Slavery is permitted in High School. It is called Sixth Form.

If you pass a few of your subjects and want a few A Levels to enter University without having to take the basic courses, you are allowed to enter Sixth Form.

High School ends at Fifth Form. Sixth is there to provide slaves to perform tasks otherwise salaried. As a Sixth Form Slave you are required to stay after school and set up chairs for P.T.A. meetings, clean the auditorium,
babysit underclassmen, sweep the halls, do any and everything that needs to be done, without pay. All you get is a crummy plastic badge which notifies all and sundry you are a Sixth Form Slave, available for deployment. You are to wear this badge with honour, despite the word Perfect being spelled wrong.

To be a Prefect is considered a privilege. This goes to show you the power of propaganda. Kids are supposed to dream of the day they can perform unpaid manual labour and wear that crummy plastic badge.

I entered servitude in September. I was not particularly enamoured of the fact I had to get up at the crack of dawn to reach school early where I could be tortured by First Formers who seemed unable to grasp the principles of liningup.

I was not thrilled to stay late whenever there was a school function. And I especially wasn’t overjoyed to have to attend school on a weekend for some project.

Getting to wear a crummy plastic badge with the word Perfect spelled wrong just didn’t seem fair compensation.

It was the Saturday before Christmas Break when the Home Economics Teacher demanded that all Sixth Form Slaves give up one day of their weekend to attend school, in uniform, to bake cookies for an orphanage. This was considered an “honour”, proof of our trustworthiness, this is what it meant to be a Prefect.

In the ancient days of which I write, there were no blenders or mixers, it was all handwork. As the smallest person in the class one would have thought I’d be given the job of cookie cutting, not batter stirring. But there I was, standing on a stool with an enormous spoon that probably belonged to Goliath, trying to stir cookie
dough which had the consistency of dried cement, recalcitrantly posed in a vat so deep that if I had fallen in they’d have to send for sniffer dogs.

I felt like a galley slave and quietly hummed cadence as I pulled the spoon back and forth, imagining the teacher cracking a whip.

I don’t know what demon possessed me to put my little finger into the dough, but I did. Then conveyed it to my mouth.

The Home Economic’s teacher let out a shriek as if the oven had exploded. As eyes turned to her, she made public service announcements concerning my complete corruption in stealing cookies meant for the poor orphans. She went on and on, making me feel as if I’d swallowed all fifteen pounds of dough, and through this act of depravity, condemned pitiful orphans to starvation.

On top of her screaming, debasing, and otherwise humiliating conduct, she topped it off by plucking my Prefect badge from my uniform and decreeing that I was “unsound” and could not hold such high office, then ordered me to leave the Home Economics classroom immediately.

So, there I was, on a Saturday, released from my duties, expected to suffer great anguish that I was not in the hot and smelly Home Economics classroom building my biceps trying to stir cookie dough, but outside, free for the rest of the day.

As I walked home I tried to figure out why I didn’t feel shame or hurt at being debadged. Why I felt rather happy to get back most of my Saturday while other Sixth Form Slaves would be baking cookies until three o’clock. I came to the conclusion that I was lazy. Worse than lazy. I embraced sloth. I was a slothful unsound sixth former. I liked the way it sounded. I tried to say it three times fast. I was pretty good with tongue twisters. In fact, if there ever was a position available as C.E.O. at the Tongue Twister Factory I’m sure I’d be hired.

As I had been debadged, there was no reason for me to attend school early save to fool my mother. I could leave the house, dawdle as a slothful unsound sixth former, meandering my way to the High School.

I didn’t have the responsibility of getting underclassmen in two straight lines. I was unsound and could not be entrusted with such crucial responsibility.

I didn’t have to take attendance, one could not entrust such a duty to an unsound slothful sixth former.

I was no longer permitted to clean up the kitchen after lunch as this was a job requiring extreme soundness, and I was certifiably unsound.

I didn’t see the punishment here, but assumed it was because I was “unsound”.

At the end of a day’s classes I didn’t have to stay for Prefect Meetings. I could dally my way back home, because I was unsound. Being unsound seemed kind of nice.

When Sixth Form slaves were sweeping the floor I could advise;
“You missed a spot.”
When they were having to set up and dismantle projects, I could watch.
When teachers asked why I wasn’t working I told them,
“I’ve been debadged,” with a glee that made them question my soundness.

As my parents might murder me if they found out I was debadged I never told them. It wasn’t until March they learned the truth. During my home trial I’d told them about the cookie dough incident, but they didn’t believe me. They made many aspersions as to my character and denigrated my lying ability. Before execution they wanted the truth, so went up to school to confront the Principal.

Keeping a vise grip on my arms, my parents marched me into the cluttered office of The Principal, whose face had frozen into a mask of disdain. My parents informed her that they had heard I had been debadged and the reason I had given was so ridiculous they needed to hear the truth. They could take it.

The Principal admitted she had no idea I’d been debadged and would confer with the Home Economic’s Teacher. My execution was postponed until my parents knew exactly what they were killing me for.

While waiting for the information to be inscribed on my death warrant, I was grounded. I could attend no parties, see no movies and could not watch television.

Fortunately, this did not go on very long. The Principal phoned my mother, confirmed my story, and added that I
should attend her office to be reinstated. My parents released me from solitary confinement without apology, certain there was some “hidden” reason that was so horrendous it could not be put into words.

Although unable to fully comprehend the ramifications it seemed to me that not being a Prefect released me from Sixth Form Slavery.

I could sleep later in the mornings, come home earlier in the afternoon, was exempt from all duties, responsible for nothing. With all respect, I didn’t much care for the crummy plastic badge anyway.

I never went to the Principal’s office to be reinstated. I understand that being a Prefect is supposed to teach you ‘leadership’. I thought it taught how to do unpaid work as if it was a privilege.

When I left High School I went to University where I took only those courses I had aptitude for so did well. I
joined various organisations which promised no chance of advancement, so I didn’t have to worry about being appointed to anything.

I aspired to sit in the last row and beyond visiting the refreshment table, do nothing. On the rare occasion a misguided soul put my name forward as a candidate for a lots of work/no pay position, I declined.

In most cases, other members are so anxious to be chairman of the clean up squad, fundraising committee or exalted secretarial positions, I go unnoticed.

When there are ten members present and ten tasks, one person takes two as I am unsound.

I never volunteer. If it looks like it’s going to be work, I don’t show up for the meeting. This is fine, I’m just a
member. One of many warm bodies to flesh out a simpleton rally. No one depends on me. I’m unsound and could not be entrusted with any task beyond sitting and looking.

Many times I’ve put my sloth in danger by proving competent or advancing an idea. If it wasn’t for megalomania, I’d be holding political office today. Fortunately, other people are so power mad they’ll run down any position, whether or not they can manage it. In fact, most people aspire to positions they can’t manage or know what it entails. Toss a title, ask, ‘Who wants to be President of Fish Binding?’ and see the hands go up.

Since I have no aspirations for titles, offices or power, everyone wants me to be in their club. I make my selections on the basis of times of meetings and the refreshments offered.

Nothing I enjoy more than sitting in a corner in the back, my legs on a vacant chair, watching everyone scurry around, working themselves into a frenzy over a cake sale, rally, bingo, or other activity. If it’s going to cost money or demand work, I’m not going, so there’s no need for me activate a brain cell to follow the debate.
I can sleep with my eyes wide open, and outside of signing my name to the register, the only work I do is lifting my coffee cup.

As I get older I notice I look younger than my age. This is because I don’t have as much stress. I’m not staying up all night to type minutes, I don’t have to take a second job to pay my phone bill. I’m not being crucified because a function I “chaired” failed. I don’t have to talk to people I don’t like so that they’ll vote for me. In fact, I don’t even have to vote.

No one will ever blame me if tickets aren’t sold, or cookies aren’t baked.

I realise that most of the world sees debadgement as a demotion. That being titleless is somehow debasing.
Everybody seems to want power and responsibility, grading themselves on how much “service” they give, and the positions they occupy.

I took my debadgement as a gift, an emancipation. I guess that wasn’t what the Home Economics teacher envisioned.