Never Read the Instructions
The Genesis of The Nine Lives of Jacob Fallada
In the weeks before
leaving high school, our deputy headteacher devised a short multiple-choice test
to help pupils prepare for their final examinations.
“You have half an hour to complete this
simple questionnaire,” he said, checking his wristwatch. “Remember to read the
instructions very carefully.”
Eager to impress, to showcase
my zeal and intelligence, I turned over the top sheet and read the first
question.
1.) Before attempting to answer any of the questions on this
questionnaire (1-100) read each individual question through to the end (1-100).
Seeing this as a waste of time, I ignored the instructions and began to
work my way through a strangely simplistic series of questions. What colour is
the sky? Circling the word Blue, I
moved on to the next: What is two plus two. Others, like Question 7, for
instance, were even more perplexing:
7.) Say: “I follow my teachers’ instructions to the letter” out loud.
This I did, in confident, assured tones, to show the deputy-head the
rate of my progress. Not once, as I continued to speed through the rest of the
questionnaire, did it strike me as odd that none of my fellow classmates
shouted out the same sentence after me.
Only when I reached the end of the
questionnaire, Question 100, did I find out why; did I realise my mistake.
100.) Now you have read all questions, put your pen aside, sit quietly
and await further instructions. You do not need to fill in this questionnaire.
This test has been devised solely to teach you an important lesson in life:
always read the instructions carefully. That way, you will avoid any foolish,
unnecessary mistakes.
On reading that last fateful question I felt crushed; I wanted the room
to swallow me whole. I daren't look up, for fear of not only catching a harsh,
disapproving glance from the deputy-head, but mocking looks from my far more
conscientious classmates.
In many ways, the whole sorry
scene summed up my entire school experience. Instead of encouraging pupils, nurturing
their talents, the teachers were more interested in tripping them up or
catching them out. Instead of devising a test to help children flourish, to
showcase their skills, the deputy-head devised an exercise to embarrass and
humiliate them, an exercise in conceit.
And I know that many people
reading this won’t agree, that they’ll think that he succeeded in his objective:
creating a clever, instructive test to show pupils the importance of reading
instructions carefully. But to my mind it was designed solely to service his
own sense of superiority, and was indicative of a far deeper malaise.
Back then, the education system had lost all sense
of its true purpose. The school I attended, a crumbling secondary modern, had a
supremely unmotivated workforce, during times of industrial action, strikes, Thatcher,
the National Union of Teachers. Any talent or aptitude a pupil displayed was
discouraged or simply ignored. The Nine
Lives of Jacob Fallada is my eighth release, but I honestly can’t remember
reading a single book all the way through to the end, the whole time I was at
school. Regardless, I loved English classes, standing up and reading in front of
my fellow pupils, sometimes putting on funny voices, performing to a certain
extent, in the way younger people naturally do, without embarrassment or
restraint, the self-consciousness which very much confines them to their shells
when they grow older and life really grabs them by the throat. I was a gifted
sportsmen – football, cricket, tennis, athletics, swimming – but the sports-masters
treated each PE lesson as a platform on which they themselves were meant to
shine.
Self-expression, the freedom
to explore your own potential capabilities were roundly crushed, spat upon. Instead
of letting a child’s natural creative streaks flourish, the teachers wanted to
invent spurious restrictions, rules and regulations, just like that stupid
multiple-choice test.
And I think it was probably
memory of this, the anger at having so many doors slammed in my face at such a
young age, which (many years later) provided the inspiration for the character
of Jacob Fallada. In some respects, I see each of his nine lives (and I’m
talking figuratively here) as representative of the talents I may have
developed in the art or music room, in drama class, on the sports field or
running track, but which were trampled underfoot, maybe the stolen talents of
all my fellow classmates, too, or any child who enters the education system
full of potential, only to have it routinely crushed by a bunch of bitter, mediocre,
unfulfilled, spineless non-entities.
For that reason, as sad as
Jacob Fallada’s fate is at the end of the book (and I won’t let anything
further slip – you’ll have to read it if you want to know what happens to him),
I do feel that anyone who has ever wanted to express themselves in life, just
like Jacob with his sketches and poems, and who has met with nothing but
discouragement, resistance, ambivalence, outright hostility, but still
preserved, regardless, has a little of Jacob inside them. And that, to my mind,
whether they are young, old, or hovering somewhere in between, is far from a
bad thing, because it shows that those bastard teachers don’t win every time.
Never read the instructions.
#IamJacobFallada
The Nine Live of Jacob Fallada (J.New Books 2019) is now available to purchase in
paperback and all electronic formats. Click on the link below to buy you copy
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