| Alexandra High School Recollections (1983 and 1984) | |
| Pietermaritzburg, KwaZulu-Natal, Republic of South Africa | |
 waiting on the outskirts of Manzini, Swaziland with my older brother, Jeff, for the bus to Pietermaritzburg |  1983: Form 2A (a.k.a. Standard 6 or Eighth Grade) |
This page is intended for, and will obviously only mean something to those who have attended Alex (but if you enjoy it, you're welcome to be an exception to the rule). :)
I was admitted to Alexandra High School in January 1983. Following are some of my recollections during my short two-year attendance there (in classes 2A and 3B):
My first year at Alex, I was (very) mistakenly placed in class 2A, which meant I was in the highest 'intellectual' class for that year among all the second form (a.k.a. standard six/eighth grade) students. Although my intellect never matched my placement, I encountered something that I will always remember as a part of being in that class: a finger. Actually, half a finger. One of the students whose father apparently held an elevated position in the South African Health Department 'borrowed'—and brought to school—a glass jar of grayish liquid containing the grisly half of a human finger, apparently found after a terrorist's botched attempt at blowing up a refinery. Happily showing it to select batches of students at a time, it wasn't very late in the day before his prized 'treasure' was discovered by a teacher, and reported to the headmaster, where he was given a stern warning: lose the finger, or face expulsion from the school. Naturally, we never saw the finger again.
At only 25¢ a piece, the ladies in the Tuck Shop made some of the best toasted cheese sandwiches around. Part of the tradition in eating them, however, was to squeeze a dollop of tomato sauce/ketchup on top, and carefully spread it around with your finger before licking your finger and polishing off the sandwich. While I never conducted a formal survey, I don't ever recall seeing anyone eat a sandwich 'sans sauce'—a tradition worth maintaining to this day.
On a rare occasion in 1983, Alex's first basketball team was to play against one of our biggest rivals: Maritzburg College. Since the game was to be held at the nearby YMCA on a Friday afternoon, the school administration thought it would be a good idea to let students out early—requiring them to attend it in order to have a large crowd there representing the school and supporting the team. It was a great idea, since most students liked basketball anyway (more fun to watch than rugby ever was), and the bonus was that all homework for the day was canceled. Needless to say, I was in a very good mood—getting out of school early, and with no homework to worry about! I sat in the balcony, packed in like sardines among other Alex students, and waited for the teams to jog out onto the court. The Alex team was first, and everyone cheered--happy to support our skilled first team. I joined in, enjoying the moment, and riding high with the thought of a fun weekend ahead. Next came the Maritzburg College team, and the cheering began once more, though less enthusiastically. Feeling inconspicuous among the large crowd of students, I began shouting "Boo!" as the Maritzburg College finished their entrance onto the court. Apparently, not as innocuous as I'd thought, a nearby prefect heard my jeers and gave me a stern warning to be quiet. Rather shaken at being discovered, my desire to make fun of the opposing team disappeared, and I laid low for the rest of the game. The following Monday, at the end of assembly in the quad (in front of the whole student body) my homeroom teacher, Mr. Fisher, walked to the podium and made the following announcement: "I don't know who it was, but I just want you to know that whoever it was that booed the Maritzburg College team embarrassed our school, and the teachers, staff and first team at Maritzburg College". A chill went down my spine as he spoke, and though likely only a handful of students knew who it was, the urge to crawl under a rock was irresistible. Feeling terrible about the short-sightedness of my actions, I wrote a letter of apology to the headmaster of Maritzburg College, but never received a reply.
Early 1983 was the last year of the basher (also known as a 'boater'); a straw hat that was once part of the uniform at Alex. It quickly faded from sight shortly after I arrived that year.
A rather elderly teacher known as 'Spitfire' acquired his nickname because of his tendency to inadvertently spit on students in the front row of his class while he was teaching. His other notorious trait was apparently needing a bit of a 'run up' when caning students, in order to actually make it hurt. Thankfully, I can't speak from experience as to how painful or not his caning was.
As a second former, you were at the bottom of the educational ladder, and in order to leave no doubt where you stood, you were quickly made aware of your new responsibility to the matrics (a.k.a. sixth formers/standard 10 students/seniors): that of a servant. Backed up by the authority of their peers in the form of prefects, any matric could demand a "favor" from you if they wished. Not all matrics had malicious intent, but for some, your new duties were to make them happy during breaks and lunch time. This typically took the form of everything from catching money they dropped from the third floor to you to buy and deliver food to them from the tuck shop (which was on the ground floor), to pretending to be part of a train along with your fellow students (complete with faking steam and whistle noises), to becoming a human orchestra for their entertainment. One quickly learned however, that you could avoid all this simply by staying out of visual range of the matrics—out of sight, out of their mind. Some of them were.