Stoning Crows and Traffic Policemen

Watching rugby with Old Boy Fritz Bing

I was sitting under one of the trees watching rugby at our recent festival, when one of our Grade 8’s came up to me and started chatting.  Obviously I must have looked in need of company.  After the usual discussion on how the year was going, he came up with the comment: ‘You must have seen some really cool funny things since you have been at Wynberg.’

Well, most of the really funny things in teaching happen in the staff room and it would probably have ruined his respect for teachers if I had breached the code of silence on this one.  However, I did tell him of some other amusing incidents which had happened some years ago.

The first incident concerned the matrics.  Every now and again we have to stress the litter problem to the school and remind the boys that showing a lack of respect to the environment and the ground staff was unbecoming of a Wynberg Man.  If this is followed by a blitz from the school leadership, then the situation invariably improves.  I have always maintained that considering there are over 800 boys at the school, then there is a remarkably small amount of litter – but I never tell the boys that.  One chip packet blowing around the fields always jars the senses – and is one piece of litter too many.

However, on one occasion, the matric quad was covered in litter after every break.  Sandwich wrappers dotted the grass and the area looked like a rubbish tip.  I called the whole matric class together and expressed my extreme displeasure about the situation in THEIR quad.  It was no good pointing fingers at anyone else, I told them, as they were the only Grade allowed in the area.  What message did this send to the rest of the school about them as role models, I asked.  As I went on, I warmed to my theme and became steadily more indignant.  Did they deserve to have a quad of their own?  What sort of spoilt brats left others to pick up after them? How dare they call themselves leaders of the school if they displayed such anti-social traits?

And so I ranted on for some time.  They sat in stony silence, taking it on their collective chin.

‘From now on, I want the Prefect in charge of Grade 12, to come to me at the end of every break before he goes back to class and to tell me that there is not one stitch of litter anywhere in sight.’

With that as my grand finale, I swung on my heel and stalked back to my office.  ‘There will be no more problems with that matric quad,’ I boasted triumphantly to any teacher who walked past me.  I should have known better.

The all-clear was duly given after the next break by the Matric Prefect and it seemed that my gala performance had done the trick.  Not half an hour later, Larry Moser came into my office. ‘I thought that you had spoken to the Matrics?’ he said to me. ‘Have you seen the state of the Matric Quad?’

I went cold.  Surely not?  Was I losing my touch?  This was becoming personal.  The two of us went to the windows overlooking the quad.  I shook my head in disbelief. There was litter everywhere.  It was a disaster scene.

I almost ran to the intercom to summon the matrics to the hall.  I was going to have every one of them on their hands and knees picking up every crumb, every scrap of anything that should not be there.

Fortunately, Larry pulled me back before I was able to spew forth my frustration over the school intercom.  ‘Look at this,’ he said.

Sitting on one of the bins, were two crows pulling packets out of the bin with their beaks and throwing them to the winds.  Another crow was up in the branches of the pine tree above the quad pecking away at a polystyrene container which was under its claws.  When it finished, it let the container float to the ground like a bloated snowflake.

There were amazing scenes in the matric quad in the next few minutes.  Fortunately, only Larry (I hope) saw the Headmaster of Wynberg running into the quad, waving his arms, yelling like a banshee, hurling anything which came to hand at the crows.  ‘I now know what is meant by the expression ‘Stone the Crows,’ said Larry caustically as I collapsed on the sofa of my office a few minutes later.

I was man enough to give an apology to the matrics at the next school assembly.  To this day I have the feeling that they never really accepted it.  They got their own back though.  For the rest of that year, whenever I mentioned anything going wrong in some aspect of school life, I would soon hear the chorus: ‘It’s the crows, Sir.’

‘Wow,’ said my Grade 8 boy on the bench next to me. ‘We must use that excuse.  Do you think that I could say that the crows stole my tablet and I couldn’t do my homework?’

I told him that I certainly could not blame the crows for the multiple traffic fines which I once received on campus.  One of the perks of running a school is to have one’s own parking spot in front of my office.  However, it was invariably taken on a Saturday by a (presumably visiting) rugby spectator.  This was in the era before the Headmaster’s House was made available and I was living in Hout Bay.  So I decreed that a red line would be painted on the road behind the Bill Bowden across the indented section at the lower end of Aletta Walk – near the Labia back gate.  This was duly done and a notice board erected proclaiming that this space was reserved for Headmasters’ Parking.

The next Saturday Rondebosch were our visitors and I was proudly able to invite Martin Barker, as our visiting Headmaster, to park his car next to mine in this new special area reserved for the two of us.  All worked swimmingly well and I was well satisfied with our new parking arrangements.

After the match, we retired to the Bill Bowden Pavilion for the customary post-match festivities and was told to ‘look at my car’.  I went outside to find a traffic officer writing out a ticket surrounded by a number of grinning Wynberg boys, who quite clearly had lost their sense of fear and were determined to savour the upcoming spectacle of my response.

Little did they know that they were in for a treat.

With arms waving, reminiscent of chasing crows, I raced to my car. ‘What do you think you are doing?’  This must go down as one of the more patently absurd questions I have asked in my life  - seeing that a uniformed traffic officer was holding a notepad,  pen and was standing next to my driver’s window.

Clearly engrossed in what he was doing, he didn’t even look up as he answered:  ‘You have parked on a red line.’

I was spluttering with indignation and struggled to be polite. ‘Listen,’ I said through clenched teeth. ‘I-had-that-line-painted-myself-during-the-week.’

He still didn’t look up and after firmly pressing the ticket on the window, he started writing out another one – to the appreciative chorus of the surrounding crowd.

‘What are you doing now?’ I spat out.

‘It is illegal to paint a line on a public road.’

‘What?  It is not a public road!  On one side is our rugby field and on the other side are our tennis courts.  How can it be a public road?  In any event, we put a gate at the end of the road which clearly shows it is ours.’

There was no answer as he affixed Ticket Number Two to the window and started writing Number Three.  Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Martin Barker rapidly reversing out of his designated area of my new parking lot and rev off scot free.

I turned my attention to the scribbling traffic official. ‘This is becoming a circus.  What is this one for?’

‘Putting a gate on a public road is an offence according to Ordinance number….’   He proceeded to reel off some numbers which I was in no condition to recollect.

I am not proud of my subsequent Basil Faulty-like response but I know it went along the lines that he should rather be catching taxi drivers, hijackers and stolen cars and spending his waking hours in more productive pursuits than antagonising innocent Headmasters.

He barely paused after slapping on Number Three  before starting on Number Four.  By this time, I was emotionally exhausted and asked what item of fiction he was coming up with now.  I was becoming acutely aware that the crowd in the area was growing and that there was only one winner possible in this standoff.

‘The area you have parked in is designated as a turning area.  Motorists may not park in turning areas.’   Up went Ticket Number Four.

I then took the most sensible action which I had taken since this contretemps had begun.  I buttoned my lips and went back to the Bill Bowden.

I was about twenty metres away, when he shouted at me.  ‘By the way, your car license has expired.’ To this day, I swear that he wrote out Ticket Number Five with even greater relish.

The rest of the weekend was a write-off.  When Monday morning arrived, I was phoning everyone from the MEC for Transport downwards.  At 8.30, I found myself in an office somewhere near Constantia Village.  I spilled out my tale of sorrow, distress and injustice.  Reticence and taciturnity are clearly characteristics needed in traffic officials and, chuckling, he merely held out his hand and asked for the tickets.  I gave him four – grudgingly accepting that I was at fault with Ticket Number Five.

I went back to school feeling somewhat mollified – and thankful in retrospect that, to my knowledge, no Facebook photos were ever taken of five pink tickets flapping stubbornly in the breeze on the car of the Headmaster of Wynberg in his own parking bay.

The mother of my Grade 8 confidant came up to bring him his lunch. ‘Mom, you will never guess what happened to Mr Richardson…..’

Oh, well.  I never had much of a reputation anyway.

The Journey to Mauritius

It was my first individual tutorial. Dr Brian Cooke settled back into his leather armchair, notebook on his knee, pen poised. He was destined to be my tutor for the duration of my Masters Degree at Exeter University and he proved to be a wonderful mentor.  His book-lined, oak-panelled and leaded windows were just what I had envisaged as the perfect study for a university Don. I breathed in the atmosphere and relished it.

His opening question to me was straight to the point.  ‘So….why are you in teaching?’ he asked.

Mike Apperley and I had done our undergraduate degrees together at UCT and had resolved then to expand our horizons by taking a year off teaching and going overseas to take up the challenge of a Masters Degree in Education now that we had a few years of teaching under our belts.  He had started his teaching career at SACS while I had opted to start my teaching adventures under the watchful eyes of Messrs Blackbeard, Lennox and Connellan at Wynberg Boys’ High School.

My answer to Brian was given spontaneously and with the bravado of a young man who knew it all. ‘I want to change the world,’ I said - and I meant it. It was a few years after the Soweto Riots, the schools were restless and it was clear that things had to change in South Africa.

It was to the eternal credit of Brian Cooke that he did not immediately clutch his midriff in mirth and  roll around the floor. He merely nodded thoughtfully before remarking that he hoped the year ahead would assist me in my quest.

It certainly did.  It made me realise that I should lower my sights somewhat.  It made me realise that I had to change my own world view.  For the first time, I came to the realisation of the importance of teaching as a career.  Above all else, it gave me a sense of purpose and an awareness of the need to work towards a goal in everything we did at school. The goal was never in doubt.  It was to produce thoughtful, empathetic, curious human beings.

Little did I know then that I was destined to run a school for seventeen years but the lessons learnt in that year stood me in good stead in the classroom, on the sports field and, finally, in the Headmaster’s office.  What value were good matric results or hard fought sport victories if the end result did not produce a quality human being?

Ten years later, Stephen Covey said exactly the same thing in his best-selling book: The Seven Habits of Highly Effective People. ‘Begin with the end in mind,’ he said, ‘and envision what you want in the future.’ 

I decided to use this philosophy in my Ethics classes in Grade 8 recently. These form part of the Life Orientation classes and when boys start the year by asking me what Ethics is, my response is always the same: ‘It is the way we do things around here’.

‘Where is the place that you would love to be?’ I asked one of the classes.

Planning ahead: The Journey to Mauritius

‘Mauritius!’ shouted out a bronzed, flaxen hair beach boy.  So Mauritius it was.  It became the goal of where we wanted to be in five years’ time. ‘It is October 2019,’ I told them. ‘You are about to ring the bell at your Valedictory Service.  Have you arrived at your personal Mauritius?  Write me a letter telling me what YOUR Mauritius is and whether you have arrived there.’

I told them that I would be giving these letters to their House Heads and that these letters would be filed in their personal files for the duration of their school careers and that they could retrieve them before that final ceremony in 2019.

Some of the letters showed some amazing insights.

‘I look down at my two feet.  They are on the same tile I stood on five years ago, ringing the bell after the Grade 8 hike.  I am no longer that thirteen year old boy who was shaking and trembling at the prospect of living in a different country away from my family … I stand here today, arm extended, my hand about to clasp the bell rope.  I am no longer terrified.  I no longer tremble.  I look at that same tile.  Now I am whole, empowered, focused – but emotional.  Emotions are running through me like a firecracker.  I take a deep breath and ring the bell.  That’s it.  The end has come.  I am trying to hold my emotions back.  However, deep down, I know that this is just the beginning.’

Other boys also saw their Mauritius as a merely a port of call in their journey through life. ‘My time at school is over.  I have arrived in Mauritius – and it is great. I will enjoy my time here before moving on to other destinations.’

Saying Farewell, that Final Bell
Kelton Goertz Valedictory 2013

A number of boys expanded on the image of the bell. ‘It was a very emotional moment for me when I rang that bell in Grade 8 as I knew that the next time I rang it, my Wynberg career would be over.’

Another wore his heart on his sleeve. ‘I know that ringing that final bell means only the end of my school career – but not my Wynberg career.  I will always be a Wynberg man.’

Leaving a legacy was another theme.  Many of them wanted to be an inspiration to their future buddies.  ‘I want to be remembered as someone who gave his shoulder to be leant on without hesitation.’

I hope Mothers had the tissues out if they read these letters before their sons handed them in. ‘As I stand at the bell, I know that I have reached my Mauritius. I now know what it means to be a Wynberg Man. I ring the captain’s bell loudly and with pride knowing that I can hold my head up high, proud of the man that I have become.’

The sentiment of wanting to make their parents proud was a feature of many letters. I think that this wish is a feature of most men.  Even Jacques Kallis, at the age of 37, in his speech to the world after his final test at Kingsmead in January 2014, said, ‘I hope I have made my parents proud.’

Some letters revealed the inherent anxieties of thirteen year olds.  Many boys wrote letters to themselves rather than to me.  One boy asked himself: ‘Did we manage to get a girlfriend? I am just asking.’

Another was a little more narcissistic or maybe he was aware that he would soon be on show on a Mauritian beach. I would like my nickname to be ‘chest-hair, he said wistfully.

A number of letters just listed the level of sporting achievement the boys wished to attain in their school careers.   Over a hundred boys stated that they wished to represent the school in a first team. Clearly, basic mathematics will show them that teams have a finite number but it is difficult to quash hope and optimism in a young boy. Our next task is to help them over the inevitable hurdles of disappointment, setbacks and disillusionment which life will put in their paths.

Some letters stood out because of their depth of thought.  One boy chose to write to himself.  ‘Dear Me,’ he said. ‘Do you remember when you used to have handwriting like this?  Now I want to ask your three questions.  Firstly, are you still fit? Have you looked after yourself because being fit and healthy will make you feel better about yourself?

Secondly, are you happy?  I am not talking about being happy with your test marks, I mean happy with who you are.  Are you still the optimistic guy with a smile on his face always ready to make new friends?  Or have you become the guy you hated the most when you were in Grade 8 – someone whose popularity has let it go to his head?

My third question is, do you have any regrets?  Did you not ask some girl out because you were scared that she would reject you?  Have you hurt someone deeply?  And let me tell you, that if you have become a smoker, drugger, user, drinker and, above all, someone who hurts other people just because he wants to be socially accepted, then you don’t deserve to be called by my name.

If you have stayed true to yourself and haven’t done anything to harm yourself or anyone else, than you are really the best person I know.’

I think my Tutor all those years ago at Exeter University would be happy to know that the philosophy he was hammering home to those idealistic and romantic Young Turks would bear fruit in a small corner of the world many years later.  I certainly never managed to change the world, but possibly a few boys have been assisted on their journey to manhood.

The final word comes from one of the boys:  ‘From Grade 8, I have used the four pillars of Wynberg as my firm platform.  Without these pillars, the roof (which is the present me) will collapse.  With the wisdom of academics, the endurance of sport, the emotion of culture and with the compassion of serving others, the roof will stand a lifetime.  My lifetime.’