Jnr’s Year 11 Secondary School Prom approaches…

Some of his classmates have been planning their ‘dates’ since Year 10, but just recently things have begun to hot up. Careful pairings have been agreed, dresses booked. The number of remaining singles has dwindled fast. Meanwhile, Jnr, aka Mr Mañana Man, has dragged his feet.

In the last six weeks, on and off, I have been party to a recurring conversation…

Me: Have you asked C to the prom yet?

Jnr: Nah. Not yet, no.

Me: Has she agreed to go with anyone else yet?

Jnr: I don’t think so.

Me: She’s waiting for you to ask her.

Jnr: Nah.

Me: She is. I’m telling you. Just ask her. Why not ask her?

Jnr: Dunno. Not the right moment.

Me: Why not? She can only say no.

Jnr: Exactly.

Me: But she won’t say no.

Jnr: *I’m not going if I can’t go with her.

Me: Then ask her. He who hesitates is lost. She’ll think you’re not interested. She’ll find someone else.

Jnr: Yeah. Tell me something I don’t know.

Me: [Laughs] What are you waiting for?

Jnr: [Emits a low moan] A week when I haven’t been a twat in class, when I can get her on her own…  Like yesterday.

Me: And?

Jnr: We got talking and. [Emits another low moan] It just went out of my head.

Me: Aw.

………………………………………………………………..

When I left school we were hardly aware of the date approaching.

The typical Seventies Comprehensive School Leaver’s Disco was a naff, disorganised, damp squib. The caretaker strung a few balloons and lights from a gantry in the drama room. There were no Goths, no Chavs, no Emos, no costumes, no concept of ‘dates’, definitely no limos. We put on our nothing-special glad rags - jeans mostly - applied a spritz of Charlie - tsssst! - gave our kissers a hopeful squirt of Gold Spot - tsssst! - a slick roll-on of cherrycoke lip-gloss (that stuff was like glue, if you ever did kiss a boy wearing it, he jolly well stayed there), hair - tssst! tssst! - were given a lift to school by our Dads, had a quick menthol ciggie behind the PE block, and crossed the threshold to adulthood, oblivious and entirely unnoticed. We cast off our school uniforms and left behind an important phase of our lives, feeling vaguely cheated, but not knowing quite why.

So I’m all in favour of this newfangled ritual, the Noughties Prom. I’ve had debates with people who think the fad for the The Prom is all Me-generation sleb-style excess, a vulgar American add-on which pastes tacky glitz onto the miserable acned face of traditional British adolescence. I disagree. I think the way the Americans have formalised and framed the transition from High School to life beyond - as a positive celebration - hits exactly the right note.

I’ve watched Jnr and his friends begin to assume a new maturity as the Prom draws closer. For a start, the fact that they’re looking forward to it is focussing their minds. Even the exams, which are inextricably linked to the Prom whether they like it or not, are coming into focus. This has benefits for everyone, for the imminent leavers themselves, and for their parents and teachers. Fear is sweetened by fun.

Because of the Prom, the Year 11’s seem to realise the transition is a big event and sense that they have an important part to play in it. There’s pride, not dread.  The need for planning ahead has helped; from what I’ve observed, the complex social negotiations and group activities which lead up to a Prom demand some fairly grown-up skills. As the details are finalised, these nascent adults are beginning to take the next stage of life,  and themselves, more seriously.

For the boys and girls to be formal, to wear stiff evening dress and have to deport themselves with a touch of decorum during a rite of passage, I think is a good thing. It’s the start of learning a useful trick - how to slip into a role and behave - at least at the start of the evening - like model proto-adults.

As for the credit crunch doom-mongers - it’s not necessary to spend a fortune to do The Prom in style. The frippery is there to add to the mystery, to make the event memorable, to acknowledge a set of significant farewells and foreshadow a new phase. Prom night itself is intended to be a game of ‘Let’s Pretend’ and the elements of fantasy needn’t be expensive, they just have to decorate the gaudy gateway, help everyone to capture the moment of gauche precocity on the cusp, decked in glamour and dressed in fun.

Some have argued against the Noughties phenomenon of The Prom because it can be seen as a coercive heterosexist charade. There is a Barbie and Ken element to some of the clothing chosen, it’s true, but last year, one of the best dressed Prom couples at Jnr’s school was openly gay. It was scarcely commented upon. Having grown up in the Seventies and read accounts of the miseries endured at school by gay contemporaries on forums, I know this fact represents progress.

The sweet sixteens of 2008 may be a little dreamy about red carpets, for sure, a little dazzled by the X-Factor, but they’re not sleepwalking nihilistically into their futures with no demarcation line, the way my generation did.  They have a sense of direction and entitlement which will help them. If the more aware among them ask themselves, as we did, as they leave school and hover on the brink of what is looking like the start of another cyclical recession: **’What Do I Get?’ the answer in 2008 is - at the very least - you get to go to The Prom.

…………………………………………………………………

Update. Jnr came home from school whistling yesterday.

Me: How was your day, then?

Jnr: I-astCeetothprob.

Me: What?

Jnr: I-astCeetothprob.

Me: What?

Jnr: I-astCeetothprob.

Me: Look. Slowly and clearly, word by word.

Jnr: I ASKED C TO THE PROM!

Me: Hurrah! [Waits. Nothing] And?

Jnr: SHE SAID [Pauses for effect] YESSS! - MACHOP!

Me: Great. That’s great. See. What did I tell you. [Sings] ‘Jnr and C. In a tree. K-I-S-S-I-N-G.’

Jnr: Shuddup. [Smiles]

………………………………………………………………………………
I was sixteen in the summer of the War of the Worlds - a battle raged in the UK Singles Charts between Disco and New Wave - there was Another Music in a Different Kitchen. Barry Manillo caved to Siouxsie Sioux. Take a Chance on Me wrestled Because the Night.  Donna Summer went up against Sham 69. On the outside there was no contest, I’d abandoned my purple Spandex™ flares for a pair of skinny jeans and a baggy jumper, but secretly in my heart I still loved a good Disco tune. I still do. This would have been my Prom classic.

*If I Can’t Have You: Yvonne Elliman

** The Buzzcocks

Last Modified : October 24th, 2008 Filed under : excuses, excuses, fortywhatever Navigate : Previous post / Next post