered. There were the normal
ones who were both bright and actually interested; the medially interested and then
there was us. The problem was there was an Intermediate Certificate to be passed if
you wanted to go on to do the Leaving Cert which was your passport to the real
world.
We, the gang of five, belonged to the lower bracket. Only two of us were actually
allowed to site the exam due to a fear of our parents, and not the expectation of our
passing! Although fully aware of the importance of the need to study, I worked the
system as if there was no tomorrow.
Irish was compulsory; it didn’t matter how brainy you were at maths; if you failed Irish
you failed the whole thing. Sister Vianney and I had already made a pact. If I worked
at Irish, she would get me through my exams. Plain and simple. So I worked, found it
very easy, as all you had to do was learn by rote, a piece of cake actually. The
problem was that it didn’t penetrate my brain cells that I actually needed to work at
other subjects as well.
I worked the system to perfection. French was the easiest of all; no bother there.
When the unwritten agreement between teacher and student is that the latter does
not exist in her class, it makes it all so easy. I simply did other homework during
French. I was no bother, didn’t distract anyone, and Sr. Brigid simply ignored me, and
I, her. I have never again in life achieved that type of invisibility. I never handed in
any homework, and was never asked for it. I did not exist which suited me as I had a
lot of ground to cover with other subjects.
This amicable agreement came to a rude end, when for some misdemeanour in
another class, I was put standing outside the door, in view of the Rev Mother’s office,
so of course she pounced on me and of all things commanded me to leave my
French composition book in her office the next day. French composition? What
composition …?
Was she physic or what?
This set off the panic alarm, as I didn’t even have a copy book, let alone
compositions. I brow-beat my poor mother when I got home, assuring her that as
there was no way I was going to pass, I must give it up immediately. Broken to the
point of exhaustion, she agreed. Mother Lawrence accepted the fact that I was no
longer a French subject and let it pass! Imagine that happening in this century, but
it’s true.
English was a piece of cake. Half the Shakespearian speech on poetry was learnt the
night before, and during the class, with head was down and fingers in the ears, a
feverish learning and memorising was taking place. Then it was imperative to be
asked to recite same while it was still fresh in the mind. This was managed so easily,
pointedly turning my head to look around the back of the room, which drove St
Consillio mad, so it was no time before ‘Jane Byrne’ was called upon to deliver. It
worked like a charm, the only thing was that as soon as I sat down, the brain also
went into a slumber and nothing much was ever retained. The rhythm of the sonnet
was the only thing I could remember.
Last but not least, Sr Evanagelus, our maths teacher [known as the Vange, which
had quite an eerie sound to it], was dealt with, with ease. I could not add, subtract, or
divide, and to this day still count on my fingers. Some of us were just not blessed with
those kinds of minds; our talents lay elsewhere!
The B Class stood around a large blackboard, and the exercises were answered by
the brighter sparks eager to display their abilities. I usually managed to get one
algebra question right and so became expert getting her to ask me the same
question by nudging forward waving my copybook under her long nose. It worked
every time, and she was oblivious to the fact that duff answers filled the rest of the
page. Hard to believe that someone so bright with figures could be such a walk-over;
or was she simply disinterested?
Not surprisingly, I failed Arithmetic, Algebra and Geometry. The latter much to my
disgust, as I know to this day that the angles of the base of an Isosceles triangle are
always equal. [Theorem 5]
When the results of the Inter Cert of ’59 were announced, they were the worst in
living history. I was not amongst the fallen, as I had passed exclusive subjects such
as Art and Domestic Science, to make up the five necessary to be the proud recipient
of an Inter Cert. I passed with three points to spare; that’s pretty close to the window,
wouldn’t you say, but a pass is a pass!
My last two years were spent at a new school as a boarder where I realised that I
was the odd ball; so, much to my amazement, I applied myself to the task and even
got to love poetry and Shakespeare. It opened up a whole new world for me and I
thrived as only a late starter can.
I tell everyone I was retarded, but was I? For sheer manipulation, I reckon I should
have got a gold star!