Chapter 5 - Of Cardigans & Hookers

I've always been suspicious of people who wear cardigans, particularly brown ones. Little needs to be said. Don Juan was never so dressed. Nor was Hitler, for all his demonry.

An exponent of such attire, Robert de Kleyn – otherwise known as Deckers – was our English teacher (by and large) from Years 9 to 11.






















Deckers was a medium-sized man with a full set of hair that was always immaculately combed. His station-wagon, older than Noah and miraculously rust-free, was well-kept. Disconcertingly, Christoph Waltz from Inglourious Basterds bears resemblance to him. Deckers rarely belly-laughed. He embodied a methodical, steady-as-she-goes approach. Nor was he inspirational as a teacher – Jeff Burns, a cool cat, was a refreshing change in Year 12. Evidently, the Almighty had urged Deckers to become a teacher when the wind opened up a Bible at an appropriate place and he read a verse to that effect. On the premise that only God is perfect, A-grades were reserved for super-human efforts. Lest the youth of the 1980s be corrupted by putrescence, come the Whitefriars Fete, Deckers would grimly comb through book donations and consign offending works to the fire (in retrospect, this practice makes me wonder whether Deckers had fallen for the old sucker punch of religion as morality). Every teacher has – or should have – a strategy to impose discipline on a class; some teachers cajole, others bluster. Deckers was a martinet but in an understated way; students were left in no doubt that if they crossed the line, damnation would be theirs.

One of us had a gruesome encounter with Deckers post-Whitefriars:

"Some years after leaving the old WF (1991) I found myself with a woodwind teaching gig at Caulfield Grammar School in Wheelers Hill. On my first day there I came across an old, poo brown holden station wagon in the carpark. It was obvious that this was a special vehicle as evidenced by the way that the bog had been lovingly applied to the rust over the wheel arches and the care taken to ensure that the covering paint job was the required two shades darker than the rest of the vehicle. Despite convincing myself that this was a different vehicle, a subsequent visit to the staff room confirmed my worst fears. Deckers even remembered my real name (which is never to be uttered in public) and continued to use it whenever our paths crossed. He hadn’t aged and is probably still there to this day............."

Under Decker's tutelage, we surveyed the following works of literature: All the Green Year; Foundation; Bless the Beasts and Children; of Mice & Men; White Eagles over Serbia; It Shouldn’t Happen to a Vet; Macbeth; All Quiet on the Western Front.






















At least two of these books are masterpieces. Collectively they continue to give pleasure. Decker’s expositions on grammar and clear-thinking resonate - with me at least - to this day. But there is one episode in particular that causes his name to be perpetuated:

"We were in Deckers' English class in Year 10 or 11. We had to deliver a speech. Most people chose relatively boring topics, but Stephen Andrews decided to enlighten us all on the subject of contraception. I can't recall many of the details (partly because of the intervening years, but partly because the class descended into uproar virtually from the opening line and I spent as much time watching Deckers' face going every colour of red as I did straining to hear Steff over the noise) but the take-out messages for me were these:
• Steff declared that he wanted to be "a virgin exterminator" when he grew up. This was an occupation I'd not considered previously.
• Girls could use the pill to protect themselves from VD. Steff was unable to identify the medical journals supporting this thesis and performed admirably in the face of heckling.
• The discussion on the use of condoms went off at a tangent when Reb questioned the speaker on his ability to fill the said device. Steff replied that he could "choke Linda Lovelace". From the colour of purple on Deckers' face and the howls from the class, I understood that this claim was somewhat controversial. No-one could stop laughing long enough to explain it to me and Deckers terminated the speech shortly thereafter."

Steff’s recollection is this: "With apologies for my aforementioned lapses in memory, I can clarify this one a little bit. I believe the subject was prostitution, and the details included cost, location and the risk of Venereal Diseases. Like you say there was definitely an uproar and Deckers did not know what colour to turn. I'll take your word for it on the "virgin exterminator" comment because it is consistent with the naive bravado I tried to exhibit. Choking Linda Lovelace, now that's a stretch (no pun intended) I'm sure I said it but I would have a HARD time backing it up. As far as the grade it was B+, which for me at the time was a bloody miracle. I believe he was impressed when I quoted as sources, the Victoria police and a couple of hookers named Lola and Boots. Which of course was bullshit, but it sounded good."

Deckers exemplified the College’s wider attitude: no great expectations were placed on us. We were all so many sausages in the machine. Take Macbeth, for instance, an eternal exposition of ambition, guilt and retribution.






















Deckers was an intelligent, dedicated teacher but he never looked us in the eye – with a tremor in his voice – and said (in so many words, tailored for fifteen year olds): “here is one of the great creations of the human spirit. It is a work that you will never fathom fully. It has a power to it that is both cathartic and redemptive. It – and other great works of literature – can guide you through life. And how are you – yes, you – going to respond to it? If Macbeth – or other such works - don’t impart a degree of intensity and urgency to you, what are you doing on this rock for three score and ten? Accounting is down the hall.”

No such message was given. Perhaps one could liken such a gesture to casting pearls into a swineherd of pigs - but it should have been attempted. Indeed, there was never any possibility that Robin Williams would model himself on Deckers in preparing for ‘Dead Poets Society’. It was a thoroughly middle-class schooling: immanence to the exclusion of transcendence. Perhaps I'm being hard on Deckers, but English as a subject has the innate capacity to deliver more.






















The College at the time was no better. Whatever the focal point be, there was no call to arms. I cannot remember there being any social outreach to provide us with a window upon the world. Academic excellence was not celebrated with one exception (at the end of Year 9, all the teachers banded together informally to reward Justin Selleck with a gift). Old Boys who had actually done something with their lives, whatever the measure be, were not invited back to address us with the aim of widening our vision.






















There is a proposition in philosophy: nihil ex nihilio. Nothing comes from nothing. While none of us are world beaters - if Alexander rode Bucephalus to the ends of the earth, most of us putt around in glorified shitboxes - collectively we have accomplished many things with our lives; these achievements could be attributed more to our own resilience rather than any impetus imparted by the College (which was negligible).

And to the best of my knowledge, none of us wear brown cardigans.

Vale Deckers.