A Teenager in Prison

There were two dormitories, long and sparse.  Wooden panels, newspaper thin, served as walls between the cubicles, not quite reaching the ceiling.  There were two divan beds per cubicle, decorated with a thin foam mattress, pinstriped to give the prison effect.  A box wardrobe stood at the end of each bed, strung between them a line of wire, from which hung an old white curtain, now faded to yellow with age.  Small wooden framed windows looked out onto a small courtyard, across from which ran another building the same length, hosting a dining room and kitchen.  Beyond this were two more dormitories.

Another week and the dormitory would be bursting with life; walls plastered with posters and pin ups of every girl’s fantasy.  But for now my first impression was grim. This was to be my home for the next three years.

It was far from the house on the hill I had come from, with beautiful views of the Kenepuru Sounds, a bedroom custom built for me with blue patterned wall paper and a stippled ceiling.  Far from my family, my beloved horse and other comforts of Waitaria Bay.  Boarding school seemed like a nightmare.

I knew four people when I arrived, others who came from the Marlborough Sounds.  We had no high school where I came from, so it was this, or we studied in solitude by correspondence.  My parents worked hard for me to be given the opportunity of a good education in town, but at the time I would have been happy to stay in the confines of my comfort zone.

Looking back though, I don’t regret it.  I was shy and quiet when I arrived.  Timid and sickly my first year, the hostel was damp and always cold.  We had showers on concrete floors with open drains and stainless steel doors with broken latches. 

There were bells for everything.  A bell to wake up, a bell to eat, a bell to start our homework period in the dining room, and another to finish.  There was a bell for supper and a bell for bedtimes, junior and senior. 

We had one television, in the common room, a second hand pool table and an old beat up piano.  I guess we were lucky, we also had boys.  There’s something to be said for a co-ed boarding school. 

During the day we attended a single sex school and at night we went back to the boys.  As a teenager I knew what Eve felt like with that damn apple tree. There were strict rules but we constantly tried to bend them.

The food wavered between heavenly and stodge.  Apple crumble with custard and self saucing chocolate puddings, I certainly remember those.  Hence the reason I went from eight stone to eleven in the first six months.  But I also remember lumpy porridge and cold cardboard toast, and kitchen duty.  Yuk.

I hate to say it but this stuff was really character building.

The memories I have of friendships, fights, laughs, midnight fire alarms, secrets shared and lessons learned are some of the most precious I have, and I will carry them with me always.

If I had to go back and do it again would I?  Yes.  But I only say that because these were the years that shaped me into who I am today.  I have enough gumption to step outside my comfort zone.  I know what doors can open up when you do.  I also learned to stand up for myself and be heard in a myriad of voices.

Would I send my own children to boarding school?  Hell no.  I’ve seen what kids get up to in those places!