MY BETE NOIRE
Bad hair lessons stick in the mind like gum on the underside of a school desk.
Assemblies can ruin a Tuesday. After the Deputy’s diatribe on uniform and assorted kids are required by the sports staff, my audience arrives unhinged and often depleted.
The modus operandi for my lower, grade-four, mathematics class was a given―at all costs, arrive before the students. This day however, the bell sounded as I negotiated the stairway and crisscrossed the crowded corridor.
D’oh. The classroom groaned, burdened by thirty-two pupils.
Striding to centre stage, I stumbled over Geoff’s out-stretched legs. His two-metre frame meant a front desk was the only place he could sit in my room.
“Did ya have a good trip, Sir?” reverberated around the room, accompanied by razzing and cheering. On most occasions I excused ‘Gangly Geoff’ but today―arghhh.
On gaining some semblance of order, I realised I had forgotten teaching resources essential for the lesson. Reminiscent of episode three in an older “Dr Who” saga, all appeared lost.
Then…“This f#*%ing bag won’t open”. Not loud, but audible. And almost before anyone could holler, “Did ya hear that, Sir,” the classroom became a courtroom. Heads swung from Danny to me. Yep, now I’m the judge, the jury, and the executioner.
And Danny had form so everyone reckoned his next transgression signalled disaster. As a koori kid, from the nearby hostel, he was likely to be sent packing. I pointed to the door as anxiety welled in his eyes. Outside, I reassured him his misdemeanour would be dealt in-house by me. His verbal abuse, whilst unacceptable, had not been aimed at any person.
An unmanageable rabble confronted me as I re-entered the court and approached the bench―I mean, my table.
“Will he get expelled, Sir?”
“What’s gonna happen, Danny?”
Bothermacready. Now Ange was cruising the room, smug faced, and hiding contraband. With my fuse now shorter than Danny’s patience, I motioned toward the corridor.
Well, I ranted, I raved, and I riled. I would covet that illicit item. “Win-Win,” at any cost. And Ange? Just as self-assured, stubborn and defiant.
I am indebted to Ange’s mate who appeared from nowhere and rescued me. She produced the “offensive” material—only a snapshot of Ange and John Farnham taken at his recent concert.
This forty minutes still haunts me as I endeavour to rationalise my behaviour—albeit in vain.
“Nothing stands out so conspicuously, or remains so firmly fixed in the memory, as something which you have blundered.” Marcus Cicero (106-43BC) Roman Philosopher.
Postscript—Believe it or not! I penned this anecdote some five years ago. Last year, I was approached by our postie; “I think you used to teach me, Mr Rees”. He was correct. The year was 1995 and, as Danny’s mate, was a member of the above group. He not only recalled the incident but was able to tell me Angie’s contraband item. Yep, it’s a small world after all―and you can sing that if you wish.
Notes.
* Uniform: In Australia, most schools have a policy insisting some form of uniform be worn.
* Dr Who: A British TV program which has been produced, almost continuously, since 1963.
* John Farnham: One of Australia’s best-known performers and Australian of the year in 1987.
* “Out damned spot”: Macbeth, William Shakespeare.
Twelve . . . twelve . . . twelve. Reminds me of Geoff, from Year 7 back in the seventies, who had the coolest pronunciation for “twelve”.
