Judge Dread

How to be semi-sensible (ish) about awards

A child’s eye

At convent school, yearly exams were the norm from age seven, our results in every subject pinned to the classroom wall in rank order. The philosophy was clear: the nuns liked the students who regularly made the top five, tolerated the middle bunch and gave up on the rest. I was in the top five squad — if I slipped, questions would be asked: what went wrong? are you unwell?

What a relaxing introduction to the notion of achievement.

At the end of primary, cups and shields from an impressive cabinet — which we’d pass by with the same reverence we felt for the altar in chapel — were awarded at the year-end assembly. I won the shield for French, the cup for History, and a consolation clay pig for English. The headmistress nun explained to the whole school and all the parents that because I’d scooped the English cup the previous year, it wasn’t fair for me to win again. Hence the pig. 

Unfortunately, I misread this a bit.

When I walked up to accept the little pig from the nun I was terrified of, I was pink-faced and ashamed, and when I took my seat again I couldn’t look at anyone. My emotions were a mess: Why a pig? I thought. Although I liked being acknowledged and I loved English more than anything, the way the headmistress had said it made me feel ashamed. “It’s not fair for Emily to keep winning,” she’d told the packed room in her unnervingly arch tone — she didn’t know how to say a thing without sounding severe. I didn’t hear “you’re good at this” — I heard: “don’t be greedy.”

Oh, I thought. She means like a pig.

Still, I should have enjoyed this award system overall, shouldn’t I, being one of the lucky ones? But the closest I came to enjoyment was relief. The anxiety of slipping out of favour filled me up.

As it happens, the consolation pig was the last prize I’d win for nearly forty years.