The Deportment Girdle
I mentioned this in my blog post on the Ibooknet
blog; but I think a full explanation of its glories is probably better off
here.
I never did win a
Deportment Girdle in my entire school career - and yes, it really was called a
Deportment Girdle. It was a crimson sash, worn tied around the waist. To a
scruffy, scrawny, eleven year old, drowned in an enormous gym tunic, it seemed
that all the more glamorous members of the school wore them, sashaying around
the corridors, distant goddesses.
Deportment girdles were just one of a range
of school prizes. Northamptonshire,
where I went to school in the 1970s, was late to embrace the comprehensive
movement, and so having passed the eleven plus, I went to Kettering High
School, a grammar school with a prize giving structure probably unchanged for
decades. We did have other prizes besides the deportment girdle: there were form prizes, and subject
prizes for the upper school, as well as colours for sporting achievement. That
is, until we went comprehensive. Every year, I had just missed out on the form
prize. The year I actually came top, we went comprehensive; a no discipline
experiment was imposed (you can imagine the results of that one, once we were
combined with the Secondary Modern down the road) and form prizes were
abolished. They were elitist.
I wouldn't have
minded the lack of academic prizes were it not for the fact that sporting
colours were still awarded: which seemed to me spectacularly illogical. It's
just as discriminatory to reward sporting achievement as it is academic. If you
argue that it encourages girls who aren't academic, surely you are saying that
sporting achievement is not as valid as academic: if you view the two as equal,
then you cannot possibly justify awarding prizes for one and not for the other.
I may say here
that the chances of my getting a sporting colour were unbelievably remote. I
did though, always hanker after a deportment girdle - I was never going to win
sports colours for anything unless it was the deep science of PE avoidance, but
I did think I stood a remote chance with the deportment girdle. I walked then
pretty much as I walk now, I suppose. I like to think of it as a leonine lope,
but I think it's probably more accurate to think of it as slightly knock-kneed
shambling, but anyway, in my fifth year, I made a determined effort to walk
beautifully: if there had been piles of Latin text books on my head, they would
not have shifted an inch. I did not run in the corridors. I kept to the
prescribed side on the stairs. I did not practise skidding round corners. End
of term assembly approached, and I was quietly confident. It went, and still, I
had no deportment girdle.
"Well, darn
me," I thought. "I have really tried for this - what has gone
wrong?" I got on well with the Head of PE so trotted up and asked her. She
looked me up and down. "Well, Jane," she said. "Deportment
girdles are not just about how you walk. It's about how you behave," -
oooh -, "and how you look. How tidy and presentable you are."
I knew then there
was no hope.
Comments
They were quite few and far between, as some teachers didn't really approve of them. I managed about three in my four years there. I definitely got two for art (more for effort than outstanding ability), and particularly prized the one given by Mr Emblin, who was one of those teachers who didn't really care for the concept. It took him ages to write it out, as he had the most elegant handwriting, but the result was worth it.
Dunno where they are now, but probably sandwiched somewhere in my parents' vintage set of Encyclopeadia Britannica, where Mum often put certificates.