The Road

The Road was written as a farewell piece of advice to students who were leaving high school and I felt it was appropriate to print it out on T-shirts that would serve as souvenirs as they made their individual journeys on the road of life. Hopefully, they have found it - still find it - inspirational.


THE ROAD

The road ahead is long; it’s also wide
‘T has all the promises of a fulfilling ride
That need not mean that you speed along
Like those who the meandering highways throng

Create your own pace; it’s your ride after all
When to start or stop; it’s your own call
Yet, don’t lose control, but focus ahead
Tread over the bumps and stop when it’s red

Learn the rules as you drive and maintain the pace
Respect the signals, but steer your own race
Watch out for dangers in people and places
And revel in the beauty of wide open spaces

At times, it’d be good to stop and take stock
Unnecessary baggage, unload and unlock
Turn back and look; take in what is past
And ensure that you have the power to last

At times the path may be dangerously rough
But remember that you are sturdy enough; and tough
And that you have, in your hands, the power to steer
Through tempests and hazards that the multitudes fear

In those times and places, when the weather is fine
And, on what lies ahead, the sun does brilliantly shine
Accelerate the tempo and drum your fingers
As you enjoy the beauty for as long as it lingers

Whatever it is; and wherever you go
Remember what you are and what you know
Of all you’ve seen and what you have yet to see
Of what you are and what you can ultimately be

So that, when, for one last time, the brakes you apply
You can, at last, exclaim with a final sigh
“The journey’s been great; ‘tis been a wonderful drive
That has made me blessed for being so alive!”

The Making of a Teacher

I have been a teacher for nearly 8 years now and it has been as invigorating as a roller-coaster ride. I have had the thrills of experiencing the heights of adrenalin-filled exhilaration as well as the anguish of falling to the depths of despair, one instance being the time I, a normally irreligious person, knelt in front of a group of students and invoked the Almighty’s blessings on their lot! Yes, it has been a wonderful journey so far and I hope that the years to come prove as fulfilling as the ones that have been: the years that went into the making of a teacher.

As a person who firmly believes that everything you experience is a lesson to learn, I am sure that there will be many more years that encompass the making of a teacher, but I am also firm in my assertion that the formative years that I spent with a group of wild, unruly, enthusiastic, animated and energetic teenagers gave me an inkling of the trials and tribulations, the joys and jubilations of being a teacher. Thank you, Class of 2003.

I may, by more objective individuals, be accused of allowing the mist of nostalgia cloud my memory, but I do believe that this group of students took an entirely inexperienced teacher and showed him the ropes as he stumbled along with the naivety of a 22-year-old. If – as the esteemed William Wordsworth suggested – the “child is the father of the man”, then may I be allowed to introduce the students as “the educator of the teacher.” And, learn I did, from the people I was meant to teach.

I remember my first day at school. I was given what I now refer to as one-half of the Class of 2003. They were then in Grade Seven and I was told that they were an unruly lot and that I had to watch out for two young gentlemen, especially. One later told me that he thought he could “twist this new teacher around his little finger”. The other had an altercation or two with me. The rest of the lot gave me a tough time, but on the whole that class – 7F – gave me the grounding for discipline. They taught me to be understanding, yet strict.

It was still my first day at school when I walked into a class of – if I am not mistaken – 32 girls. Their air-conditioner wasn’t working that day and when I walked in they thought I was an AC Mechanic: they hesitated until I walked into the front of the room before they stood up to greet me. In retrospect, I do believe, that some of them did not know how to address me.

It took some time getting used to that group of students, but one occasion is etched in my memory. A year or so later, I had the task of staging a programme that a select few from this group would participate in. I am sure that, these same students – now 20-years-olds – would look back and cringe at what they had to wear on stage, but back then, after a disastrous performance, they spent a weekend expecting the wrath of a short-tempered teacher. That they showed me the need to demonstrate empathy and offer encouragement is a lesson in itself.

For the next four years, I was inextricably linked with this group of students; girls and boys, eventually becoming their Grade Teacher in Year 10, when they wrote their IGCSE examinations. In that time, I debated with them, ran with them, listened to them, acted with them and ate with them. In return, they gave me an eclectic range of nicknames that made me cringe, smile and laugh. They made me their liaison officer with the administration; in turn, I made them my stimulus for growth. They burdened me with their worries; in turn, I burdened them with my expectations for them. They taught me to be a teacher; I hope I taught them not just the topical issues of the subjects concerned, but to a small extent “lessons for life, rules for living”.

Today, when I looked at their Class photograph taken just after they had completed their IGCSE Examinations, I could only ask myself why I felt so attached to and influenced by the Class of 2003. All I could think of was, “they made me a teacher.” Yes, I have been a teacher for only 8 years, much less that what my grandmother herself was, much less than most retired teachers usually have on their resumes (I do not intend to retire as yet), but I do believe that my first years as a teacher – with the Class of 2003 – and the other students I taught at that time will define me as the teacher I will be for the rest of my life.

And that is why, I owe a debt of gratitude to the Class of 2003 and the school that offered me that chance – Sherwood Academy – for helping a naïve 22-year-old realize his potential, realize the scope of his talents, realize the fact that he could become a teacher and, thus, continue in a vocation that he enjoys.

Chemical Warfare

Recently, just after a lunch break, I had a lesson with my Form 5 students. An incident occurred which prompted the following poem:

On an afternoon, rather dull and dreary
When things seemed quite tryingly weary
All of a sudden erupted a flurry
(Possibly the result of a flavoured curry?)
As a rather pungent aroma did diffuse
Speedily into the air, that it did abuse
With a violence so strong, so full of punch
That I pondered on the after-effects of lunch

From this terrible fury, did people take cover
That their lungs did slowly recover
From a biological weapon’s gaseous assault
That I wondered who could have been at fault
For this sudden burst of chemical warfare
That only the most brave could stoically bear
A weapon made of such volatile matter
That it could, such hardened forces, scatter.

The culprit, as yet, has not been found
Moving with stealth, making no sound
Still, on the ready, to simply explode
With the most pungent weapon its armoury can hold.