By Johnny Coomansingh
In the corridors of my mind, there are some corners, crevasses, and passages that are still devoid of light; dark and dismal! Doubt me if you want, but I know that these dark and lugubrious spaces will never be filled with light. The spaces are filled with events, that from time to time, continue to taunt me because there are myriad questions that remain unanswered. After all these years, my ruminations about what happened to me and how I was treated in both my primary and secondary stages of schooling are probably the same for many people. Why?
Today, events and activities fraught with intense violence, are occurring on a daily basis in our schools, and by extension, the community. I wonder if something continues to be wrong, undone, or uncaring among some of our teachers and administrators. Many people say forget the past, but the ominous elements that constituted my development or underdevelopment is difficult to ignore.
Forgetting yesterday is not that easy, especially when one knows in his heart that sometimes he was treated unfairly. As it is now, some avenues in my mind would continue to be forever dark. Today, there are upheavals in our schools, inclusive of stabbings, that surely need attention now! What will we have to endure tomorrow if we do not take the time to truly appreciate and nurture our students today?
Let me be clear. Teachers have their idiosyncrasies, perceptions and their problems like anybody else. There is a proclivity among some teachers to bring to the classroom the problems they have at home and try to solve them by abusing students. I know this because I was one of those students who was maligned, verbally and even physically abused. Some students received more abuse than others.
On the first day at Northeastern College (NEC) my high school, I was shamed by my form master. What a welcome! Maybe back then, I looked like I was one who could take insults, ridicule and embarrassment. At that moment ‘unholy’ thoughts went through my mind. Was it because I did not have a father to speak on my behalf? Was it because I was dirt poor? Was it because I did not have some of the textbooks or materials with which to work? Was it because of my religious belief? It could have been an amalgam of all these factors. It could have been that I was in the wrong place at the wrong time; a place for which I was not ready.
Not being ready for high school is very serious for an 11-year-old child. How many who are admitted and enrolled for high schools in Trinidad and Tobago are really ready? The failure of my primary school to have moulded me properly for the secondary stage was partially to blame. As a Christian-oriented school, it was apparent that my primary school was more interested in saving my soul for a future life in what my teachers imagined to be heaven.
In the said Christian school, the flogging of students was rife; horrible! I received my fair share of lickings with leather straps, even to sing the blessed hymns, but the worst flogging I ever saw was the one my brother received. He was just about 11 years old. There he was on his knees crying, bawling and begging as the leather belt met his skin. I counted no less than 24 lashes. Twenty-four! I was angry! There and then, I made up my mind to succeed at the Common Entrance Examination (CE) to attend high school. I still cannot wrap my mind around why this teacher was conscienceless; so wicked. Even now I cannot think of anything good about this evil teacher. I decided that I did not want to go to Standard Six, the class that this teacher taught. Little did I realize that I was jumping from the frying pan into the fire.
Passing the CE was one thing. Facing the teachers at high school was another. My experience was no bed of roses. Here’s is a smidgen of what I experienced. The following excerpt is from a book I’m presently writing, titled 50 years after: encounters, experiences, realities.
“Finding my way to Northeastern College (NEC) in Sangre Grande every day was not easy. After walking and running for about two miles in my school uniform, with sweat pouring down my face, I sometimes arrived at school staring at a locked gate.
There were times (most times) when ‘breakfast’ was late at home. My poor and struggling mother in her distress and economic confusion tried her utmost, but sometimes I was just late. Many things did not fall into place to allow the level of support for me while I attended NEC. Money was always in short supply.
At the school gate, I stood outside in shame grasping the chain link fencing wishing that it was just a dream. I had to accept the reality of facing the school principal or mister Anthony, the school’s messenger, the one the students labelled ‘Khaki Jesus.’ Mister Anthony was dressed in a khaki uniform and walked up and down the corridors of the school with an eye to ‘carry news’ on students; at least that’s what all of us thought.
His khaki clothing was so reminiscent of the British colonial days, and yes, he acted as though he was everybody’s boss. Many students disliked his overbearing demeanour toward them. He was very nosy. People in Trinidad would describe such a person as ‘farse’ and ‘macocious.’ His mentality and demeanour reeked of the overseer mentality. His colonial ‘school police’ attitude was disgusting.
The constant scolding was too much for me to bear and quite early in my high school life, I seriously wanted to quit school. In one instance the school’s principal threatened to flog me one morning because of my late coming. The flogging or caning of students was in vogue during that era. As a little fellow this was frightening to me, and all I could have done was cry. The stream of tears kept pouring down my face and there was no mercy in his eyes.
What could I tell him? Should I relate to him that I was fatherless? Should I relate to him that my father left my mother with all of us and never looked back to send one penny to help us? Should I tell him that my mother was on the tail end of poverty with nine children to look after? Should I explain that sometimes I had to wait on my tired and perplexed mother for breakfast; for a piece of bake! (Bake is a type of pot-roasted flatbread made with flour, shortening, sugar, salt, baking powder and at times, grated coconut). What should I tell this man? That particular morning, my form one English language teacher, a Canadian, saw my predicament and stayed the hand of the principal.
Torn between the circumstances at home and the mounting pressures at school, I wanted to run away, really run far away from this ‘horrid’ place, NEC. I felt alone in an unfriendly world, a world that was closing in on me. I was too ashamed to explain my economic situation to anyone. I did not say a word about my poverty-stricken and destitute circumstances. I reasoned that no one would understand my poverty. Yet, despite my abject situation, I succeeded in earning a seat at NEC, a school that carried the motto: Studiorum Sedes Dulcium Amoena which translates to ‘The Pleasant Seat of Sweet Learning.’ What irony!” (The book is soon to be published).
