The pain of isolation

“My isolation overpowered my minimal confidence and heightened my fear of failure to the point of paralysis”

Speaker's Corner
Denise Horan

THERE was a time when I could rhyme off the names and uses of every chisel, plane and saw known to tradesmen. I was also pretty au fait with every different type of tree, the quality of timber produced by each and their potential uses.
Now, I’m afraid, most of this knowledge is locked away in that part of the memory bank labelled ‘useless information’. In spite of my dalliance with woodwork at school, I didn’t go on to become a carpenter. Which is no great surprise. While I was a good rote learner, mallets and chisels never sat too comfortably in my hands.
My decision to study woodwork for my Junior Cert probably stemmed from my aversion to Home Economics. I never envisaged that one day I’d build my own log cabin, but the prospects seemed less remote than of me becoming the housewives’ choice as baker or sewing machinist of the year.
So I ticked the woodwork box on the subject choice list and ended up alone in a class with 20-something boys.
True, I was a born tom-boy, whose preference for toy cars over dolls led to a number of blood-curdling rows with my unfortunate brother (I say unfortunate because while he was stronger than me and not afraid to use his strength to put me in my place, my ability to scream and shout was of Olympic medal standard and far more persuasive in winning over the referee – our mother) when we were kids. But, entering second year at the age of 13, I was mouse-like, had lost the penchant for tantrum-throwing and was totally ill-at-ease with boys of my own age.
I stood at a bench on my own, while the boys all paired up. They were by no means cruel and never once taunted or laughed at me. But they were boys and I was a solitary girl among them. I was alone. No ally, no confidante, no confidence-boosting partner-in-mischief.
If I were still learning woodwork to this day, I probably wouldn’t have improved markedly. But, I am convinced that if I hadn’t been alone there I would have been somewhat better. My isolation overpowered my minimal confidence and heightened my fear of failure to the point of virtual paralysis.
I wasn’t a complete disaster; I managed to cut some pieces of timber to the required dimensions and effected the odd miracle with the plane. I even did pretty well in my Junior Cert exam.
But, while I have no regrets about doing woodwork and don’t believe the subject to be incompatible with the abilities of girls, when I reflect on the environment I was in I shudder. It was neither a happy nor a healthy place for a 13-year-old girl to be.
The situation facing 12-year-old Meagan Kavanagh as the only girl among 400 boys in Nagle Community College in Mahon, Co Cork will be ten times worse, I fear. Her mother claims that Meagan wants to go to this school and I don’t doubt her. I wanted to do woodwork for my Junior Cert too, but I wish now someone had stopped me, or at least advised me of the potential isolation.
Meagan’s mother Gillian argues that Nagle College is the best school in the area. She points out that it is the closest to their home and that her daughter received her primary education in a school in the grounds of the college. She contends that many of her daughter’s friends are boys and she is content to be among them.
But will her daughter really be able to reach her potential in an environment where she is the odd one out, in an environment where she has no natural ally, no peer who fully understands the particular issues of adolescence for teenage girls?
Meagan Kavanagh’s parents may have recorded a great personal victory last week when they forced a single-sex school to become co-educational, but it will be a hollow one if their daughter’s best interests are not served by it.