Category Archives: Prom

Boarding School Memories Wrap Up

Here’s the edited version of my wrap up of remembering MacNeill House:
http://www.ourkids.net/blog/memories-of-branksome-hall-part-2-25233/

I love that they posted the picture of Tara and I in our Grade 13 prom dresses and the one of the ‘thinking caps’ we wore during exams! I’m a little sad that some of my favourite bits were cut from the writing, but given the nature of the publication, that makes some sense.

Here is the original version of the Wrap Up (Part 2):
(For Link to Part 1:) http://www.ourkids.net/blog/back-to-school-memories-boarding-at-branksome-24761/

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So Branksome has pulled down MacNeill House this year, to make way for something newer and better, and in doing so, unleashed a torrent of Boarding School memories for this former career New Girl and her twin.

Our fears about entering our 11th school were unfounded. It turned out that Tara and I were warmly welcomed into the Grade 13 dorm, perhaps as a bit of fresh blood for a small group that had been living in close quarters since Grade 9. And like Switzerland, we fancied that we brought a measure of neutrality to a few longstanding grudges and rifts.

I don’t really know how it worked with day girls, but there was a lot of clique overlapping among boarders because no one could be too cool in boarding. You had to be at least tolerably civil just to stomach completing your nightly ablutions in close proximity to so many others. Sharing one bathroom among 25 girls was the ultimate democratizing agent. Tara and I were lucky enough to be accepted by the West Indians, the Weekends Away Girls, the Lifers, the Asians, the Misfits and the Cool Girls alike. Even the Head Girl, who was contractually obliged to spend her Grade 13 year in boarding, no matter how close she lived to the school, quickly became our friend.

There were two common rooms in MacNeill House, amply furnished with sofas, cable TV, a stereo, ping pong, and endless shelves of books, (internet was still a thing of the future) but we spent most of our down time sitting along the hallway, waiting near the only phone. Cell phones didn’t yet exist, and car phones were the size of cereal boxes. The one phone in our dorm was where we made and received calls (often to and from boys) and learned of the outside world. The line was long. We might sit for hours.

It was the late eighties, so things were changing. To the righteous indignation of the many smokers in our dorm, the school’s official Smoking Area had recently been abolished in recognition of its detriment to student health. We had never taken up smoking ourselves, but Tara and I watched in admiration as our dorm mates found ingenious ways to hide their newly illegal habit from the housemothers. Many girls cut cigarette-sized holes in shoeboxes, which they smoked into and then released out of the window when they were done. Some girls were even bold enough to sneak inside the housemother’s room (she was a smoker herself) for their evening puff, with the added challenge of escaping again without getting caught.

It’s no exaggeration to say that my year at Branksome led to my being accepted at every university I applied to. My average went up 16%. The two-and-a-half hours of required nightly study took care of that. We were meant to be in our rooms the whole time, but invariably, you would need to confer with someone about something confusing, and that discussion and rehashing of what we were learning in classes actually made for the best learning of all. It was quite a strict study environment, though, and any time you were caught out of your room (a.k.a. Room Hopping) during official study hours, there would be a stern lecture from the house mother. “No hopping, girls! No hopping.” I’m sure you can picture what we felt compelled to do next. Yes, I’m afraid it’s true. Any time we went to someone else’s room to study, we developed the practice of hopping there on one foot. While studying for exams, we had another ‘time-honoured’ tradition of wearing kerchiefs on our heads, knotted at all four corners, ‘to keep our brains in.’

Rituals are important in a Boarding School. We participated excitedly in some, like the Boarder/Day Girl exchange, where we lucked out and got to spend a week living in luxury and leisure with a wonderful day girl and her siblings – her parents were out of town the whole time! What timing that was. Other rituals, we approached with trepidation, like the yellow ‘Meat Wagon’ which carted groups of us to distant boys’ schools for dances. Still others we scoffed at initially, like the Father/Daughter Dance, only to find ourselves staring out our dorm room window in disbelief and regret, watching our dorm mates, just across the street from us, have an absolute blast dancing the night away with their dads.

Going to a girls’ boarding school didn’t result in us missing boys all that much. In fact, not including our own prom, I attended 4 other formals that year. When I had to refuse an invitation because there was no way I could afford the formal gown that would be required, half the girls who were lined up in the hallway waiting for the phone heard me, and piles of gorgeous prom dresses made their way to my room almost immediately, along with the instructions that I was to call the boy back and accept.

As I’ve said, I don’t really know what Branksome was like for day girls, new or established, and I have a hard time imagining Grade 13 there without the boarding. It was the defining element of our one year at Branksome. That was the year we became city girls, and learned to think about the globe, act in plays that felt like professional productions, and debate. Branksome belongs to that mystical time when we eased out of girlhood, but not too quickly. Since then, I’ve loved any drive down Mount Pleasant where I could point out the window of our old room, which we had kept open all that year and learned to let the roar of traffic lull us to sleep. It’s vanished now, along with the luggage room and the trunk of books I left down there, always thinking I would go back one day and collect them. I know they are building something new and wonderful, but I will miss that window to the world.

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End of the Olympics Much Like the Day after Prom


As a writer, (and as a Canadian!) I have to apologize for the exclamation mark abuse in my last blog post, but hey – it was the Olympics and I was feeling the excitement in superlatives.

I had so much fun even though it was a very compressed time. We spent a lot of time in the streets, which were pulsing and throbbing at all hours with red and white, some time in pubs and pavillions and a long stretch in the Molson Canadian Hockey House, where thanks to a very good friend, we were set up in the ultimate VIP luxury. Strangers and friends all melding. All in all, despite having booked too late to actually get official tickets, we thoroughly loved and experienced the Olympics.

Monday, though, the day after the Olympics, wandering through the downtown area, killing time before heading to the airport a recommended four hours early, it was quite a different story.
It was like the day after prom: Everyone was wandering around in a daze, disheveled, wearing last night’s finery, in some form, as they began to tear down the many weathered decorations bemoaning the fact that it had all gone by so fast. Still, despite the Olympic hangovers most of them were nursing, everyone agreed, we had all gotten lucky. Yup, it was the prom all over. Just longer-lasting, and we didn’t have to wear those cruel shoes that pinched and chaffed.