To Sir With Love

by E. R. Braithwaite

  The war was over and I must forget that period; people were settling down once again to a pattern of life free from terror, and communal fears which had momentarily promoted communal virtues were evaporating in the excitement of economic recovery. I must find a job. I was not asking for handouts, but offering for hire a trained mind and healthy body. Surely there must be some employer who would be more interested in my trained usefulness to him than in the color of my skin? My savings and gratuity would, with careful husbandry, last about two years. So I had time, plenty of time, to find the right employer.

  Chapter

  Five

  I TRIED EVERYTHING—LABOR EXCHANGES, employment agencies, newspaper ads—all with the same result. I even advertised myself mentioning my qualifications and the color of my skin, but there were no takers. Then I tried applying for jobs without mentioning my color, but when they saw me the reasons given for turning me down were all variations of the same theme: too black.

  There was, for instance, the electrical firm at Dagenham which advertised for technicians in a local newspaper. No special qualifications were indicated, so I applied, hopeful that my trained abilities would stand me in good stead; this time I did not mention my color. I received a prompt reply, asking me to call at the personnel office the following morning. I presented myself there about 9 a.m. and a young female clerk handed me an application form and directed me to an anteroom where I had to fill it in and wait my turn to see the Personnel Manager.

  Several young men were sitting there, some of them waiting nervously, others filling in their forms with worried concentration. One young man was unsure about his spelling and appealed to the others for assistance; they too were unsure, and I was pleased to be able to set him right.

  One by one they were called away and then it was my turn. The Personnel Manager sat with my form on the desk before him; he indicated a chair, picked up the form and closely scrutinized it. We went through the familiar game of question and answer, and I soon realized that he did not seem very interested in the extent of my technical knowledge. Finally he said, with a grin, “Why do you want this job?”

  I felt somewhat irritated by the irrelevance of this remark and replied:

  “I need the job to help me pay for little things like the food I eat, the clothes I wear and the lodgings I occupy.”

  “Ha, I couldn’t afford a suit like the one you’re wearing.”

  I watched him, failing to see any connection between my suit and the advertised job. He continued:

  “I never went to Grammar school, let alone University, and none of our employees are as well educated as you are, so I don’t think you’d fit in here. They might resent the posh way you speak and … ”

  I could stand no more but stood up, reached across his desk for the application form and, without a word, tore it up and carefully dropped the pieces into his waste basket. Then I bade him good morning and left.

  I had now been jobless for nearly eighteen months. Disillusionment had given place to a deepening, poisoning hatred; slowly but surely I was hating these people who could so casually, so unfeelingly deny me the right to earn a living. I was considered too well educated, too good for the lowly jobs, and too black for anything better. Now, it seemed, they even resented the fact that I looked tidy.

  When my demobilization became imminent I had written to my uncle about the problem of clothes rationing, and, over a period of months, he had sent me a supply of underwear, shirts, socks, ties and four nice looking suits which fitted me tolerably well; the clothing coupons I had received at the demob center were used in purchasing a few pairs of very serviceable shoes.

  Caught like an insect in the tweezer grip of prejudice, I felt myself striking out in unreasoning retaliation. I became distrustful of every glance or gesture, seeking to probe behind them to expose the antipathy and intolerance which, I felt sure, was there. I was no longer disposed to extend to English women or elderly people on buses and trains those essential courtesies which, from childhood, I had accorded them as a rightful tribute, and even found myself glaring in undisguised hostility at small children whose innocently inquiring eyes were attracted by my unfamiliar complexion.

  Fortunately for me, this cancerous condition was not allowed to establish itself firmly. Every now and then, and in spite of myself, some person or persons would say or do something so utterly unselfish and friendly that I would temporarily forget my difficulties and hurts. It was from such an unexpected quarter that I received the helpful advice which changed the whole course of my life.

  I had been sitting beside the lake in St. James’s Park, idly watching the ducks as they dived for the bits of food thrown to them by passers-by. Near me was seated a thin, bespectacled old gentleman who occasionally commented on the color or habits of the various species. He sounded quite knowledgeable, but I was in no mood for that sort of thing, and mentally dismissed him as just another garrulous old crank. He did not seem to mind my unresponsive attitude, however, and presently addressed me directly.

  “Been in England long, young man?”

  His voice had the same sandpapery grittiness as Bertrand Russell’s, and I turned to look at him with what I hoped was a sufficiently cutting glance to discourage his overtures; I did not feel at all like conversation, especially on the very painful subject of being in England.

  “Big cities are dreadfully lonely places and London is no exception.”

  He hitched up his carefully creased trousers and crossed his thin legs. He wanted to talk; some old men are like that. It would not matter who had been sitting beside him. I did not need to reply or even to listen, and if I walked away he would very likely talk to the ducks. Anyway, I could not be bothered to move to another seat. When he got tired he’d stop.

  “It’s no one’s fault, really,” he continued. “A big city cannot afford to have its attention distracted from the important job of being a big city by such a tiny, unimportant item as your happiness or mine.”

  This came out of him easily, assuredly, and I was suddenly interested. On closer inspection there was something aesthetic and scholarly about him, something faintly professorial. He knew I was with him, listening, and his gray eyes were kind with offered friendliness. He continued:

  “Those tall buildings there are more than monuments to the industry, thought and effort which have made this a great city; they also occasionally serve as springboards to eternity for misfits who cannot cope with the city and their own loneliness in it.” He paused and said something about one of the ducks which was quite unintelligible to me. “A great city is a battlefield,” he contin­ued. “You need to be a fighter to live in it, not exist, mark you, live. Anybody can exist, dragging his soul around behind him like a worn-out coat; but living is different. It can be hard, but it can also be fun; there’s so much going on all the time that’s new and exciting.”

  I could not, nor wished to, ignore his pleasant voice, but I was in no mood for his philosophizing.

  “If you were a Negro you’d find that even existing would provide more excitement than you’d care for.”

  He looked at me and suddenly laughed; a laugh abandoned and gay, a laugh rich and young and indescribably infectious. I laughed with him, although I failed to see anything funny in my remark.

  “I wondered how long it would be before you broke down and talked to me,” he said, when his amusement had quietened down. “Talking helps, you know; if you can talk with someone you’re not lonely any more, don’t you think?”

  As simple as that. Soon we were chatting away unreservedly, like old friends, and I had told him everything.

  “Teaching,” he said presently. “That’s the thing. Why not get a job as a teacher?”

  “That’s rather unlikely,” I replied. “I have had no training as a teacher.”

  “Oh, that’s not absolutely necessary. Your degrees would be considered in lieu of training, and I f
eel sure that with your experience and obvious ability you could do well.”

  “Look here, Sir, if these people would not let me near ordinary inanimate equipment about which I understand quite a bit, is it reasonable to expect them to entrust the education of their children to me?”

  “Why not? They need teachers desperately.”

  “It is said that they also need technicians desperately.”

  “Ah, but that’s different. I don’t suppose Education Authorities can be bothered about the color of people’s skins, and I do believe that in that respect the London County Council is rather outstanding. Anyway, there would be no need to mention it; let it wait until they see you at the interview.”

  “I’ve tried that method before. It didn’t work.”

  “Try it again, you’ve nothing to lose. I know for a fact that there are many vacancies for teachers in the East End of London.”

  “Why especially the East End of London?”

  “From all accounts it is rather a tough area, and most teachers prefer to seek jobs elsewhere.”

  “And you think it would be just right for a Negro, I suppose.” The vicious bitterness was creeping back; the suspicion was not so easily forgotten.

  “Now, just a moment, young man.” He was wonderfully patient with me, much more so than I deserved. “Don’t ever underrate the people of the East End; from those very slums and alleyways are emerging many of the new breed of professional and scientific men and quite a few of our politicians. Be careful lest you be a worse snob than the rest of us. Was this the kind of spirit in which you sought the other jobs?”

  I felt that I had angered him, and apologized; I was showing poor appreciation of his kind interest.

  “Anyway, you try it. No need to mention your color at this stage, first see how the cat jumps.”

  Once more I was at ease with him, and talked with pleasure about many things. It was only after we had parted that I realized we had spent over two hours in very rewarding discussion without being introduced: we had not even exchanged names. I hope that he may one day read these pages and know how deeply grateful I am for that timely and fateful meeting.

  It happened just as he had predicted. I was invited to the Ministry of Education for an interview, and later a letter arrived informing me that I would be accepted subject to a satisfactory medical examination. That hurdle safely cleared, I received a final letter confirming my appointment and directing me to call at the East London Divisional Office; and from there I was sent on to Greenslade School.

  Chapter

  Six

  I ARRIVED EARLY FOR CLASS MY FIRST day as a teacher at Greenslade School. The joy and excitement I felt at my good fortune was shared in equal measure by the Belmonts with whom I lived, and whom I had always called “Dad” and “Mom” at their own suggestion. As I was leaving home that morning, Mom had, with sudden impulse, kissed me at the door and wished me “Best of luck,” while Dad looked on, less demonstrative, but just as happy for me. I walked off feeling very strong, confident, and determined to make good.

  As I entered the narrow alleyway leading to the school I could hear the strident voices of the early children in the playground; one girlish voice was raised in violent protest.

  “Denham, why don’t you let the bloody netball alone?”

  Shocked, I walked into the forecourt, which was used as a playground, and saw a group of girls spaced around a netball standard; one of them held a netball behind her back, away from a big, loutish fellow who had interposed himself between her and the net into which she wanted to throw it

  “Move out the bloody way, youse, or I’ll … ”

  At this point they heard my approach and looked around, but seeing me made little difference for, as I mounted the stairs, I could hear their voices again, brutally frank in Anglo-Saxon references. Confidence began to ooze out of me; would they actually use words like that in the classroom? The idea was fantastic.

  Mrs. Drew was sitting in the staffroom reading her newspaper. I greeted her and removed my overcoat.

  “All set for the fray?” Her voice was soft, sympathetic.

  “I think so. Mrs. Drew, do the children use bad language inside the school, in the classrooms?”

  “Sometimes.” There was always a gravity behind her remarks, indicative of a really deep concern for the children, and a certain objective examination of her own efforts on their behalf. “Most of the time they are merely showing off; the words themselves are not in their minds associated with the acts they suggest, and it is often good policy to behave as if one did not hear. Some of the older ones deliberately set out to shock, to offend. I get very little of it these days—I suppose out of deference to my gray hairs.” She patted her neat coiffure. “I’m afraid I cannot tell you how to deal with it, you’ll just have to do the best you can.”

  One by one the staff arrived and soon there was a pleasing interchange of chatter until the morning bell rang.

  As I was leaving the room I looked across at Miss Blanchard and she smiled her encouragement; Miss Clintridge called out cheerily “Good luck.”

  From outside the classroom I could hear sounds of talk, laughter and movement. I went in and walked directly to my desk, seated myself and waited. The children were standing about in groups and had paid no attention to my entrance; but gradually, the groups dispersed and they seated themselves. I waited until everyone was quietly settled, then called the attendance register.

  Their replies to their names were mostly mumbles or grunts, with here or there a “yep” or “here”. One boy answered “Here, Sir,” and this promptly provoked a chorus of jeers from boys and girls alike, in resentment at his black-legging their agreed action.

  Next, I collected the dinner money. The institution of school dinners is a real boon to both children and parents; for prices, ranging from eightpence to threepence, depending upon the number of children of school age in the family, the child receives a hot midday meal, well-balanced and satisfying; and with the blessing of the local Child Care Committee it is free to those who are unable to pay even these small amounts. Mrs. Drew had assured me that the robust huskiness of the children was largely due to the school meals and free mid-morning milk; but that, surprisingly, some of the children preferred to use their dinner money to buy packets of chips from a nearby fish shop. Habits are not easily forgotten.

  Registration over, I sat back to take my first careful look at the class before we were summoned into the auditorium for daily assembly. A quick count revealed forty-six positions, forty-two of which were occupied. They were set in four straight lines and from my desk I commanded a clear view of them all. Twenty-six of the class were girls, and many of their faces bore traces of make-up inexpertly or hurriedly removed, giving to their obvious youth a slightly tawdry, jaded look: these were really young women who sat there, quiet and watchful, gypsyish in their flashy cheap earrings and bracelets.

  The boys were scruffier, coarser, dirtier, everything about them indicated a planned conformity—the T-shirts, jeans, haircuts, the same wary sullenness. None of it really belonged to them. It was worn, assumed in and out of school like a kind of armor; a gesture against authority; a symbol of toughness as thin and synthetic as the cheap films from which it was copied.

  I had begun to feel a bit uneasy under their silent, concentrated appraisal when the bell rang and they eagerly trooped out into the auditorium for assembly.

  The Headmaster sat in the center of a stage at one end of the hall. This stage was the show-piece of the school. Under Miss Clintridge’s­ direction, what had been a bare, simple platform was now a thing of elegance, with a gay proscenium, and curtain decorated in contemporary­ style; the backdrop represented a bustling local market scene, and the whole effect was familiar, gay and vigorous. Near him sat a girl whose task it was to select and play the two records which were part of the proceedings—usually orchestral selection
s from classical works, or vocal recordings by outstanding artists like Paul Robeson, Maria Callas, Marian Anderson and others. In this way it was hoped to widen their musical interest beyond the jazz and boogie-woogie offerings of the midday dance sessions.

  The children sat in rows facing the stage and the teachers sat in line behind them; assembly was a simple affair without religious bias or emphasis. It began with a hymn and prayer in which every child joined, either actively, or merely by being there. Jew and Gentile, Catholic and Protestant and Moslem, they were all there, all in it, all of it; the invocation for guidance, courage and Divine help was for each and all.

  After the prayer the Head read a poem, La Belle Dame Sans Merci. The records which followed were Chopin’s Fantasie Impromptu, and part of Vivaldi’s Concerto in C for two trumpets. They listened, those rough looking, untidy children; every one of them sat still, unmoving and attentive, until the very echo of the last clear note had died away. Their silence was not the result of boredom or apathy, nor were they quiet because it was expected of them or through fear of consequences; but they were listening, actively, attentively listening to those records, with the same raptness they had shown in their jiving; their bodies were still, but I could feel that their minds and spirits were involved with the music. I glanced towards Miss Blanchard and as though she divined my thoughts she smiled at me and nodded in understanding.

  After the records the Headmaster introduced me to the school. He simply told them that a new teacher, Mr. Braithwaite, had joined the staff and would be teaching Class 4; he felt sure that they all joined him and the staff in bidding me welcome.

  In the classroom I stood in front of my desk and waited until they were settled, then I said:

  “The Headmaster has told you my name, but it will be some little while before I know all yours, so in the meantime I hope you won’t mind if I point at you or anything like that; it will not be meant rudely.” I tried to inject as much pleasant informality as possible into my voice. “I do not know anything about you or your abilities, so I will begin from scratch. One by one I’ll listen to you reading; when I call your name will you please read anything you like from any one of your schoolbooks.”