Sir, I am just a Kid.

I heard the commotion coming down the corridor outside my office and instinctively knew that something interesting was coming my way.  The giveaway was the raised voice of an irate teacher berating a boy.  He was informing the unfortunate miscreant in no uncertain term that he was indisputably on direct course for a reformatory followed rapidly by a trip to Pollsmoor Prison.   I sighed and waited for the onslaught at my door.

The sight which appeared could have been used in any text book picture on adolescent behaviour. The caption underneath would have read: ‘Teacher with steam coming out of his ears with sullen boy in tow.’  The boy’s face was classic – glowering indignation mixed with surly resentment. Recriminations and accusations were flowing from both sides.  It was immediately apparent that this was destined to be a lengthy process.  Wynberg’s version of the Codessa talks.

Tactfully I suggested that the teacher return to his class where 30 boys would be better served by having a teacher. The boy was clearly in no mood for a chat – so I sent him to sit on the bench in the corridor outside and carried on with my work.  About 15 minutes later, I walked past him on my way to teach a class.  He did not meet my gaze and was defiantly staring at the wall opposite.

‘Go and fetch your case,’ I said to him. ‘You are definitely not going into any class in that mood.’

When I returned an hour later, he was writing on a pad.  ‘Can I go out to break now?’ he asked as if nothing had happened.

‘Definitely not,’ I replied.  ‘It is in the rules of the school that sulking boys are not allowed to have a break.’  I then disappeared into my office before he could think of a reply.

Sometime later there was a knock on my door.  Without a word, he came in and handed me a note.  In fact, it was a two page letter.  The first page was standard schoolboy fare of how unfairly he had been treated, but it was the final paragraph which caught my eye.
‘Sir, I am only a kid,’ he had written.  ‘Surely kids are allowed to make mistakes?’

Wow! That was powerful stuff.  It called for a walk – so off we went to wander around the fields. He was still raw.

‘Why do teachers think that they can never make mistakes?’  he asked after a while, clearly still nursing some residual outrage.  Rather than improve his jaundiced view of the teaching profession – and by extension, the entire adult world - I decided to keep the conversation initially focussed on him.

By the time we returned from our wanderings, we had agreed that he could (just possibly) have handled the earlier situation better.  He suggested of his own accord, that another letter was called for, this time to the teacher himself.  We agreed that this missive would not contain the lengthy diatribe about how unfairly he had been treated.

This was duly done but not before I had also reminded the teacher that fourteen year olds deserved second chances.  And so the matter was happily concluded.

He had set my train of thought going.  ‘I am only a kid, surely I am allowed to make mistakes?’  How right he was.  Surely school is just the place to make mistakes as schools are supposed to be safe havens where boundaries can be tested?  If boys can’t make mistakes at school, then where and when in life CAN they make mistakes?

I informed him on our walk that adults DO make mistakes but they invariably have more serious consequences than sitting on a bench writing letters.  They don’t all have happy endings.

I told him about an overseas tour I once organised when I was teaching at Plumstead High School.  I had organised it as a cultural tour of Europe with four teachers accompanying the pupils.  I instructed the tour party up front that I was not allowing them to take responsibility for looking after their own passports, flight tickets and travellers’ cheques. 

‘I know you lot all too well,’ I pompously  advised them. ‘After you have gone through emigration at Cape Town Airport, you will hand everything to me and I will keep them safe in my bag.’   Prospur Travel Agency had given me a bag for this purpose.  From bitter experience, I knew only too well  that  someone would leave a passport on the plane or  travellers’ cheques lying around the hotel room.  The last thing I wanted was to be running around embassies and banks in Europe trying to replace these items.

We flew from Cape Town to Paris on Air France on a daylight flight arriving at our destination late in the evening.   I handed over the documentation they needed to ensure entrance to Paris and duly collected it again in the arrivals area.   Clyde Broster, one of the teachers, went off to secure taxis for our group while I took my precious bag to the Bureau de Change to change some travellers cheques for French francs (this trip was well before the advent of the Euro).

With my francs carefully stashed in my wallet, I accompanied the excited group through the streets of Paris to our hotel.  On our arrival, I persuaded them, with some difficulty, that an early first night was a far better idea than hitting the bright lights of the Champs Elysees.  However, it was only after midnight that we all retired for the night.

City of Light ... sleeping

I had only slept an hour before I woke up knowing something was wrong.  It nagged me and nagged me until I isolated the cause of my insomnia.  I only remembered bringing two bags with me to my room – and there should have been three.  At two o’clock in the morning, I switched on the light and sure enough, there were only two bags on the floor.  No Prospur bag.  I searched the room.  I stared hopefully in the empty cupboards.  I prayed as I looked hopefully under the bed.  Panic!

I didn’t sleep a wink that night as I ran through my journey from the Bureau de Change, through the airport, on the taxi, into the hotel.  I didn’t know where to start looking.  How do I tell the group? By the time dawn broke, I had worked out my course of action.  Phone taxi  company on the off chance the driver had handed it in – hopefully there would be someone on the phone who could speak English.  Go back to the airport and retrace my steps.  Contact the SA Embassy and informed them that they needed to help us out. Then I remembered that it was 16 December and a public holiday in South Africa which meant the embassy would be closed.  It was clearly destined to be one of those days.

I went down to breakfast in a daze.  I was white as a sheet. 

‘What is the matter with you?’ asked Roger Smith, one of the teachers.
‘Couldn’t sleep,’ I muttered truthfully.  I couldn’t face telling anyone at this point – not after my dogmatic assurance of their incompetence before we left!  A number of the tour party came to my table asking for the travellers cheques so that they could cash them and be ready for the day’s excursions.

I fudged.  ‘Cashing cheques in a hotel is too expensive,’ I said.  ‘Wait until we find a bank.’

I was sweating and hyperventilating.  The Brosters and Roger Smith were beginning to look at me with concern.  ‘Are you sure you are alright?’

Just then, we were interrupted by a waiter saying that there was a phone call for me from a Mr Errol Pretorius in the hotel foyer.

‘Not now, Errol, this is not a good time,’ I barked down the phone.  Errol, a young Wynberg teacher, had been on the same plane and had spent the entire flight trying to chat up our girls.

‘Listen, Boet,’ he said to me.  ‘I was at the Bureau de Change last night at the airport and I found a Prospur bag with your name on it……’

I let out a whoop which probably matched the noise last made in Paris in May 1945.  ‘Don’t move,’ I said. ‘Where are you staying?  I am on my way.’

I charged out of the hotel telling the bemused teachers to occupy the tour party until I returned.  ‘Tell them to plan where we are sight-seeing today,’ I shouted back over my shoulder as I rushed to make my debut on the Paris underground.

My relief, far right, is clearly etched on my face ...

Errol made me pay though.  It later cost me a meal and many beers at a swanky restaurant on the banks of the Seine.  It was worth it.  Every franc.

I never told any of the tour party of my little mishap.  It was my dark secret for the duration of the trip.  Looking back on the photos of that day, I still see the tell-tale signs of stress on my face.  Just imagine, I kept telling myself, how it could have turned out!

‘So you see,’ I told the boy as we finished our walk. ‘We can all make mistakes.  What we do have to ask ourselves is how we could we handled it better and what we have learnt from the experience.’

At this point it was clearly going over his head.  His contretemps with his teacher was long forgotten. He now had a juicy story to tell his mates.  I could just imagine the version that was destined to be told round the supper table at home that night.

I am just a teacher.  Surely I can make mistakes too?

Tutu - Rabble Rouser for Peace

Archbishop Desmond Tutu & Keith Richardson

This is the title of a recent biography by John Allen for a man who was once labelled as South Africa’s ‘Public Enemy Number One’ - Archbishop Desmond Tutu. It was with anticipation of something worthy for our boys, that I wrote to him some five months ago asking him if he would be prepared to share some thoughts with the men of Wynberg.  He gave the audience of pupils, teachers and support staff, memories which they will remember for the rest of their lives.

‘I was brought up to believe that he was the devil incarnate,’ said Mike Engelbrecht, one of our House Heads during the lunch we had with him after the assembly. 'Now twenty five years later, I am privileged to sit next to him on stage.’

And, if the truth be told, he was also privileged to join the rest of the audience in giving him a standing ovation afterwards ...

Before school that morning, a very sceptical Siyabonga Beyile was in my office to discuss how he was going to thank the Archbishop. ‘Are you absolutely sure you are not having us on?’ he asked. ‘Are we really having the Archbishop to address our assembly?’

‘I was brought up by my parents on stories of Tutu, Mandela and Chris Hani,’ he said. ‘I never thought I would ever get to meet any of them. To me, meeting Tutu is like meeting Superman – he is the hero.’

Siyabonga was part of the reception committee at the entrance to the school for Superman. When he arrived to be greeted by a posse of cameras, Pat Rogers who runs our website, asked if she could take a photograph of him standing with me at the entrance to the school.

‘Well it is his reputation that is at stake,’ said Tutu, who then promptly dissolved into giggles as he stood next to me.

‘Sir,’ whispered Siyabonga to me as we walked to the hall. 'He arrived in a Toyota and had no bodyguards ...’

Are you listening, all you politicians out there?

There was a murmur through the hall when this remarkable man came on stage. All eyes were on Tutu who greeted and shook hands with the front row of the stage party. Head Prefect, Nick Martin, went blood-red as one of South Africa’s icons proffered him his hand. I bet Nick’s palms were sweaty!

The school’s African Choir came on stage and sang two songs for the Archbishop:  Phind’ukhulume (‘Talk to me, Lord) and Ndikhokhele Bawo (Lead me, Lord). They sang magnificently and Wandisele Ngeyi, their singing coach, gave a loud and appreciative ‘yes!’ when they finished which evoked a laugh from the audience.

Archbishop Tutu addresses Wynberg Boys' High School

Spu Mnikina had been given the honour of introducing him to the school. He started off by saying that this Nobel Laureate needed no introduction as this man was the holder of hundreds of accolades and honours from many cities, churches and educational institutions around the world.  At his retirement, he was described by President Mandela as a true South African who had made an ‘immeasurable contribution to our nation’.

Spu finished off his introduction by quoting a comment, once said by the Archbishop,  which he thought epitomised the great man: ‘If you are neutral in situations of injustice, you have chosen the side of the oppressor’.

When he stood up to speak, Tutu gently admonished Spu. ‘You must never say that someone needs no introduction,’ he said. ‘Once I was in New York receiving an international award and a lady came gushing up to me. 'I am so pleased finally to meet you, Archbishop Mandela!’

That is what you call getting two for the price of one ...

The theme of his talk – given without notes – was that the youth must take up the challenge. He told his audience that Africa was the birthplace of humankind. It was time that the Youth of Africa stood up again realising that they had a role to play in the development of the next stage of civilisation. He quoted innumerable instances from the Bible where young men by their actions and by their courage had made a real difference to their societies. ‘I am an old man,’ he said, ‘I dream of a world where there is peace. I dream of a world where all are members of one family and one race – the human race.’

‘I challenge you young people at Rondebosch ...,’ he said. The school was far too polite to say anything but the stunned silence and the looks on the audience’s faces caused him to glance at me and quickly say, ’Wynberg, I meant Wynberg.’ Realising what he had done, he put his head back and roared with laughter. It was a laugh which we had all become accustomed to know well over the years. It rose from the belly - rich and infectious. The school laughed with him. He was quickly forgiven.

A few days later he was at the Baxter Theatre for the ‘Funny Festival’ with some of South Africa’s greatest comedians. He was invited on to the stage and told the audience that he had a reputation for having a sense of humour. ‘I don’t really,’ he said. ‘I just laugh heartily at my own jokes!’

At Wynberg, he finished off his talk as he started – with a challenge. ‘If I meet any of you in ten years time, I want you to come up to me and say that you were motivated at my talk to add value to society and make a difference to the world. How many of you will be inspired to become Nobel Prize Winners? Give the world a new invention? Discover new cures?’

He looked at the left hand side of the hall. ‘How about you?’ Then he looked at the right hand side of the hall. ‘How about you?’

Finally, he looked at the teachers on stage. ‘How about you?’ There were a few moments of dead silence in the hall as we went to sit down before a burst of sustained applause let him know in no uncertain terms that his message had struck home.

In his end-of-term address at the final assembly last Friday, Head Prefect Nick Martin told the school that listening to Archbishop Tutu was the highlight of the term for him. ‘It was almost as good as beating Grey ...’

Now, from a schoolboy, THAT is praise.

In the staff room

After signing some books in my office, we went to the staffroom for lunch. His bowl of soup took him about 45 minutes to consume as every teacher wanted to talk to him and dozens of photographs were taken. Kyle Williamson was overwhelmed. ‘I can’t believe I have just spoken to Desmond Tutu,’ he kept saying over and over again.

‘This is like having a rock star in our staff room,’ said Larry Moser.

‘Only bigger,’ I replied.

Eventually it was time to go. We went back to the Toyota and said our goodbyes. As I shut his door, I asked him, “Was that an intentional mistake about Rondebosch?’

He just winked at me.

Kyle Williamson & Archbishop Tutu

Now I will never know.

Dear Mr Richardson ...

The interviews of prospective incoming Grade 8’s for 2013 have come to an end and now the task begins of sifting through reports, letters from parents and boys, interview notes and confidential feedback from the primary schools.

It is not easy and there is certainly no foolproof system. I went with our Director of Academics, Neil Eddy, to listen to Dr Max Price, Vice Chancellor of UCT, when he spoke last week on the topic of UCT being an elite university. At the end, he was asked a question on admissions and said that if it were up to him personally, the top ten percent of his acceptances would be on marks with the other ninety percent being chosen by lottery (above a certain percentage mark of course).

‘How do you select on a mark?’ he queried. ‘What about character, commitment, energy, curiosity? Does a mark mean the candidate is going to be a good doctor?’

Quite so, Dr Price. Now try selecting twelve year olds for a school. Certainly a lottery would save much time, effort and heartache.

I really enjoyed doing the interviews and made copious notes on what the boys said – both in the interviews and in their letters.

‘I am writing a book,’ said one. ‘It is called Dragon Eye. When I become a famous author one day, I will say I am from Wynberg.’

Move over, Jacques Kallis – a new Wilbur Smith will now be promoting our school.

Others went on a different tack: ‘I desperately want to get into Wynberg. They say all girls love a Wynberg Man!’ I wonder if this would also apply to our young bachelor teachers?

Was his friend saying the same thing, when he wrote down emphatically: ‘I want to wear your uniform because then I know I will get what I want.’

Another one was quite insistent. ‘I am afraid that I have no choice about going to Wynberg.  My father refuses to pay fees for anywhere else and my mother says that she won’t lift me anywhere else.’ Oh, well – if only he had told me that earlier, we could have saved time on the interview!

As with this one: ‘My Mom and Dad believe in me so that that they have not applied for any other school.’

I have been wondering since his interview, what one boy meant by this: ‘Wynberg suits my personality.’

Forthrightness was the order of the day with this young man: ‘I would wear your blazer with so much pride, I would have to be forced to remove it!’ These type of comments are good reminders for our current boys who sometimes find themselves becoming a little blasé about the privilege of attending a top school.

They would also have had their heartstrings tweaked if they had heard this: ‘I only have a twin – but now I will have 800 brothers….’

One boy showed great insight when asked at the interview who he admired the most: ‘Nelson Mandela - because without him, I wouldn’t have most of the friends I have today.’ How could I not put a tick next to his name?

Others decided to put pride in their pocket and wrote: ‘I believe that the Principal is an Arsenal supporter. I have decided to become one as well. Go Arsenal!’

For some, flattery was the order of the day. ‘I have heard that at Wynberg all the teachers have PhD’s.’

My wife was determined that I accept this boy: ‘I just love your dog, Sandy.  I really want to get to know him better.’ Well, when he does, he will find out that it is a ‘she’.

One boy let me know exactly where he wanted to go in life: ‘I want to go to Wynberg because my Gramps went there – and he became a wealthy man.’  Now would be a good time to remind him about the ‘Richardson Mauritius Fund’.

Others clutched at straws: ‘If you accept me, I will use the library every day…’ while another said, ‘I will attend extra classes before and after school every day.’You mean just like the current Wynberg boys clamour to do?

One boy was a little disparaging about academics as he presumably did not have his mother check his letter: ‘The reason I would like to go to Wynberg is academics and other small things.’ I hope Mr Eddy does not read that letter - or this one: ‘I want to be an actuary one day but I am only getting 45% now but I know that your teachers will help me reach my goal.’

The last comment from a hopeful applicant must go to this twelve year old who may regret saying this in years to come: ‘There are too many distractions at Primary School. I must get rid of them. You know what I mean, Sir?’

Some of the parental letters were equally moving – and in many cases, amusing:

‘I was so impressed with the boy who was our guide. I wish his mother could have seen him.  She would have been so proud.’  I would like to think that could have applied to ANY of our guides!

‘Because I came from a family that was fanatical on sport, I specifically chose a husband who was not interested in sport. Guess what? My son inherited my family’s aptitude for sport.  So I am afraid he will just have to go to Wynberg.’

‘It has been an uphill battle to get him to attend other schools’ Open Days.’

‘This is what you will NOT get from my son. He will NOT be a first team rugby player – but he will be your most enthusiastic supporter!’

How can anyone turn a boy down with letters like these? Others let me know in no uncertain terms where I stood:

‘You will have to accept my second son. We are there so often, we might as well pitch a tent.’

‘Your school is one of the best in the country. It will benefit from having my son.’

Again, every boy currently at Wynberg should read this letter and remind themselves why they are at Wynberg: ‘The unfortunate aspect of education in South Africa is that High Schools determine the opportunities we have in life. I want to make sure that my son has a crack at those opportunities.’

I like to hear these types of comment: ‘My daughter was at WGHS. Whenever she brought a Wynberg boy home, I was greeted with a smile and with courtesy.’

‘After listening to the speeches on Open Day, your boys inspire me. They are your biggest assets. I want them to inspire my son next year.’

This expectation certainly puts us under pressure: ‘My son is showing signs of being a teenager. He needs Wynberg.’  Oh dear. But do we need him?

Or this one?  ‘My son must go to Wynberg. He is very lazy and will need your teachers to push him.’

I wonder what this parent meant? ‘I really like the fact that the school is clearly under new management. It shows.’ And to think I thought 14 years was quite a long time!

‘I thought Mr Richardson was being a bit rude in the way he described boys and their behaviour ... until I looked down the row and saw my son and his friends, nudging one another, responding to his insights and laughing heartily.’  I must remember at next year’s Open Day to ensure that I am more polite about our boys. The only problem is that they might not recognise themselves!

My final parental comment must go to one of my former Latin pupils, now a Lawyer:  ‘You were never able to eradicate my propensity and proclivity for using the split infinitive. I hope that you will make a better job with my son.’

I make no promises. No-one ever said that bringing up boys was about perfection!

Sparing the Rod

One of my more pleasurable pursuits at the beginning of every year is to take various groups of Grade 8's on a history tour around their new school - emphasising the traditions, the values and the Brand of this South African institution which has been operating continuously on Wynberg Hill for 171 years.

I always end up in the Oude Wijnberg Museum at Silverhurst gravitating towards the display cabinet in the Tasker Room which holds educational relics of the past - amongst which are an assortment of canes and punishment books.  It is always interesting to see how many of the Grade 8's have not the faintest idea of the function of that bamboo stick and on being told, there is always at least one 13year old know-all who boldly proclaims that he does not think it 'could be that sore!'

I invariably have to fight back the temptation of enhancing his education...

I was somewhat taken aback when one boy this year matter- of- factly volunteered the information that he knew exactly what a cane was and that it was used 'every day' at his Junior School.

This set me thinking about the role of corporal punishment. I remember the story which Old Boy, Chris Hyland loves to tell.  He was selected in his Grade 10 year to take part in the Cape Schools'  Cricket Week in Queenstown in 1974. Long after lights out in the hostel in which they were staying, the Wynberg boys were re- living the day's play no doubt with noisy appeals, comments and shots.

In walked an irate duty housemaster with cane in hand. He duly bent over every Wynberg player and gave him a hiding. The Wynberg boys were then quiet with the other teams no doubt taking their cue from the measures which  had been handed out to the Wynberg team.  Peace was now allowed to reign permitting the housemaster, himself an experienced veteran of many provincial cricket tours, to procure some sleep.

If we as parents and teachers are honest with ourselves, I bet that there are many who are now covertly applauding!

There is no doubt that Power Ruled for all of us now over the age of 35 or so. In retrospect, did it really change behaviour? Generations of Wynberg Old Boys will recall the pride with which they logged the hidings they received on the reverse sides of their school ties.  These would be later proudly shown off as a Badge of Honour. Is there any Old Boy reading this who still has such a tie in his cupboard which he can donate to the museum?

The only time now that I really look back with vague nostalgia at corporal punishment is round about Valedictory time when (some) matrics behave as if they are 18 going on 8. Every year sees some unfortunate matrics (which inevitably mean their parents as well) have their invitations to the Final Ceremony withdrawn for repeated thoughtless and crass behaviour.  Now those boys have lost out on an important Rite of Passage.  Wouldn't a hiding have saved all this heartache?

I remember well the day the news was conveyed to schools that corporal punishment was outlawed. It was just before eight one morning in 1995 when the then Headmaster of Wynberg, Bruce Probyn, arrived at my office door brandishing the fax bearing the announcement. 'I will go with you to tell Ray,' I said with relish, looking forward to seeing his face. Ray Connellan was the Senior Deputy in charge of Discipline.

Ray's door was shut - only to open a few moments later and an unlucky Bubbles Jardine emerge. Knowing Bubbles, I doubt that he had learnt any lesson from that hiding but he certainly learnt the value of 15 seconds!  He has now gone into WBHS history as The Last Wynberg Boy To Be Given a Hiding.

Cecilia Lashlie, a New Zealand author, in her outstanding book  ‘He’ll be okay:  Helping Adolescent Boys become Good Men’  expresses the view that we, as adults, should be applying more consequences rather than punishments. If your son, as an 8-year-old, leaves his lunch on the kitchen table, harden your heart and don't rush off to school with it. Let him go hungry for the day - he will learn more from that.  If from an early age, he understands that there are consequences for every decision, then he will learn a valuable lesson which may save his life one day when his mates urge him to put his foot on the accelerator and take on the orange light...

There is no doubt that both in Business and Society, the time of Leadership based on Power is now passed. This is also being reflected in schools where the emphasis is on building relationships. That is what our Wynberg Way is all about - not about punishing but about steering boys in the right direction. We, at school, encourage our boys to realise that every decision carries a consequence. This consequence invariably puts the obligation on adults - teachers and parents - to work together in the important business of developing boys into quality young men.

Cecilia Lashlie talks about a fence which adults must build alongside the adolescent's road through teenagerhood. The prime reason for this fence should be to keep our sons safe as they negotiate the Road of Life.

My experience of teenage boys is that many parents feel that it would be more expedient if they persuaded Eskom to run the national electricity grid through this fence!