Prom Night
Approximately ten minutes ago, Marcus (aka Godson #2) was the three year old who pushed open my classroom door mid-lesson and pottered to the sweet box on my shelf, helped himself to a chocolate, and returned to the door before departing with a merry wave, his little cheeks bulging with Quality Street. Now, quite suddenly it seems, Marcus is attending his Year 11 prom and I am at my desk, reeling with the spinning years.
Coincidentally, it was a Year 11 class who became accustomed to three year-old Marcus’s afternoon visits during their Wednesday double lesson. I do recall their initial alarm that he had wandered in from the street but once they realised that he had merely strayed from his mum’s classroom up the corridor, they relaxed into delight at the arrival of this small lad whose head just reached the doorhandle. Now, Marcus reaches the top of any door frame and he going to prom in an orange Unimog wearing his grandfather’s 1950s black tie, complete with red braces. Meanwhile, his big brother (Godson #1) attended his end of First Year university ball at the weekend and I am imagining all the other young people preparing for these rites of passage over the next few weeks.
Cynical voices might say that prom, with its red carpet, sparkly frocks and smart suits, is wholly unnecessary, especially amid a cost of living crisis. At one level, I am sympathetic to this: it is entirely possible to celebrate moments of transition by dancing barefoot in a field fuelled by supermarket sponge cake. But I also believe in the power of shared ritual to mark important moments in life, in time, and in relationships. These rituals are heralded by weeks of anticipation, by decision making (to go alone or as a pair; pale blue dress or silver?), by on-the-day preparations (shave; wash hair), and by the rhythms of the event itself (grand entrance; photos; a glass of punch; the last dance). Each of these moments leave memory-traces through which we integrate phases of our lives into a long-term narrative of identity.
For Year 11 students, prom marks the end of two years of exam-orientated study and the beginning of a freedom summer before they start Sixth Form life. For those, like Marcus, who are moving on to a new school or college, this is also a moment of departure and a farewell to a familiar community. For Year 13 students, the Leavers’ Ball is a big goodbye to school, to one educational tribe, and - in many ways - to their teenage years. And for First Year undergraduates, the Summer Ball marks a milestone: a year away from home, completed modules, concluded exams and, suddenly, the distant shimmer of graduation itself.
All this is true and yet horribly simplistic. As anyone who lives or works with young people knows, proms, balls and parties are much, much more complicated experiences than anything conveyed by images of disco balls and lovely dresses. These big tribal gatherings can be tangled and disorientating events for many teenagers and it is vital that we acknowledge this without conveying shame or dismay. For every student who relishes the flourish of dressing up, there is another who shrinks from prom’s noisy visibility.
I have worked with lots and lots of students who feel too shy to attend big social events, who find disco music upsettingly loud or flashing strobe lights distressing. Proms and other parties often pivot around girl/boy gender stereotypes that are limiting for students who identify as other genders. If you have severe acne then it is hard to find a dress that covers the spots on your shoulders; wheelchair users get very cold in drafty marquees, and any party is hell after a big breakup. A night out can also be complicated for students whose families have strict religious or cultural rules about dress, behaviour and alcohol.
As an educator, my prom policy is to hold space for young people to express their feelings without judgement or persuasion. I want them to have as much freedom as possible when it comes to participating in communal rites of passage. (That said, I usually mutter a reminder that getting very, very drunk usually involves being very, very sick too.) Over the years, some students have sought permission to stay at home with a movie; others have asked if they can protest by attending in their pyjamas, and some - like Daisy - have fretted about practicalities.
During one of my duty nights in the boarding house, I found Daisy (not her real name) and the other Year 11 girls taking break from dreaded revision. Their giggles echoed down the staircase and I found their corridor scattered with discarded clothes and high heels as they tried on their prom outfits. Daisy sashayed from her room wearing a spectacular dress over her pyjamas: a full length scarlet column with narrow straps, the hem puddled around her bare feet. But Daisy was frowning because she didn’t know which bra to wear with the dress. She didn’t feel comfortable with a strapless option and she only had white, black and nude underwear. Her parents worked overseas and she didn’t have permission to go into town before prom on Friday night.
After some debate with the girls and a chat with the housemistress, I offered to go to Primark the following day to see if I could find a bra that would work for Daisy. It didn’t take me long to find one in flaming red which would compliment Daisy’s scarlet gown. Only when I reached the till did things become complicated. Having scanned the bar code, the stop assistant looked hard at me, then at the bra, and then back at me. She paused before clearing her throat. “Um, can I just check the size with you, madam?” And she read me the bra size, which was clearly significantly different from my own. “Yes,” I said. “That’s right.” There was a lightening moment of silence and then, by way of explanation, I added, “It’s for a student, you see.”
At that, the shop assistant’s eyebrows shot up into her hairline and I turned the same shade as Daisy’s dress. Ten minutes later, and after a lengthy explanation about safeguarding regulations, the concept of being in loco parentis, and the job description of an assistant housemistress, I returned to my car feeling very clammy indeed. Daisy, however, was delighted with my purchase; her mum wrote me a lovely thank you email, and Daisy’s scarlet glamour blazed from the Year 11 Prom photo.
As a veteran of school party season, my advice to students is to approach all the fuss and drama with Writer’s Mind. A writer is always alert to a story and any wobble or hiccup can be spun into a tale. There is no doubt that ice-cream down the lapel of a new tuxedo, a bloody knee after a tumble from high heels, or a dance-floor snub can be painful experiences but with Writer’s Mind they can be woven into a story. By thinking like writers, teenagers can shift themselves from subjects to creators, from being in the moment to stepping outside of it, to gain some sanity-saving perspective. Writer’s Mind is therefore a strategy for asserting distance, detachment, humour, and personal agency at times of drama and intensity. This is not intended to diminish a young person’s experience in any way but simply to remind them that they will survive prom even if they don’t enjoy it and that this will - eventually - become a very small story in the long arc of their lives.