School days are the best but these are the worst

May 09, 2010 News

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School days are among the best days of one’s life. During my childhood days my parents, but more specifically, my mother spared no effort in reminding me of this fact. The problem, though, is that I could not begin to understand what my mother saw in school that caused her to describe that institution in such glowing terms.
I can hardly remember the details of primary school except when I received my report after exams in standard three and discovered that I had topped the class. I ran all the way home to my parents and shoved the report card into their hands and waited expectantly for the accompanying praise and maybe a promise of a special gift. I received neither. That certainly did not daunt my spirits and I continued to apply myself to my studies despite this snub.
I also discovered that the higher the level, the more difficult the subjects appeared. I passed the Common Entrance Examinations and earned a place at the North Ruimveldt Multilateral School. The late Clement Sylvester was the headmaster then and he ruled with an iron fist. He was a no nonsense person and one trip to his office was all that a student needed to pull up his/her socks.
I was disgusting but always managed to evade the swishing rod that Mr. Sylvester wielded, that is until one day when I used an indecent word in the presence of my Technical Drawing teacher.
It really is funny that I cannot remember his name. He marched me up before “Cassava Joe” as Mr. Sylvester was dubbed, and I was given an opportunity to defend myself. Naturally, I lied through my teeth, “No Sir, I did not curse!”
Cassava Joe was thorough. He launched an investigation at the end of which I was found guilty and sentenced to six lashes with the wild cane. After that experience I vowed never to make the mistake again. Furthermore, I did not want my mother to learn of that episode or you could have bet your bottom dollar that I would have received a second dose when I got home that afternoon.
Mr. Narine was one of my Technical Drawing teachers. He was a short dumpy fellow and like all short men, he was long in speech. He spoke a lot to make up for his height.
It was around that time that I had decided to try my hands at boxing. I entered an Under-16 championship and defeated a boxer by the name of Keiron Maynard and won the best boxer prize in the process.
I took my trophy to school and enjoyed the attention my achievement netted me. Everyone was happy for me except Mr. Narine. He did everything within his power to downplay my achievement. I do not know why I got angry but I did. I challenged him to a contest and he took up the offer.
Mr. Maurice Gilbert (he is still alive and if he is reading this would laugh until the tears flow), was the referee and the lookout for Cassava Joe. The bell was a milk tin that the boys had found in a corner of the metalwork department. It sounded once and that was the only time it did. I dished out a first class licking on Mr. Narine and in less than two minutes later it was all over.
That was not the end as the tantalize followed. Someone asked Mr. Narine to explain what happened and he attempted to do so. “I saw the punch coming and ducked but Benjie was all over me and I slipped down,” he began.
His audience listened as he continued, “Benjie threw a left hook but I slipped down and got up back. He unleashed an uppercut to my body but I slipped and got up back. He then tried an overhand right but I slipped and got up back ….”
By now, Mr Narine had attracted quite a large audience. Someone then cut him off, “But Sir you really brave, if was me I woulda mess up meself.” Mr. Narine looked him in the eye and asked, “What do you think I was skating on? Sawdust?”
Schooldays are now different. I saw a woman in East Ruimveldt one day. She held a piece of greenheart wood in her hand and was searching for the home of a teacher who had beaten her son.
In my days I did not want my mommy to know I was beaten in school. It would have been curtains for me.
Keith Burrowes was the head of the student body and what Cassava Joe missed, he saw. When he spoke, it was Cassava Joe speaking. I am not surprised that Mr. Burrowes turned out to be what he is today. He really had it in him since school days.
I did it all in the school locker—gambling, skulking from classes, attempting to lure the young ladies onto myself—I did it all. Yet I left Multi with a rounded education. Those were the days my teacher referred to as ‘these terrible days.’ Today, they are the ‘good old days.’
What is even more frightening is that these very days, when children are going to school with guns in their bags, beating up their teachers and generally engaged in all sorts of deviant behaviour, will soon be the good old days.  As the junior calypso queen sang, “Momma, I don’t want to be born.”

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