Written by Anju Dhanushkodi

I was 11 when I heard the words ‘selective school’ for the very first time.

My parents and I had just moved to Sydney from Melbourne, and I was in Year 5 when they were discussing my high school prospects with other friends.

Immediately, I did not want to go. I considered myself smart, which was validated by all the awards I received in primary school and did not want to go somewhere where I was required to prove it.

However, after countless talks about ‘my future’ and my parents’ unwavering faith that I would succeed, I reluctantly entered the world of selective school tutoring.

For the unaware, selective schools are schools tailored for ‘gifted and talented’ students. Although, anyone could be ‘gifted and talented,’ if they were simply hardworking enough, and the fastest way to track this was through tutoring.

Immediately, I was thrust into an environment where almost everyone looked like me. Comparisons abounded, and statistics about each school entry mark were hammered into my brain. However, my parents had immense confidence in me. Despite only realising the existence of selective schools in Year 5 (which is where most coaching centres would deem the danger zone) they made sure to quash any self-doubt I had.

They refused to send me to classes the coaching experts stated were necessary, encouraged me to push myself and rewarded any small milestones I had achieved.

Two days after my 12th birthday, when I was pacing my room, my parents entered beaming, and told me I had gained acceptance in my top school preference. I had made it in!

I didn’t know it at the time, but going to a selective school would become an involuntary part of my identity for the next six years. The selective school bubble is something that you do not realise you are entering until you are in it. It prioritises academics, normalises crazy hours of tutoring, and carries with it a silent judgement and a constant comparison.

Although it can be empowering, it can also be tough: realising that I was no longer the smartest in the room, but rather surrounded by other primary school award winners was a hard truth to swallow.

Marks below an A are seen as less worthy, and rankings can be disparaging. It’s hard to have an open perspective, because you are in such a closed environment. Your worth can be so closely tied up with your marks. Although my parents never compared me to other students, I would do so, silently taking in averages and medians to figure out where I stood.

My thinking changed; I would find myself feeling satisfied with an 86, only for it to dissipate upon seeing someone with full marks. While I was genuinely happy for all my friends’ and their academic success, there would be a part of me that wished I was a little more smart.

I was smart enough to be in a smart school, but not smart enough to top any classes. 

I was wrecked with doubt in my first Term of Year 11. I was one of a handful that had not picked an extension subject, and was grappling with the fact I would be seen as ‘not smart enough’ in a smart school. Taking an extension subject was almost a given - a norm. It showed that you were capable enough of harder subjects and willing to put in the work. It would not be my parents who placed this burden on me, but myself. Looking back, I don’t even think I would have wanted to take an extension subject, but in some twisted, academic FOMO, I felt like I should. As we entered senior school, even A’s (85+) were not seen as enough, as we all strived to reach the haven of a Band 6 (90+). When my school dropped marginally in the state rankings, it felt like a blow to my identity.

The times where I’ve stepped out from my selective school bubble have been jarring, but also needed. Fully selective schools enrol the highest proportion of socioeconomically advantaged students, and as a result, many of my peers shared similar problems. It was only in state camps, or trips where I was forced to step out of the bubble, where I met people who put my problems in perspective. While I was worrying over my grades, some of them were worrying over finding a place to stay for the night. Despite being the same age, they lived lives completely different to me and my friends.

I cannot speak for everyone, but in my school we have spoken about the bubble. Although my peers and I sometimes despise the bubble sheltering us, we also take comfort in the security it gives us. It allows us to be in an environment where academics are seen as empowering; despite any ‘bad mark,’ we know it is only bad relatively, and by our own standards. I would beam with pride when I mentioned the name of my high school, validated by the brown immigrant nod of approval.

It was one of the first environments where I truly felt comfortable with my culture and my language. Asian food, instead of being the minority, became the norm, and the school would be an explosion of colour on multicultural days. Once, when I was attending a dinner at a university, I unconsciously looked around for the people of colour, before coming to the realisation that me and my friends were the only people of colour.

I have my moments with the bubble, but it is ultimately something I am grateful for. I have made friends to whom I don’t have to explain what the food in my lunchbox is. I have a cohort that despite competition, will rally together when it matters. While we fervently studied for ourselves during exam blocks, with that same enthusiasm, we would share notes, drives and resources for others, knowing the only way to bring up our rank was to rise up together.

Although I know that my time within the bubble is coming to an end, I am simultaneously apprehensive and yet looking forward to stepping out.

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This piece was originally posted on the SAARI Collective page. The SAARI Collective is a collective of talented South Asian Australians who believe in creating the future of South Asian Australia.

https://saaricollective.com.au/community/blog/to-select-or-not-to-select-a-students-perspective-on-the-selective-school-bubble/