In 1979 I moved from Oxford to Orkney. I landed at a small rural Presbyterian school in an Afghan jacket, flared embroidered jeans, and a necklace, sporting shoulder length hair. I smelt of goat. Framed by the doorway, my future classmates looked at me, and I looked at them. This was more a Roswell than a Ring of Bright Water moment. Looking and sounding different, even when you speak the same language, breeds feelings of isolation, resentment, frustration, judgment, discrimination, and anger. All you can do is wait and hope for change. Much has been written about the exam performance …