The 2023 Chronicle

“There is a difference between becoming a leader and leading.”

and comprehension skills, regular reading has been linked to improved critical thinking and problem-solving abilities. Moreover, the exposure to diverse perspectives and narratives through literature fosters empathy and a deeper understanding of the world. As the English Department continues to champion a culture of reading in the school community, we recognize that the benefits extend far beyond the academic realm, influencing the holistic development of individuals and contributing to a more enriched and empathetic society; a society of “understanding, thought and culture”.

Although I’m no rugby captain nor future president, I have my own strengths and flairs that lead me onto the stage where my golden badge was presented. Instead of fixating on my perceived shortfalls, I realised that targeting my aptitudes would not only steer the house to new heights, but also burgeon me to the elusive ‘natural leader’ status. Dad always held the thin end of a tie in his left palm which I mirrored without question. I was so dumbfounded by his skilled knotting that it never occurred to me why he did this. He’s left handed. Only when I flipped the fabric to my dominant right did my silk blue garment finally accept its place around my neck. The canvas of the sky was awash with streaks of fiery orange and cobalt blue, casting an otherworldly glow on the metallic monolith that was the jungle gym. This towering structure, a Goliath amidst our playground, symbolized daunting adventure and raw courage. With its spindly arms reaching up towards the twilight, it enticed me to scale its heights, challenging my fears, and taste the fleeting thrill of juvenile admiration. Unbeknownst to me, this journey for validation was about to imprint a lifelong lesson, resonating like a lingering echo within me. At the tender age of eleven, I began my ascent on the jungle gym. My heart was alight with fervor; my blood humming with excitement. In its impish playfulness, the wind carried whispers of encouragement, punctuated by the fervent chorus of my peers. It was a siren call, pushing me to strive for acceptance, edging me closer to the precipice of danger. A tempest of fear, anticipation, and anxiety swirled within me. As the world around me began to lose its sharp edges, swallowed by an enveloping blur, the expectations of others became my puppet master. In this deafening crescendo of societal pressure, a gentle whisper found its way to me – a voice of reason and a beacon of my true self. It was a plea from my individuality, my authenticity, begging me to reconsider. But this soft-spoken appeal was soon drowned in the cacophony of conformity, a struggle for sound against the relentless tide of peer influence. I teetered on the brink of the dizzying height, neither fear nor courage occupying my mind, only an insatiable hunger for validation. Suddenly, there was a resounding CRACK! My foot collided with the ground. The sound of breaking bones echoed through the silence like a ghostly chorus. The voices of conformity shattered, falling around me like shards of fragile glass as I whimpered in unbearable pain. There, crumpled beneath the jungle gym, I was confronted by the unforgiving reality of my lost authenticity. The consequences of my capitulation to societal norms were etched in the echo of my broken foot and fragmented ego. ECHO OF FREEDOM By Josh Capazorio (A Block)

THE DOUBLE WINDSOR David du Toit (A Block)

This doesn’t look right. No matter how I contorted the knot of this tie, it seemed as if it didn’t want to be there. To be fair, its suffocating grip wasn’t my choice either. “A tie is a man’s pride,” Dad once said as he taught me to do my own. When he demonstrated the Double Windsor, I remembered the school prefects with slightly protruded chests and silky blue ties. It made them look dignified and holy. It made them look like men. Yet, no matter how well I followed Dad’s Double Windsor way, the silk blue prefect tie failed to have the same effect on me. The day of my election felt like your uncle’s second wedding. It followed all the ceremonial convention, a crowd even gave uncertain applause. I mean, you’ll never mention your uncle’s ex-wife at his next wedding, and somehow, that only makes the elephant in the room grow bigger. In the same way, every hand I shook that day quivered in hesitation not to mention the demoted prefect whose position I had usurped. I will never forget the reluctance in the corners of his lips as he pinned his golden badge onto my flimsy blazer. All I could do at that moment was try to fathom how long, if at all, I could convince everyone of this new façade. My initial strategy was to try to embody those pompous prefects of my early years at school, ‘fake it ‘till you make it.’ In their days, the words ‘respect’ and ‘fear’ were family. In fact, respect was the son of fear and, thus, the only way to achieve favour and authority was through the old iron fist. However, the school has undergone some ‘systemic reform’ since those days and rightfully so. No longer did the despotic regime have its footing in the boarding house. Nor do I possess its prerequisites of an impressive stature or a booming voice. In any case, I was an impostor among the ‘natural leaders’. Broad shoulders and reverberating commands were especially helpful in the art of herding teenage boys. Nine o’clock meant lights out and after finding the lights not out, I knew I had to put on the ‘Mr Prefect’ mask. I puffed my chest, tried on my most fear-inducing sneer, and began my shouting parade. The boys all scurried to their dorms, leaving me alone in the corridor – barring my faint reflection in the glass door. This person with balled fists and a rage-induced redness was one I never wanted to see again. I looked ridiculous. Before I could step aside to make that image disappear, I heard a whisper. Perhaps the school ghost wanted to share his two cents or maybe my reflection was muttering something to me. At this moment, I hoped for the former. Amidst the throbbing of my head as the adrenaline pumped out of my ears I heard a voice:

In the following weeks, the physical wounds healed, yet the clanking and clicking persisted – a haunting symphony of my

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