That Old Lie

My wife brought home a bumper poetry anthology this week, and I am reminded of the terrible job my teachers did of encouraging me to study English.

One poem. Dulce Et Decorum Est, by Wilfred Owen. I learnt it in my third year; the only poem we studied. It was ingrained in my mind, so much so that I used it two years later to pass my Higher English!

The Higher course alienated me. And yet before then, as after, I was an avid consumer of literature, a keen writer of things, and an irreverent appreciator of language - not in any way because of my English teachers.

It's not that I was not receptive. Rather, I suspect, teaching staff cared less about my enjoyment and development than about their exam and my 'achievement' - assuming they at least cared about that. Not that I understood that at the time.

Don't misunderstand me, school itself was not without merit. I studied Latin, the academic experience from my teenage years that has had the biggest impact on my life. And the kitchen staff made cracking caramel shortcake. But maybe that was just me...