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26 - THE OLD VIRGILIANHeritage Roll of Honour DinnerJohn KellyJohn was kind enough to provide a copyof his speech to the Heritage Roll ofHonour Dinner to The Old Virgilian. Itis a wonderful snapshot of his memoriesof the College and some of theexperiences that have remained withhim to this day.My story is no different to that of the other11,000 Tasmanians who passed through StVirgil’s College.In my day, prior to being accepted into thebig league of the Catholic education system atBarrack Street, one would need to be preparedin a somewhat gentler institution.The Newtown Female Factory, otherwiseknown as Sacred Heart Convent School, waswhere I started in the system along withlifelong friends Wayne Chapman andAndrew Baillie.After a three year period the male of thespecies were excommunicated from thisquaint, Enid Blyton-esque setting and wewere required to make alternativearrangements for our future education.Away from the safety of the bosom of thismatriarchal society we found refuge with atribe at the top of a hill to the south,otherwise known as St Virgil’s College.I remember my arrival as if it was yesterday.Replete with a brim hat and grey suit,looking like a dwarf detective from the TV setof Division 4, I nervously climbed the stairsbeneath the long shadow of the chapel tower.The deep and booming voices of Neanderthallooking seniors, echoed around the concrete handball courts as I entered this gothic like enclave.The whole campus, ranging from eight yearold children to 18 year old men, assembledon the hot bitumen of the outdoor basketballcourt. We waited in the blazing sun,standing in complete silence, like an army ofterracotta soldiers.Suddenly, in a bat-like movement, the sixfoot plus imposing figure of Brother TomHowe, swooped onto the podium cloaked inhis flapping black soutane. I stood directlybelow him, and as he learned forward at analmost impossible angle, I gazed at myreflection in his highly polished shoes.Rules and regulations relating to suchmatters as facial hair, fraternization andtobacco consumption were sternly delivered.I immediately felt a strong sense of place andbelonging.No longer a bosom - but a hairy chest!I was soon to learn how at times, this tribespoke in tongues, reciting such chants asChoomalacka, boomalacka, ha, ha, ha.The years passed and we roamed further tothe heavily wooded Austin’s Ferry region. Wewere trained in specialist pursuits such asarmy cadets, and learnt life skills like firingrifles, in our very own purpose built range.We freely roamed the fifty acres of bushland,and in dystopian scenes reminiscent of Lordof the Flies, we smoked, fought, ran wild andgenerally had a jolly good time - unlesscaught.As retribution for an offence, or for thepurpose of disciplining and reforming awrongdoer, our leaders were armed withleather implements to assist in the deliberateinfliction of pain.This region had its own distinct dialect andwe spoke in even more foreign tongueschanting Amo, Amas, Amat, Amamis,Amatis, Amant and Allo, C’est Phillipe LaDeux– Oui c’est moi.But perhaps the most bizarre of ritualsoccurred every Tuesday afternoon in“the hall”.We formed a large circle, music was playedand our leader would count. This was thesignal to embrace your nearest class mateand assume either the male or femaleposition. In a sea of awkward hand and legmovements, this activity was described to usas the Tango, Foxtrot and Pride of Erin.Once a term, alien-like creatures in greencostumes were delivered to the hall andassumed the female position, all the whileunder the watchful gaze of the elder malesuperiors.Like the homing pigeons that roosted in thechapel tower, we returned to Barrack Street tocomplete our nine year incarceration. We leftwithout ceremony, fanfare or hype fullyprepared for a coveted “job for life” in thepublic service.Some continued in academia and in aself- perpetuating caste system they emergedas teachers.July 2015 Vol. 23 No. 33