Brentwood College School - Brentonian Yearbook (Mill Bay, British Columbia Canada)

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THE AWARDS DAY CEREMONIES Awards Day this year followed its by now traditional pattern with but one exception — there was no poem from Mr. Ford, a fact much lamented in the Dining Room over tea. Otherwise, things were as usual, following Mr Lironi ' s morning decision that the awards ceremony itself would take place out of doors and that the weather would, therefore, improve. It did. The first event of this final day of the school year was the Graduates luncheon in the cafeteria. As always, Mrs. Hallett and her staff had prepared the room attractively. After luncheon, the assembled graduates, together with their guests and the staff of the school, looked forward with eager anticipation to two speeches — that of the Guest Speaker and of the Class Valedictorian. They were disappointed in neither Mr Bunch, the Assistant Headmaster, a happy choice as Guest Speaker, rose to a warmly appreciative welcome following an introduction from the Head Prefect, Douglas MacLaren who said: Friends, and fellow Students, Honoured Guets: I ' ve been asked to introduce the Guest Speaker, who, in fact, is not one person, but to me, many people. The first time I saw him was in Grade Eight. I felt for sure that Moses had descended upon us. And, funnily enough, over the years, I found out that he could part many Red Seas for me. Others, however, may remember him for his theatrical productions of such grandeur and fame that he is known as the Cecil B. DeMille of Brentwood. Perhaps the Guest Speaker will best be remembered, however, as an electrifying teacher who has brought alive the English language. Actually, he is straight out of Pygmalion — sort of a cross between George Bernard Shaw and Rex Harrison. And above all, he leaves an indelible impression on our lives. You can love him, or you can hate him, but you cannot be indifferent to him. We may never come across another educator of this calibre. It is my honour to give you Mr Gil Bunch. Having risen and treated his audience to a benign smile, Mr. Bunch said: Honoured Guests, Ladies and Gentlemen, my colleagues and my friends in the graduating class. I know that you were all relieved a moment ago to notice that I did not conceal beneath my handkerchief as I pulled it out a large stack of white postcards which carried merely the outline of my very long and boring speech of advice. In point of fact there is to be no advice; there has to be a speech. There shall be no advice for the first simple reason that it ' s all been said before. What is more, it ' s all been said so much more wittily and elegantly than I can say it. 1 think of one instance only, and that is the English Seventeenth century poet, Robert Herrick, who said it all so charmingly in his lyric Advice to Young Virgins to Make Much of Their Time. The second reason that I should not dare to give advice is because 1 genuinely believe that anything that I have learned about this business of living in the last half century or so couldn ' t be of the remotest interest, let alone the remotest use, to anybody else at all. Perhaps I should start by saying how much I am still enjoying the irony of this moment, just as I did when Mr Ross originally asked me to speak and the class members graciously concurred. We are so accustomed at this moment to having our guest speaker begin by saying what an honour it is to visit Brentwood at last, and how proud he is to be with us today, etc., etc. and I really can ' t say those things — that is simply not a possible beginning for me — because well, after all, I don ' t have any choice in the matter of being here, do I? You see, if I weren ' t here today there is no doubt that I would not be here on Monday. And if I were not here Monday I would be undoubtedly selling shirts in the Hudson ' s Bay on Tuesday. So that means of introduction must be abandoned. I must admit that even from the outset I was very confused about what I should say. Then, in a blinding flash, it suddenly was given to me, it was presented to me, 1 knew what 1 had to say. Beginning, middle and end, the whole logos was there almost in a Greek sense. I knew that the only way I could approach this moment of celebration, and it is a celebration of hindsight for me and foresight for you, that the only possible manner I could celebrate it, would be by telling you a story, and that is what I intend to do. It is not difficult because I am a part of this story; it is semi- autobiographical, therefore all I have to worry about is my skill as a storyteller, and although the story is very simple in its outline and in its content, it is nonetheless a very significant story for me and I trust for you at this moment. The tale begins in the spring of 1970 when I was, as usual, teaching English Literature to senior students, no more and no less talented than many in this room today, and as is still my wont I begin teaching poetry by reading the poem aloud. I still believe this is the only way to read poetry to give it sound and choreography and rhythm, to move it from the page, to bring it alive in the room. Seated in my classroom in the spring of 1970 was a young gentleman whose name is on that board down there because he was the Head Boy of the school in that year. His name is Wade Davis, and the poem 1 was reading was a poem by Coleridge. I read it, looked up from my book and was just about to commence an approach to some evaluation when I noticed that Wade had raised his hand at the back of the room. I said Yes, Wade. He said May I leave please? I was confused but I have learned over the years not to question these moments of students ' departures from classrooms, so I nodded acquiescence and away he went. I completed the lesson, moved up to my office, having forgotten Wade, but there he was at the end of the corridor and I said to him, Wade, are you all right?, and he said, Yes. He said I had to go, I had to go, that is what I have been waiting for That is the moment I have been waiting for I

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runner up for this award is someone who has already won another, but we name her again, the runner up for the Appleton Trophy, Cori Ghitter. The winner covers ever attribute called for by this award, he carries his Academic Colours, he is a representative of the school in two major areas of sport, namely rugby in his Grade 1 1 year and rowing in Grade 12, his loyalty to his house and to the members of it has been an outstanding feature of his approach, he is a fine musician, and his overall programme commitment this year may have at times exceeded 60 hours a week before study could begin. A good organiser, a man of fantastic energy, please congratulate from Vancouver, to Harvard next year, the Head Prefect Doug MacLaren. Headmaster ' s Special Awards. Representing exceptional talent such as that possessed by Rachael Jones, Shauna Hardy, Joanna McKenzie, a Headmaster ' s Special Award goes to Jill Bodie. To a near winner in several other categories, a house captain, prefect, person greatly admired by us all, Samantha Gray. An exceptionally energetic person, extremely fine athlete, captain of our Field Hockey team, one who has worked tirelessly on behalf of the school, Eryn Paterson. Representing quiet confidence, unsurpassable loyalty and citizenship, Miss Stacey Reynhoudt. Representing scholastic excellence, an almost fierce level of determination couched within an attractive personality, Andrea Wilson. Representing the maturity necessary to always maintain a balanced view, the possession of individuality and uniqueness without seeking it, the quietly conducted search for all round personal development, the application of reason when others might allow emotion to spoil a decision, Ian Bullen. For personalizing the qualities of humility, modesty, generosity of spirit whilst possessing rare levels of talent in athletics, fine arts and academics, the young man who perhaps to the fullest extent has taken advantage of our programme. Hew Crooks. Representing all those in the school who must work extremely hard for their academic rewards, whose personal growth pattern is somewhat irregular but always upward in trend, who in a Grade 12 year provided us with surprising leadership strength, Patrick Melvin. Representing five years at Brentwood, who formed the understanding inner core of the school, we think of several such as Chris Robertson, Michael McLernon, Guy Thorburn, Sean Croft, a diverse group. To represent it. Headmaster ' s Special Awards to two people, Clayton Davis and Bill Groh. For the Yarrow Shield we seek a student in the graduating class who displays in addition to scholastic and athletic excellence stability and strength of character together with a willingness to serve. The Yarrow Shield had more worthy applicants this year than in any other one that I can remember. From the foregoing awards you would have detected amongst them candidates who would truly qualify for consideration for the Yarrow. Since I have already spoken about them I will not do so again but given very strong consideration were Hew Crooks, Mark Hunter, Cori Ghitter, Doug MacLaren, the name of Paul Whidden surfaces here as does that of Andrea Wilson. However the staff after a great deal of deliberation has made a decision to award the Yarrow this year to a student who has represented the school in three areas of sport and gained her Colours in each, they are rowing, field hockey and basketball. This person carries academic colours, has been a prefect this past year, a gold medalist in the Canadian Rowing Championships, an honours graduate and scholarship candidate accepted at both Queens and McGill University, from Kamloops, B.C., Miss Susan Gillespie. Grad 1986, an education of this kind has true meaning if it causes you to realise how little you know, it has true value if it causes you to help those less fortunate than yourselves. Many of you have already demonstrated an understanding of these truths — on the basis of them I hope that each and every one of you enjoy fulfilling futures. Parents, in us you place great trust and confidence. We, the staff, have tried hard to justify it. Thank you for offering us the opportunity to carry out our work. Standing — to r: D. MacLa ren M. Hunter, C. Thrall, G. Risk, H. Cheung. Seated: H. Mitchell, S. Smillie, W. Pitts, S. Gillespie, C. Ghitter, C. Bannon.

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couldn ' t have stayed to listen to anyone, yourself or any other student, saying a word about that poem. It had to stay with me, as that moment, when I heard it, untouched, whole. The years between then and now have seen contact, irregular, eccentric, always fascinating contact, with Wade. Letters, postca rds, telephone calls, visits, pictures of the Queen Charlotte Islands, the Amazon, Buenos Aires, letters from the headwaters of the Orinoco, Harvard, Boston, always a delight when in some way Wade would stride into our lives for by now he had become a close friend of both my wife and myself. You can imagine my pleasure when early in this year Wade published his first major book. The Serpent and the Rainbow, a report of an exploratory visit to Haiti, sponsored by American medical research teams to investigate documented cases of zombies and the voodoo culture itself. I saw the book beginning to appear on the bookstands. I read very favourable reviews of it and was just about to send a note of congratulations or phone when suddenly Wade was called back to Victoria, by token of his father ' s death. I must have been rehearsing, trying to teach Doug MacLaren or Hew Crooks how to do the Charleston, because I was very late home that night, and as I went in, my wife said, Wade is home, his Dad has died, he phoned you at about seven. He has just arrived from France. He would like you to phone him. Well, it was midnight and I phoned and didn ' t get any answer I couldn ' t reach him. It wasn ' t until some four or five nights later that I found myself having a very quiet dinner with Wade, generally enjoying a couple of hours together, although the hours were very difficult ones, very emotional ones naturally for Wade. We had a fine meal, and drank far too much good French wine — chosen by Wade, of course, I can ' t tell one wine from another and I am always surprised when people can. At any event we left the restaurant at about one o ' clock in the morning and we proceeded towards where I had parked my car in a circular civic parkade. We clambered up to where the car was, and of course it was completely deserted, hollow, bleak, forbidding. The lighting was harsh. metallic, the light too cold, shadows too dark, and I got into my side of the car and reached over to let Wade in. I was just about to put my key in the ignition, when Wade said May I read to you? I didn ' t know how to answer, but before I could do so he had reached over into the back seat of my car where he had placed his book that he had autographed earlier in the evening, and he began to read. As I tell you now, I see the scene, I feel the scene, I can quite readily transplant myself from this room and replace myself in that deserted car park. Of course, I didn ' t know how to reply when Wade came to the end of his reading which was just simply a description that he had written of a hotel and its grounds in Haiti. But before I cold say anything — I was going to say something about his skill as a writer, the weaknesses, the strengths — but before I could say one word. Wade had plunged into reading a second paragraph and I sat. I simply became a listener, I was in no sense a participant. I didn ' t know why I was being used as a listener, I simply was. And the second reading gave place to the third, and he closed the book at the end of the third paragraph, and then he said I had to do that, I had to read to you, and then for the first time there began to dawn on me what was taking place, the nature of the ritual that I was taking part in. I turned towards Wade and he said You do understand, don ' t you, and extended his hand. I took it and he simply said, Thank you for reading to me, and nineteen years fell away, the circle was joined, I was back in the classroom with Coleridge, the totem was being returned in the handshake. The energy link was being made. It was a moment of mystery, of dignity, but most of all, 1 felt it was a moment of returning the totem where it belonged. And in essence, members of the 1986 class, together with my thanks for all your kindness, that is what I wish to say to you today. It really is in the form of a request to each one of you to return your totems, with grace, love and dignity. The last chapter of the story sees me returning home that same night, taking down my Coleridge, turning to the Dejection Ode, and reading the line: We receive but what we give. Thank you. It is difficult at any time for a student to have to speak following an adult, then it must be doubly difficult to have to follow such a speaker as Mr Bunch. Nicholas Spicer, the elected Valedictorian rose superbly to the occasion by saying: Guests of Honour, Parents, Staff and Classmates. What a distinguished audience this is! I thank my fellow graduates for allowing me the honour of addressing you. I can, however, make no apologies if in doing so they have cast a swine before pearls. The task of saying 90 goodbyes could be so awkwardly performed that I will be grateful if I merely prevent this auspicious occasion from becoming a trite one. I ask my friends in the graduating class for their understanding if my remarks do not fulfill their wishes; but no unified voice could tell me what to say. On the one hand the ladies begged me to bring tears for some cataclysmic heart-rendering they expect in leaving, while on the other the gentlemen wanted largely to chuckle at a retelling of their nefarious exploits. Neither request is suitable, however, because today should not be a forum either for gross sentiment or boasting; it is a simple day of parting. We graduates are about to see the end of our days here at Brentwood. We ' ve spent years here, growing tree-like in soil tendered and enriched by our teachers and taking such growth from this earth that the school has naturally become part of us. We have sent our thirsty roots deep here, but have not only taken — for as leaves fall the boughs above do renew the forest floor — so have we given of ourselves to those who stay on for the years ahead. If this is true, then today is a sharing; and a transplantation too, because wherever we go from today we shall take with us some of this school, and thus of each other. Today is not an uprooting, however; we will likely always hold these bonds; and so therefore we can be as sure of our origins and identities just as we can be certain that the latticework of friendships here today will never fade into decay until we ourselves do. So to bid farewell would seem shortsighted, as we are parts of all