In one sense, Boy is an immigrant story. Roald’s mother and father both emigrated from Norway to Britain, where Roald’s father establishes a successful business and makes his fortune. Harald’s dying wish is for his children to attend English schools, insisting that he’s heard everywhere that they are the best possible education available. This decision leads to almost all of the discomfort and unhappiness that Roald experiences in Boy, although he never blames his father for it outright. Although the Dahls may not bear many external signs of foreignness in Britain, they are nonetheless foreigners—and none more so than Roald’s mother, who honors Harald’s wish without always buying in to English customs. When Roald is in dismay over his Repton school uniform, for instance, she cheers him up by pointing out that Englishmen enjoy wearing “eccentric” clothes, gently mocking the markers of English wealth while also reassuring Roald that emulating them is beneficial to him.
More seriously, Roald’s mother takes issue with Mr. Coombes’s caning of a seven-year-old Roald, and when Mr. Coombes tells her that his method of discipline is standard for British schooling and implies that she must not understand it because she’s a “foreigner,” she resolves to remove Roald from the school at the end of the year. Although Roald agrees with his mother in condemning the excessive corporal punishment that Mr. Coombes uses, it becomes clear by the end of Boy that Mr. Coombes was right about one thing: if Roald’s experiences are any indication, beating children does seem to be a major part of the British schools’ method of discipline. Despite this, Roald comes to directly argue against excessive corporal punishment, picking apart the contradictions that lie at the heart of this English practice. In these moments, Boy subtly attacks English nationalism, suggesting that the English are not as superior as they often claim to be.
English Nationalism ThemeTracker
English Nationalism Quotes in Boy
[Mama’s] husband had always stated most emphatically that he wished all his children to be educated in English schools. They were the best in the world, he used to say. Better by far than the Norwegian ones. Better even than the Welsh ones, despite the fact that he lived in Wales and had his business there. He maintained that there was some kind of magic about English schooling and that the education it provided had caused the inhabitants of a small island to become a great nation and a great Empire and to produce the world’s greatest literature.
About an hour later, my mother returned and came upstairs to kiss us all goodnight.
‘I wish you hadn’t done that,’ I said to her. ‘It makes me look silly.’
‘They don’t beat small children like that where I come from,’ she said. ‘I won’t allow it.’
‘What did Mr. Coombes say to you, Mama?’
‘He told me that I was a foreigner and I didn’t understand how British schools were run,’ she said.
‘Did he get ratty with you?’
‘Very ratty,’ she said. ‘He told me that if I didn’t like his methods I could take you away.’
‘What did you say?’
‘I said I would, as soon as the school year is finished. I shall find you an English school this time,’ she said. ‘Your father was right. English schools are the best in the world.’
All my summer holidays, from when I was four years old to when I was seventeen (1920-1932), were totally idyllic. This, I am certain, is because we always went to the same idyllic place and that place was Norway.
Except for my ancient half-sister and my not-quite-so-ancient half-brother, the rest of us were all pure Norwegian by blood. We all spoke Norwegian and all our relations lived over there. So in a way, going to Norway every summer was like going home.