Teachers in schools have all sorts of ways and means to retain control of students. There is the implicit control that society hands teachers as surrogate parents. There is the carrot and stick approach. The reasoning approach. The silent treatment. Sarcasm. Embarassment. Detention. The cane. Calling the parents. Rewards. Points. The list goes on.

But there is one threat that rides above all others. The permanent record. If a student really veers close enough to the line they are told that "this could go down in your permanent record." A threat that strikes terror in all children. The shame. The disgrace. There's no chance of higher education if the infamous bra-flicking of 1987 is in the record. No chance of a job if the fags behind the toilets incident of 1985 is noted. And a life alone is sure to follow a mention of the boys in the girls dorm scandal of camp 1988.

School is the way society forces children to think within the confines society prescribes. It might also be about education or socialising with peers. But the most fundamental element a school is about is to get kids used to idea of going somewhere for several hours a day to follow a routine, being told what to do and how to do it, coping with mediocracy and dealing with a bunch of fellow kids enduring the same. Don't get me wrong, I loved school. The school I went to was reasonably progressive in its educational philosophy in as much as they taught us how to think and question. Of course this backfired badly.

In my home state of New South Wales the final 2 years of high school are all for the Higher School Certificate (HSC). This exam will decide which university courses you can enter. My enlightened school decided the best way to prepare us 16 year olds for the rigours of the two years to come was to take us all away for a "study camp". That's where you get lectures on how to ration your time, commit to your studies and cheat in exams. The best part of the whole thing was what any group of 16 year olds would tell you - the chance to spend night-time in the company of the opposite sex. The teachers laid down the laws early. No mixing after lights out. Boys and girls dorms well seperated. Blah blah blah.

It was about 1am when we were sprung. In hindsight I'm amazed they waited so long, but who knows what the teachers were up to themselves. Probably they had all been at the pub for a few before a quick check of the rabble. The 6 or 7 of us guys who had dared to venture to the girls cabins were dutifully marched out and told us to report to the dining hall at 7am.

It was cold that morning my friends. Each breath was a cloud of mist as we endured the nervous anticipation. We were made to wait while the three teachers decided how they were going to handle this outrage. Then one by one we were marched in for our interview. Being one of the "better" students (read that how you will) I was second. It was classic good cop/bad cop and I don't know how the teachers kept a straight face. For following for base biological urges I was now subjected to a drilling from my English teacher, who used the ocassion to find his inner thespian. Fire and brimstone were rained down, followed by the kinder understanding of our science mistress. Admonishments were made. Stern words were spoken. Riot acts were read. And then finally it came. Almost as an after-thought, as I was trudging towards the holding room (they didn't want us criminals conferring to get our stories straight), the English master said "This will go in your permanent record." I entered the holding room deflated and spoke with the girl who had gone first and was in tears. At first we were both terrified, worried that we were a step away from expulsion. Slowly other students come in and we did what you would expect: we compared our stories and interviews. And each interview finished with those fateful words: "Permanent record." We realised that was our fate. A blot on our records for all the world to forever know about our night of shame.

In a minor way it did cost me. The following year the announcements were made for school prefects. Without getting too ahead of myself, I thought I was a good chance of getting head prefect. It was a small school and each class had only 30 students. Once you drop the truly evil, the stupid, the slackers, the couldn't cares and the don't know betters, there were really only two or three to choose from. The past couple of years had thrown up female heads so the time was ripe for mankind to rise up again. The position itself brought little reward. You got a special patch for your blazer, you got to run a weekly prefect meeting (the point of which was to have a meeting) and you got to go with some teachers every 2 months to other local schools on a visit other local schools visit. But it looks good on a CV (people always get hired because they were prefects, right?) and it strokes the ego. It was a prize denied to me for this incident. How do I know? Because the principal called me in and told me so. It took about 15 minutes to deal with it. There were no long-term scars. The fact I'm writing about it 13 years later should have no bearing on the matter. There was no post-traumatic stress. I simply repressed the thought.

Then I graduated from high school. At the final speech night (awards night) I still recall thinking if they were going to finally hand out these permanent records or if they sent them direct to employers/universities. After the ceremony I made a point of asking the very same English teacher where are these records? He turned to me and smiled. In a conspiratorial whisper he let me in a truth kept hidden from students for generations. "There is no permanent record." I smiled too. The b@stard. I felt only one thing: self-loathing at being so stupid and naive. But I learnt the best lesson of my high school career. Question everything and trust no-one. Oh, and that teachers are really control freaks who enjoy lording it over those they already have complete power and domination.

The story has a happy ending though. My brother got made head prefect two years after me. So I like to think I sacrificed myself for him. And I have yet to hear a word of thanks from him.