Remember you are Human

It did not take long for the conversation among the Heads at the St Stithians Easter Sports festival to turn to school events of recent months.  Unsurprisingly, there was not much discussion on the triumphs of the term - accomplishments like the progression in tablet technology, or the exciting developments in the flipped classroom. The discussion was dominated by comparing war wounds.

In the tent, watching Wynberg 1st XV taking the field

A lowlight for one Head was that he had been dealing with lawyers for some weeks.  They had been commissioned by a parent because his son had not received water polo colours at the end of last year.  These lawyers were engaged by the aggrieved father to check whether the criteria for awarding of colours at the school had been followed.

Another Head had to deal with police who were following up a charge of theft against the school  from a parent whose son’s phone had been confiscated while it was being used inappropriately during a lesson.

At another school, an irate father confrontational because of a consequence delivered on his son which he deemed to be unfair, attacked the Head on the phone accusing him of ‘behaving like he was State President or God’.  While in some countries the two roles may well be confused, the Head thought it appropriate to invite the parent to his office to discuss his son’s transgressions as well (presumably) as his own impressive elevation through earthly and heavenly hierarchies.  When the father arrived for the appointment, the Head was in two minds whether to ask him to choose between attending a cabinet meeting or a church synod.

I couldn’t match these stories with a recent event, so my own contribution to the anecdotes was to recount a previous incident. A parent, with a face of thunder, his embarrassed son tagging along behind him, accosted me on the bank of the rugby field one Saturday morning.  ‘Look at this,’ he shouted, brandishing a traffic ticket in my face. ‘I left plenty of space in that house’s driveway for anyone to pass.’  He then proceeded to tear up the ticket and throw the pieces on the ground in front of me. With high dudgeon and righteous indignation, he stalked off with his bemused son who was still studying the patterns on his shoes.  From a good fifty metres away, he threw out his final salvo:  ‘This is all the school’s fault!’

Old Boy, the late Ginger Townley Johnson's pen illuminates a 'Sporting Father' in the 1961 Wynberg School Magazine 

It is impossible to gauge the amount of damage done to sons in incidents like these.  It gives the real meaning of the term ‘spoilt child’ – their futures are being spoiled.  William Wordsworth in his poem ‘My Heart Leaps Up’ talks about the ‘child being father of the man.’  What confusing messages are being sent to these impressionable and receptive young minds about how men behave?  Whatever the merits of the case,  boys deserves to be provided with an adult demonstration of wise, deliberate and considered thinking under pressure, instead of being subjected to irrational and over-the-top emotional responses.  Sadly for these boys, similar behaviour will invariably manifest itself later in their manhood.

There is a now new terminology doing the rounds:  The ‘Snow-Plough Parent’.  This is the parent who insists on clearing all obstacles out of the way in order to make life easier for their child.  Unfortunately this ensures that the young man goes into the world without ever developing the aptitude for resilience.

One of the more testing aspects of running a school is that, just when things are going swimmingly, the inevitable parental letter or email arrives which brings one solidly back to earth.  It reminds me of the ‘Triumph’ through the streets of the Forum granted to certain emperors and victorious generals in Ancient Rome.  Resplendent in his chariot, followed by carts of newly acquired booty, triumphant troops swaggering behind, downcast prisoners shuffling reluctantly and trying to ignore the jeers of the crowds, the Emperor processes, cheered by adoring throngs.

Standing in the chariot behind the Emperor would be a slave who was instructed to say at a regular intervals, ’Remember you are human.’  His actual words were reputed to be:  ‘Memento mori’ which literally translates as: ‘Remember that you are going to die.’  I suspect that he carefully chose his moments to utter this warning, otherwise these timely reminders of the Emperor’s mortality might have reduced the slave’s personal life expectancy.

Not that I have had many triumphal experiences, but I do view those (thankfully only occasional) parental onslaughts as warning voices in my ear.  It certainly inhibits any possible swelling of the cranium.

Having said all this, there is no doubt that schools like ours cannot run without the input and involvement of parents.  Their skills and expertise take the school to another level as well as sending a priceless message to their sons that it is important to add value to all institutions to which they belong – even their school.  I am forever making the point to the boys that the school must be a better place because they have passed through it.  The same goes for the thousands of parents over the years who have strengthened the school because of their involvement in committees and in events.

Then, of course, there are those who have added value to the school because they are characters in their own right.

Old Boy Fritz Bing

What about Fritz Bing?  He was one of the first parents I encountered when I started teaching.  ‘Are you coming to the Old Boys’ Dinner?’ he demanded of me one day in the hostel car park.

‘I was not planning to attend,’ I said. ‘I won’t know any old boys.’  That was not strictly true as I knew many hockey old boys - but with the likes of Roy Clark, Neil Woodin and Pete Williamson attending en masse, this could have the makings of a dangerous evening.

‘Nonsense,’ he said and it was clear that he would not be taking ‘no’ for an answer. ‘I will introduce you to the chaps of my era.’

And this is what he proceeded to do as soon as he spotted me entering the Mount Nelson Hotel ballroom on the night of the dinner.  ‘This is Junior Gloom,’ he announced to his cronies – all of whom held their sides and roared with laughter.  Apparently Gloom was the nick name of an eminent Latin teacher at Wynberg some years before.  Fortunately ‘Junior Gloom’ was a name that was destined not to stick to his successor.  No thanks to Fritz though.

I have been called many other names over the years - most of whom would have made ‘Junior Gloom’ seem positively cheerful!

I still remember some of the people he introduced me to – Gussie Bosch, Dave Steward, Alf Gabb.  They all insisted on filling my glass so it was not long before I was ready to take on my hockey gang at the other end of the room.  I was anything but gloomy by the end of that evening.

Keith Clark was a legend.  Father of two boys who were more than useful sportsmen, he was a loyal supporter of Wynberg sport.   He, himself, was a product of an ‘inferior Eastern Cape education’ so was able to appreciate the advantages of a proper school.

Keith Clark, in formal T-shirt

I recollect one particular Cape Schools Cricket Week hosted by Queens College.  Keith was accompanying the tour and after a hot and tiring Karoo day, he and the other parents repaired back to the clubhouse for refreshments.  They were surprised when they were refused entry on account of not wearing ties. Sartorial standards were clearly high in Queenstown as T-shirts and shorts were not deemed to cut the mustard.

The next day Keith had a number of T-shirts printed with the Queens College tie and handed them out.  Keith and other previously disadvantaged parents (because of their lack of ties) duly presented themselves to the club that evening in their best be-tied T-shirts and, to the credit of the bemused staff who fortunately saw the funny side,  they were allowed in.

However, the parent who wagged the most tongues over the years was undoubtedly Eleanor Drew. I first met Eleanor as the mother of a boy in my u14 hockey side, she was renowned for her vocal support of Wynberg teams.  I arrived at our first match of the new season at SACS and was standing with the host coach in the middle of the field when suddenly there was a stentorian roar.

‘Sir! Sir! Are we going to win them today, Sir?’

‘One of yours?’ asked the SACS coach sympathetically.

‘Looks like it,’ I said as there was clearly an embarrassed boy in a Wynberg blazer in tow.

The support throughout the game was relentless and vociferous. After we had hit the posts for the third time, her raucous advice was to, ‘Change to Plan B, Wynberg!’

When one boy went sprawling, she advised him, in a voice which echoed round the ground, to stand up quickly as his mother would have to wash those shorts.

We were playing Pinelands later in the season when the coach came up to me and said that his players were complaining that they couldn’t concentrate with this steady stream of comments and advice from the sidelines.  ‘Nonsense,’ I retorted. ‘Just enjoy them.  They are totally without malice.’

He probably saw the humour when one Wynberg player was asked if he was a vegetarian because his shot at goal had ‘no meat in it’.

In a later away match against Paul Roos, Michael Forbes picked up the ball on the half way line and beat one player, then another, doubled back and beat the same players again and kept this up for quite some time.  Then, exhausted, he collapsed on the base line – unfortunately for him at the feet of Eleanor Drew.

‘Michael,’ she said solicitously bending over him in her ear-splitting whisper, ‘are you sure that you are really trying?’

At the end of her final year at Wynberg, she was presented with a certificate which complimented her on being ‘Bek of the Plek’.  A truly unique character!

'Bek of the Plek' Eleanor Drew posing in front of the teams at the end of season match:  u14A vs Parents 1985

Thanks to a complete ambit of characters I have known in our parent body over the years, there will never be a need for a slave to whisper in my ear reminding me that I am human.