So, many people know exactly why they get up and go to work each day…the money, the love of it, fear, dedication, misguided loyalties, sheer boredom and nuff other things. After almost two decades, sometimes I wonder why I bother. I have been teaching since I was merely two or three years older than the students in my class. And since the first day I stepped into my very first classroom and claimed to be a teacher I have been stunned. Frankly, I think it’s a case of Stockholm Syndrome.
I have come to believe that something happened to children right around the time I turned eighteen years old or maybe even seventeen. It was something subtle. Something that crept upon us one night, while we were sleeping. It altered their DNA and no one noticed. It was something that would fit right into an episode of Star Trek and only Cap’n Picard can solve that mystery. Nothing else accounts for the crazy things that happen. And not many people notice it. You have to be a teacher or a school principal to see it.
You see, it is all there….there, in the classroom with us. So the virus or the mass psychosis, whatever it is, spreads even faster. Because we are there with it, we see it. It’s not just the children. It infected their parents too. Hmmm…the problem could be that these children are also giving birth and so the wheel turns.
Don’t get me wrong, I love being a teacher. Absolutely. There are days when I go to school and nothing “normal” happens and I go home feeling good. Those days I LOVE being a teacher. That day would be a normal day in my eyes and yours; but that day would be a day when we, the uninfected, would say that an ‘angel passing through’. It is only when I get home, walk through the door and utter my silent prayer that I realize that…Today was a good day.
So , I wanted to write these stories down; make a journal, so to speak, of my experiences. Then I want you to tell me if I am a saint, fool or masochist to stay all these years. I want you to tell me if I was suffering from Stockholm or if I just love a good laugh and could only find such a laugh in the classrooms of Jamaica. These stories I am about to tell you might make you laugh, shock you, stun you, cause you to rethink being a parent, make you look at your children differently and even make you cry. Of course, since they really happened, I saw them with my own two eyes and heard them with my own ears, I have changed the names of everybody. That way, I can avoid unnecessary lawsuits.
I have come to believe that something happened to children right around the time I turned eighteen years old or maybe even seventeen. It was something subtle. Something that crept upon us one night, while we were sleeping. It altered their DNA and no one noticed. It was something that would fit right into an episode of Star Trek and only Cap’n Picard can solve that mystery. Nothing else accounts for the crazy things that happen. And not many people notice it. You have to be a teacher or a school principal to see it.
You see, it is all there….there, in the classroom with us. So the virus or the mass psychosis, whatever it is, spreads even faster. Because we are there with it, we see it. It’s not just the children. It infected their parents too. Hmmm…the problem could be that these children are also giving birth and so the wheel turns.
Don’t get me wrong, I love being a teacher. Absolutely. There are days when I go to school and nothing “normal” happens and I go home feeling good. Those days I LOVE being a teacher. That day would be a normal day in my eyes and yours; but that day would be a day when we, the uninfected, would say that an ‘angel passing through’. It is only when I get home, walk through the door and utter my silent prayer that I realize that…Today was a good day.
So , I wanted to write these stories down; make a journal, so to speak, of my experiences. Then I want you to tell me if I am a saint, fool or masochist to stay all these years. I want you to tell me if I was suffering from Stockholm or if I just love a good laugh and could only find such a laugh in the classrooms of Jamaica. These stories I am about to tell you might make you laugh, shock you, stun you, cause you to rethink being a parent, make you look at your children differently and even make you cry. Of course, since they really happened, I saw them with my own two eyes and heard them with my own ears, I have changed the names of everybody. That way, I can avoid unnecessary lawsuits.
The Articulate Bus
Some kids think they are slick. But we all know that. Nobody thought of himself more so than Jonathan Smith. He was a short, stucky, half-Indian boy. You could tell very easily that he would be quite a handsome fellow when he grew up. He was fifteen and hadn’t hit his growth spurt yet but he was already cocky and sure of his own charms. And he practiced his skills with everyone. He succeeded quite a bit with the girls and some of the more impressionable boys in his class. One day, one of the sixth form girls slapped him hard. Jon refused to say why but he left the older girls alone after that, much to the pleasure of the younger ones.
Jon was a bright boy. Not with his classes, mind you. He was the kind of child who had a solution to every problem. I prayed every morning that he would apply some of the wit to the lessons his parents hooped would take him out of their homes and their pockets. Jon was happy; he could care less for books and CXC. He spent his days coming up with new lyrics for the girls and figuring out how to get the foot ball from fro the PE teacher at lunch time without having the pay the required holding fee in case the ball was kicked across the fence. One morning, he simply bought a ball, hid it in his bag and walked from class to class collecting money from the other boys to buy a ball. At lunch time when the boys were seeking permission to go ball shopping, Jon magically produced the ball. He had doubled his money.
Yup, Jon was slick and always late for school. He had been warned that his parents would be sent for the next time he was late for school. So I was prepared to hear his excuses when at 9am he walked into the classroom looking tired and forlorn. Jon walked straight up to my desk and sighed so loudly I am know the Virgin he had just bowed to as he walked to class heard him from her resting place in Glory.
“Good morning, Miss. Ah tiad you see.”
“Good morning, Mr. Smith. I am so sorry to hear. ”
“I know you are, Miss. You are a nice teacher.”
“What brings you here so late Jon. We had a conversation about it yesterday. Please don’t let me hear you were in Spanish Town idling as usual.”
“No man. Miss! Nutten like that at all. It’s not my fault today. I left my house right when mi madda sen mi out.”
It was my turn to let out a loud sigh. “Here comes the excuse” I thought to myself.
“So you should have been here a long time ago. What happened, Mr. Smith?”
“Miss, is the bus. I reach Trees from 6:30 dis morning but the drivea dem don’t want take up students. I had to wait pon one of the new type of buses. You know, the articulate one…..the one that can talk? And…”
“Which bus Jon!?”
“You don’t know the new buses Miss. Dem say dem can talk. Dem articulate, Miss. They are di really long bus, Miss. The bus with the two parts and di miggle part pleat up? You don’t know them , Miss?”
“Oh…okay. The articulated bus. It means that the bus is joined, Jon.”
“Well, whatever you say. All I know is that dem really long.”
“What has the bus got to do with you being late, again?”
“Am getting to it, Miss. So I had to wait on the joined bus.” He emphasized the word joined and smiled sweetly at me. “But the wicked ductor say students can’t come on til the bus done load with the big people dem. So mi had to wait. When mi finally get on, mi end up in the back of the bus, Miss. I tried but I couldn’t get to the front.”
“Uh uh…”
“To make it worse, by dat time is was 7 a clock and so the traffic from Trees to Spain get bad. Dats why mi late.”
“I don’t get it, Jon. That does not explain why you are late.”
“Miss,…” (said with the patience used when speaking to small children or retards) “…the bus is very long and I was at the back of the bus, right?”
“Yes.”
“Because it is so long, the whole bus don’t get to Spain at the same time.”
“Really?”
“Really. With the traffic, making matters worse, the front of the bus reach 8:30 and the back of the bus reach 8:45. Then I had to catch a John’s Road taxi to get here. Ah luck mi lucky, mi reach jus in time fi catch a taxi whe did need only more person.”
After I picked half the class from off the floor, got the class back in order and gave Jon my most disappointed look, I sent him to his seat. There was nothing more I could say to him at that point.
Some kids think they are slick. But we all know that. Nobody thought of himself more so than Jonathan Smith. He was a short, stucky, half-Indian boy. You could tell very easily that he would be quite a handsome fellow when he grew up. He was fifteen and hadn’t hit his growth spurt yet but he was already cocky and sure of his own charms. And he practiced his skills with everyone. He succeeded quite a bit with the girls and some of the more impressionable boys in his class. One day, one of the sixth form girls slapped him hard. Jon refused to say why but he left the older girls alone after that, much to the pleasure of the younger ones.
Jon was a bright boy. Not with his classes, mind you. He was the kind of child who had a solution to every problem. I prayed every morning that he would apply some of the wit to the lessons his parents hooped would take him out of their homes and their pockets. Jon was happy; he could care less for books and CXC. He spent his days coming up with new lyrics for the girls and figuring out how to get the foot ball from fro the PE teacher at lunch time without having the pay the required holding fee in case the ball was kicked across the fence. One morning, he simply bought a ball, hid it in his bag and walked from class to class collecting money from the other boys to buy a ball. At lunch time when the boys were seeking permission to go ball shopping, Jon magically produced the ball. He had doubled his money.
Yup, Jon was slick and always late for school. He had been warned that his parents would be sent for the next time he was late for school. So I was prepared to hear his excuses when at 9am he walked into the classroom looking tired and forlorn. Jon walked straight up to my desk and sighed so loudly I am know the Virgin he had just bowed to as he walked to class heard him from her resting place in Glory.
“Good morning, Miss. Ah tiad you see.”
“Good morning, Mr. Smith. I am so sorry to hear. ”
“I know you are, Miss. You are a nice teacher.”
“What brings you here so late Jon. We had a conversation about it yesterday. Please don’t let me hear you were in Spanish Town idling as usual.”
“No man. Miss! Nutten like that at all. It’s not my fault today. I left my house right when mi madda sen mi out.”
It was my turn to let out a loud sigh. “Here comes the excuse” I thought to myself.
“So you should have been here a long time ago. What happened, Mr. Smith?”
“Miss, is the bus. I reach Trees from 6:30 dis morning but the drivea dem don’t want take up students. I had to wait pon one of the new type of buses. You know, the articulate one…..the one that can talk? And…”
“Which bus Jon!?”
“You don’t know the new buses Miss. Dem say dem can talk. Dem articulate, Miss. They are di really long bus, Miss. The bus with the two parts and di miggle part pleat up? You don’t know them , Miss?”
“Oh…okay. The articulated bus. It means that the bus is joined, Jon.”
“Well, whatever you say. All I know is that dem really long.”
“What has the bus got to do with you being late, again?”
“Am getting to it, Miss. So I had to wait on the joined bus.” He emphasized the word joined and smiled sweetly at me. “But the wicked ductor say students can’t come on til the bus done load with the big people dem. So mi had to wait. When mi finally get on, mi end up in the back of the bus, Miss. I tried but I couldn’t get to the front.”
“Uh uh…”
“To make it worse, by dat time is was 7 a clock and so the traffic from Trees to Spain get bad. Dats why mi late.”
“I don’t get it, Jon. That does not explain why you are late.”
“Miss,…” (said with the patience used when speaking to small children or retards) “…the bus is very long and I was at the back of the bus, right?”
“Yes.”
“Because it is so long, the whole bus don’t get to Spain at the same time.”
“Really?”
“Really. With the traffic, making matters worse, the front of the bus reach 8:30 and the back of the bus reach 8:45. Then I had to catch a John’s Road taxi to get here. Ah luck mi lucky, mi reach jus in time fi catch a taxi whe did need only more person.”
After I picked half the class from off the floor, got the class back in order and gave Jon my most disappointed look, I sent him to his seat. There was nothing more I could say to him at that point.
Miss Roache and the Insect Killer
We all know someone that everyone thinks is annoying; terribly. This person complains about everything but never contributes; is always in need but never shares; loves the sound of his own voice but never has anything constructive to say; is always late but never wants to wait. Impatient. Mean. Extraordinarily selfish. And worst of all, loud. We know someone, right?
About six years ago that was a girl we now fondly refer to as Ms. Roache. Mind you, her surname is Roache. And just like the roach, most of us, ummm...most people...considered her just that, vermin. No one more so than her second, a big headed, loud mouthed boy (whose name I forget). Many Language classes were spent trying to get them into their corners. The verbal sparring would rival the those of the Gordon House clan; and just as meaningless. He spent almost all his time just telling her to "shut up and mek di teacha teach". It got so bad that I shuddered every time I HAD to go to that class. The other students often offered to throw them out and explain it to the prin just in case he got upset with me. But, being a professional and a proper teacher I battled on.
Then one day; one glorious day that big headed, loud mouthed boy came up with the most ingenious solution to our collective problem. He found a way to get rid of our Roache roach situation. After a particularly lengthy tit for tat he suddenly smiled then calmly told her that he had just the thing to calm her. Of course she was ready for him. Afterall, she was a girl born ready. Yea. Ms. Roache stood and brought the argument to the next level because she know wha she name and har name cyaan change. Big mouth said not another word. He reached for his bag. Opened it. Slowly pulled out a large can of Shelltox roach killer and sprayed her from head to toe.
That stopped her in her tracks. Following the fumigating incident I had one of the best classes I've had in my entire teacher teaching career. Not another peep came from the lips of Ms. Roache. Big head-loud mouth was our new hero.
We all know someone that everyone thinks is annoying; terribly. This person complains about everything but never contributes; is always in need but never shares; loves the sound of his own voice but never has anything constructive to say; is always late but never wants to wait. Impatient. Mean. Extraordinarily selfish. And worst of all, loud. We know someone, right?
About six years ago that was a girl we now fondly refer to as Ms. Roache. Mind you, her surname is Roache. And just like the roach, most of us, ummm...most people...considered her just that, vermin. No one more so than her second, a big headed, loud mouthed boy (whose name I forget). Many Language classes were spent trying to get them into their corners. The verbal sparring would rival the those of the Gordon House clan; and just as meaningless. He spent almost all his time just telling her to "shut up and mek di teacha teach". It got so bad that I shuddered every time I HAD to go to that class. The other students often offered to throw them out and explain it to the prin just in case he got upset with me. But, being a professional and a proper teacher I battled on.
Then one day; one glorious day that big headed, loud mouthed boy came up with the most ingenious solution to our collective problem. He found a way to get rid of our Roache roach situation. After a particularly lengthy tit for tat he suddenly smiled then calmly told her that he had just the thing to calm her. Of course she was ready for him. Afterall, she was a girl born ready. Yea. Ms. Roache stood and brought the argument to the next level because she know wha she name and har name cyaan change. Big mouth said not another word. He reached for his bag. Opened it. Slowly pulled out a large can of Shelltox roach killer and sprayed her from head to toe.
That stopped her in her tracks. Following the fumigating incident I had one of the best classes I've had in my entire teacher teaching career. Not another peep came from the lips of Ms. Roache. Big head-loud mouth was our new hero.