The preceding afternoon as I passed through the school gates on the way to my homeward-bound bus, Potter fell into step beside me, his bulk easily dwarfing my six-foot frame.
“Hi, Sir.” It was the very first time he had ever spoken to me other than in reluctant response to a question or request. My surprise ran a poor second to my curiosity.
“Hello, Potter.” He carried his bulk so easily I wondered if he was good at any games; in the playground he usually lounged against a wall on the periphery of a chattering group, slouched down as if to reduce himself to acceptable size.
“Going to the bus stop, Sir?”
“Yes, Potter. The Green Line stop at the top of Commercial Road.”
For someone from whom I had been accustomed to hear only “Yes, Sir” or “No, Sir,” he suddenly had become quite garrulous. Curiouser and curiouser. For awhile we walked on in silence, me wondering why the signal honor. Then, “About tomorrow, Sir.”
“Well, Potter, what about tomorrow?” Still curious.
“Me mum’s got to go to hospital tomorrow and I’m to look after the young ’un. Me kid brother, Sir.”
This was a familiar, even routine situation. In their families everyone helped; attendance at school was not the top priority.
“Anything serious?”
“No, Sir, not really. But since the new baby she’s got to go every so often for a checkup and that.”
“Good. Will she be back in time for you to attend the afternoon session?”
“Oh, yes, Sir.”
“That’s fine then, Potter. Please give her my best wishes when you go home.”
“Okay, Sir.” He continued walking beside me, forcing me to quicken my stride to match his easy swing. Then, “About tomorrow, Sir.”
“Well, what about tomorrow?”
“I mean about my turn, Sir.” The penny belatedly dropped.
“What about it?”
“Only that I won’t be able to do it, Sir.”
“Never mind, Potter. Someone else will stand in for you, and you can take his place the day after tomorrow.”
“No need to do that, Sir, me changing places, I mean. You know me, sir, I don’t know anything to talk to them about.”
We’d reached the bus stop and I joined the end of the queue with the hefty lad beside me continuing his plea.
“You can ask anybody, Sir, the staff, anybody, and they’ll tell you, Sir. No sense in me taking a turn, Sir.”
I wished the bus would hurry. Those nearest us in the queue were showing too much interest in me and the pleading youth whose voice sounded louder than I had ever heard it.
“Tell you what you’ll do, Potter,” I said quietly, “just stand before the class for five minutes. Give them your rank and serial number and go back to your seat.” The joke misfired. He merely stared at me as if I were the dopey one.
“What, Sir?”
“Nothing. Forget it.”
“Okay, Sir. Can we forget about tomorrow, too, Sir?” He wouldn’t leave it alone. Some in the queue were grinning, though I felt sure they had no idea what we were talking about. Perhaps it was his size or haircut. Or the worried look on his round face.
I tried another ploy, whispering, “Potter, everyone knows something about something. So talk for five minutes about, well, your baby brother. Anything. When I was your age in British Guiana, I did things. Hobbies. Games. Anything. And if I got bored I’d cut a green bamboo pole, trim it, tie a piece of string to the thin end, a piece of cork and a bent pin to the other end of the string, fasten an earthworm on the pin and go fishing. Everyone does something, Potter.”
But he wasn’t listening. The face above me opened to let out a roar of laughter, sudden and loud, drawing from those near us quick, empathic smiles. “You’re pulling me leg, Sir,” he managed between chuckles.
“Why? What’s so funny?”
“You didn’t catch any fish with that lot, did you?”
“Of course I caught fish.”
He shook his head in disbelief, the face still creased in smiles. “I was only thinking, Sir, that p’raps it’s different where you come from. If you try that over here you’d be waiting for your first bite.” More laughter from him and smiles from our instant audience.
“An earthworm is an earthworm and a fish is a fish, Potter. What’s so special about English fish?”
“Well, you see, Sir, I go fishing and I can tell you … ”
With a squeal of brakes my bus arrived. Remembering what had started the thing I said, “Okay, Potter, tell me tomorrow.” Still shaking his head he left me, and I climbed aboard.
The next morning I’d forgotten all about the incident. Registration was proceeding as usual when I called Potter’s name. Not only was he there, but for the first time ever he answered with an easily audible “Sir.” Surprising myself and everyone else. Me particularly. What about his mother’s visit to hospital? Registration completed, we heard from him again.
“Can I come up now, Sir?” It was usual for me to exchange places with whichever student was to address us. Everyone turned to stare at Potter. All this talking was completely out of character, his character, and they reacted with, “What’s he on about, Sir?”
“What’s up with Potts?”
“What’s coming off with Dopey?” Like myself they’d forgotten it was his turn.
Looking over at him I saw that his desk top was piled high with a collection of magazines, on top of which was a battered felt hat hung with what looked like an assortment of multicolored insects. Near by, two or three long, narrow, canvas-covered bundles leaned against the wall. Potter was ready for his turn, whatever it was.
“Whenever you’re ready, Potter.”
I went down the central aisle while he came up the side with an armload of books and bundles which he placed on the table. He opened the topmost book at the centerfold and pinned it on the board to expose a glossy colored print of a fish, then from one of the bundles drew some sections of thin bamboo which he quickly coupled together into a flexible rod. He faced us.
“I’m going to talk to you about fishing,” he said. Ignoring the giggles and using the bamboo rod as a pointer, he began. “This here is a pike.” He then proceeded to tell us everything about the pike—its coloring, the kinds of streams in which it could be found, its usual adult size and rate of growth, its mating and feeding habits, in short, everything it was possible to know about a pike.
“This bloke is carnivorous,” he told us. “That means he eats other fish, specially littler ones than himself. Take a gander at those teeth. But he’s a bit of a scavenger, too. Will eat any dead thing floating about.”
I could hardly believe the evidence of my ears. Potter using polysyllabic words like “carnivorous” and “scavenger,” and using them correctly. Potter, the Dopey One, the Wordless One. Dim as a Toc-H lamp, they said. Backward, they said. For the first time in my life I heard of the differing social levels of marine life. Surface feeders and bottom feeders and those who manage somewhere in between. Fish which laid eggs and others which produced their young ready hatched and able to fend for themselves.
There were no giggles. In fact there was no sound except those made by Potter as, without any particular regard for syntax, he kept the class spellbound, introducing here and there an amusing anecdote about his friends, the fish.
Someone nudged my arm. It was the headmaster who had entered by the side door, displeasure in the tight way he said, “Any reason why these children have not had their midmorning milk, Mr. Braithwaite? The crate’s still outside your door. Surely you know our rule against punishing them in any way … ”
“Shhhhhhh … ” from those nearest us, impatient at the intrusion of his voice.
“What’s going on?” he asked, surprised into whispering.
“It’s Potter, headmaster,” I told him.
“Shhhhhhh … ” A little more urgently this time. Nudging me to make room for him on my seat, the headmaster settled down, perhaps to find out for himself what was taking place, and was soon as captivated as the rest of us. Potter was in full flight.
The lunch bell was a sudden, insistent interruption, startling us all and breaking the spell of Potter’s presentation. Quickly I went up front and in spite of the students’ protests, thanked Potter for a truly lively and instructive address and extracted a promise from him to continue it at some future time.
At lunch in the staff room the Head could hardly contain himself; a keen weekend angler, he claimed that he’d learned more listening to Potter than from all the books he’d ever read on fishing.
“That boy. Good God! I’d given up on him. You’d have thought that all there was to him was his size. Loafing around the place like a great lump and never a word out of him. Now this. It’s frightening, to think that we’re letting youngsters like this fool us with their disguise of stupidity or backwardness.”
Contrary to what I’d expected he was very upset, blaming himself and us, his staff, for taking the boy’s apparent limitations so much for granted that only by accident we’d discovered this about him. And so late.
“We’re the fools,” he told us. “We’re the backward ones for being so completely taken in. The words he used. The way he spoke, as if that huge head of his was just packed tight with valuable stuff he was bursting to tell. That boy’s a teacher, I tell you. A natural.”
The students’ response was no less enthusiastic. From that day they dubbed him “Fish Professor.” “Dopey” was gone. Vanished. Soon wearying of the long name they made it “Professor,” a tag which stuck to him for his remaining months at school, and I suspect perhaps longer. Most important, however, was the change in Potter himself. After that demonstration he could never retreat into his former lumpy, inarticulate role.
That experience with Potter taught me a valuable lesson about teaching. As of that day I approached each student as an intellect, unique in himself, differing from others in the nature, content and direction of his interests and knowledge. Some demonstrated a ready flair for academic matters; others plodded painfully through the simple mechanical skills; others had already become quite proficient at exploiting a native acumen and an appreciation of the prevailing social conditions. I noted everything so that I could test it all for leads to more effective teaching. Keeping my notes became my major private activity. In time I not only recorded how the lessons went, I included the things they said in the classroom and in the playground complete with their richly colorful expressions. Gradually I included notes on their conduct, and was frequently saddened by things I overheard or saw, indicative of their forced maturity in a social environment which made few allowances for their youth. Mum’s patient wisdom was a continuing source of help and encouragement.
There was that instance with Sapiano. Swarthy, stocky and aggressively handsome, his bulging muscles and freshly shaved face were a bit startling on a fifteen-year-old. He was bright and could be very funny on occasion, usually at my expense. One morning he arrived immediately after registration, apologized and with something of a flourish placed a roll of five-pound notes on my table with the casual remark, “Will you look after that for me, Sir?” and was off to his seat. The white bank notes were held together by an elastic band crossed and recrossed upon itself. It was the largest amount of money I had ever held in my hand. I looked towards Sapiano. He was sprawled in his seat watching me, and it occurred to me that he was waiting for me to ask him something about the money. I opened the drawer of my desk, put the notes inside, closed and locked the drawer and put the key in my pocket. All this had been observed by the whole class. Not a word from me. If Sapiano had stolen the money he would not have acted so openly. He was neither nervous nor afraid. Okay, I’d wait it out and see what happened. By then I’d learned the unwisdom of asking them questions on personal matters. Left alone they’d tell what they wanted to tell. Pressed, they’d shut up. Tight. They’d all seen the money. They knew where it was. I’d be in my classroom all day with it. If Sapiano wanted to tell me anything about it, he’d do so in his own good time, without any prompting from me. If not, he’d take his money at the end of the day, and no questions asked.
I was on playground duty during recess. When the bell sounded I opened the drawer, took the money and placed it in the inside breast pocket of my jacket. They all saw me do it and we all trooped out of the classroom. In the playground they stood about in small clusters or played touch football while I wandered in and out among them, exchanged a word here, a comment there. Milligan was sitting on the stoop as usual reading a brightly colored book of comic strips. I stopped to look at it. He smiled up at me with, “That Sapiano’s a case, isn’t he, Sir?”
“He certainly is.”
“Yeah. A real nut case.”
“A case.” No whys. No wherefores.
“He’s lucky.”
“You think so?”
“I guess so. All that dough.”
Nothing from me.
“Wouldn’t surprise me if it was more than a hundred quid.”
“You could be right. I wouldn’t know.”
“At least a hundred.”
Nothing from me. Waiting.
“You know where he gets all that dough, Sir?”
“No. Do you?”
“Uh-huh.” Looking off into the distance.
I waited. Nothing more from him. I turned to go. His voice stopped me with, “He’s got a bird who works up West.” His eyes on me, testing for signs of the impact of his words. I merely smiled and kept moving, my face a mask for the jumble of thoughts his remark had created. Sapiano was fifteen. “He’s got a bird who works up west.” Freely translated that meant, “He’s got a girl friend who is a prostitute in the West End.” God! The thought of it. My fifteen-year-old pupil and who? What was his bird like? Oh, well. My job was to teach him, not to hold a watching brief over his morals. As Mum said, “Set them an example in yourself. They’ll take it from there in their own sweet time.”
At the end of the day I handed the roll of money to Sapiano, again in full view of the class. From him no explanation. No comment.
Weeks later we were all together in a bus on the way to the London County Council’s playing fields in Kent. These playing fields, situated in the pleasant, green, Kent countryside, were used in turn by London secondary schools which, like our own, were restricted to a narrow macadam forecourt for playground space. From Cable Street where the school stood, our route passed under the Thames through the Blackwall Tunnel and into Kent. As the bus made the approach run down a side street towards the tunnel, Sapiano suddenly rolled up one of the windows and shouted to someone on the near sidewalk. The person, an attractive, young brunette, returned the wave, her happily smiling face and shapely figure joining in the action. The whole busload erupted, joining noisily in the greeting. She continued to wave until we were nearly out of sight. In the quiet of the tunnel Sapiano looked at me and said, softly, “That’s me bird, Sir.”
There were other times. Gayer, more exciting, more satisfying times, as those students grew and expanded and developed before my very eyes. We worked together. I learned about them. Seeing them as intellects and as persons with intellect. Respecting the intellect and the person, more often in spite of, than because of, the superficialities of speech, manner or dress. Many of them lived in overcrowded homes where personal privacy was impossible or nearly so, and the only water supply was from a communal central tap located on the ground floor. And yet each was stubbornly, aggressively whole, asking little of anyone and expecting considerably less. They were intimately familiar with privations yet rarely complained. I, who had been embittered by my failure to find desired outlets, was forced to recognize how far more fortunate I was than any of them. Difficulties and disappointments apart, I was equip
ped with certain special skills. In acquiring those skills I had learned to think and could therefore deploy my skills to advantage. Self-pity was a waste of time. As all my colleagues agreed, any one of my students would survive in his familiar environment. Many of them would make a fairly good living in spite of limited academic achievement.
Each in his or her own way displayed strength, courage, fortitude. Rita Bernstein, thin, blonde and tiny at fourteen, singlehandedly had assisted her mother in the unexpected birth of her baby brother. Two o’clock in the morning, the baby already on the way, the nearest telephone a public telephone booth half a mile down the road, the next-door neighbor a prostitute her mother would not let across her threshold. So Rita carefully followed her mother’s instructions. Washed her hands in hot, soapy water and helped the little fellow out before running the half-mile to telephone an ambulance. Telling it at her turn, the class openmouthed during her recital.
So what about me? What was there preventing me from doing considerably better than any of them, or, at least, as well as any of them? I had a job. My first responsibility to myself was to do it well. I was a teacher. So, teach. Watching, listening, talking to them, I learned how to teach them. In time, I learned from them how to teach.
Month by month, year by year, the note taking continued. Perhaps because in those days I had few personal possessions, I kept each numbered copy safe in a corner of a cupboard in my room, readily available as a source of inquiry. The pile grew until the day I left the teaching profession. The way in which my students and I worked together during that first year set the pattern for those who succeeded them. Our emphasis was on understanding the relationship between the school-day activities and the harsh realities of life awaiting them outside. Together we developed skills and an understanding of the interaction of those skills. Reading words was a skill to be mastered, but insufficient in itself. We also read numbers and drawings and blueprints, so that we would not be afraid to read the word or the sign or the hieroglyphic. We talked together, argued together and learned to be patient and courteous with each other. I persuaded the headmaster to let us visit museums and theatres and ballet and make field trips to art shows and the courts among other places, because we believed that we should be participants in living, understanding the functioning of whatever gave the community its purpose and thrust, direction and stability. Sitting in a courtroom as observer instead of prisoner was a new and strange experience for many of them, and the subsequent discussions disclosed a very perceptive appreciation of the strengths and weaknesses of the law and those who enforced it.
Reluctant Neighbors Page 7
