School’s out School memories
Fashion designer Tomasz Starzewski, explains how a boyhood prank forced his parents to rethink his education
Poles Apart
I was the younger of two boys, born in 1961, to Polish parents who were given political asylum in Britain after the war. So our English education was slightly diff erent from the other children that I grew up with, and very much infl uenced by the history of the day. My parents didn’t have a childhood. It was torn to pieces when they were arrested in 1939 and deported to the gulags in Siberia. My parents were lucky and were rescued when Russia joined the Allies in 1941. Along with thousands of other children, they marched
with the rescued soldiers across Russia into Iran, fi nally sailing to Alexandria. T ey were educated as they went, but it wasn’t until they reached Palestine and were put into military schools that they received a formal education. With the defeat of Germany and the emergence of the USSR as a super power, there was no possibility for these Poles to return back to their homeland, so England gave them asylum and they settled here. Polish schools where created to fi nish their education. And as with my parents, nearly all these children married each other, perhaps for the security of shared experiences and the hope of returning to their country of birth. We were not allowed to forget our roots. We spoke
Polish at home and until I went to primary school, the English language was a mystery to me. School was a Roman Catholic primary in Roehampton and Saturdays were spent learning Polish literature, language and history. My brother Mark is four years older and was always getting into trouble. But as with most families of that time, it was always assumed that I would follow in his educational footsteps. My parents were not to know that I was dyslexic. When I was nine, my brother was sent away to a Franciscan Polish boarding school in Henley, but a boyhood prank on his part changed my school career. T is lead to his expulsion, the resignation of my father from the board of Governors and a dramatic change in my schooling. My father ruled that this was to be the end of our Catholic education. Henceforth we would be sent to an English Protestant school and we would also not be sent
82 FirstEleven Summer 2011
away, as clearly we could not be trusted to behave. A suitable school was found in Emanuel School, in Wandsworth. My father reassured my mother, who was concerned about our spiritual education, by continuing to send us to a Polish Saturday school right up until our A levels. Like so many children of displaced immigrants, education was top of their list. Playtime was not. I was a chubby, non-sporty, artistic child and my
brother’s reputation as a troublemaker protected me. Emanuel was a very academically driven school and
required us to take 11 subjects for “O” level. My parents were quick to react when they felt we were not achieving. From the age of 13, if they felt that I was just not getting the expected results, my mother would fi nd the appropriate tutors. Very soon, I found that unlike the other children, for whom 5.30 was the end of the school day, we would have a lesson at home, four days a week, and that was on top of the prep that was set. To cap all this, I still had Saturday school. Rebellion was inevitable. I played truant on Saturdays. I managed 9 “O” levels, but now the battle really started. To my parents utter horror, I had always wanted to be a fashion designer. My grandmother had instilled in me a love of Paris Couture and I wanted to do Art, History of Art and Economics. Both art subjects were dismissed by my parents, but a compromise was found. I was sent to Kingston College of Further Education which catered for unusual combinations of subjects and double maths was added to my curriculum. Kingston had one of the highest “A” level pass rates in the country but was a complete culture shock. Jumping from an all-boys school into a mixed system with a semi university-style lecture system, where teachers were not dictating your entire week, was a revelation. It was, however, a fantastic stepping stone to St
Martins School of Art, as the college attracted original students. I was a Polish boy bought up in a conservative family who was about to dive into an art school immersed in a culture of Punk and New Romantics. I never looked back.
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