Then one day, I’m called to the office. I knew it was trouble, but could not think what it could be. I’m quite taken aback to see a man, who turns out to be a school psychologist, from the district offices, there. I would be alone with the man.
He asks me to sit directly opposite him, facing him across the principal’s desk. At first, I feel a bit of hostility at being interviewed by a middle-aged white, male psychologist. There’s nothing wrong with my head! The person in front of me is actually invading my private life, I think angrily. I answer his questions mostly, in monosyllables. He asks me about my parents, and my grandparents, as if he’s really concerned about them. He wants to know whether I like school, and what I want to become one day. Then he surprises me by asking me about my rugby injury, and whether it still bothered me! It is then that I notice the man is speaking from an open file in front of him. I realise there is little point in evading questions when the school has documented my life and made it available to this person. I clamp up and become quiet, but after a while, I realise the futility of keeping quiet. The man already has been informed about me. The worst I can do is to confirm in the man’s mind, whatever is still written in that file. So I decided: let’s talk, then! When I’m asked whether any teacher at school has ever approached me with assistance of any kind, after-school classes, with buying books; has shown friendliness, I answer with an abrupt, ‘No!’ From then on I have his interest.
‘Who is your favourite teacher, here?’
‘Don’t have.’
‘Which teacher would you then go to, for help with a personal problem?
‘To no one.’
‘How would you deal with the problem then?’
‘On my own, or other people outside school.’
‘Which other people?’
‘The parents of one of my friends.’
‘What about the principal?
‘He doesn’t like me.’
And so the questioning goes on. I’m careful how I answer, but cannot avoid running into difficulties with some questions, that cause me very deft footwork to get out of the hole I have dug for myself.
I explain that there is no communication between the principal and me. In my mind, the principal regard me as a skollie. In answer to a question, I tell Mr Cronje I expect the principal to treat me just like he treats every other child at school.
‘Do you think your behaviour at school, is that of a school child?’ Mr Cronje asks me.
Catch question, I think. It is quiet for a while. I sit looking at my hands in my lap. When I answer, I’m qualifying my answer, without actually having given it:
‘I’m never late for school. I’m always in class. I do my work. I don’t interfere with other children.’
The psychologist considers the response for a while. Then he reaches to his left and picks up a black hardcover book. The book is the punishment book of the school. My name, together with a few others, appears in there, on quite a number of Mondays. When confronted with the contents of the black book, I feel a need to defend myself. The book is accusing me of things that happened outside school – over weekends.
‘It’s not for school!’
‘Are you saying that the Monday punishment written in here, has nothing to do with school?
‘Yes, sir.’
‘What is it for, then?’
‘Nothing to do with school things, sir’.
‘Yes, what for, then’.
‘Things outside the school, over weekends, sir’.
The minute that comes out, I knew a lot of questions will be asked. I’m right. I’m asked about my friends outside school, whether they’re school friends, or not. I tell Me Cronje I know these friends because they were at school there, and were working now. What is regarded as misbehaviour and written in the black book parents see, and what teachers sometimes imagine they see, during weekends when I’m with friends. I explain that I’m a member of a rugby club in the community, and whenever there are functions, like dances, I get a free ticket. I then attend and see teachers, or parents of children of the school, there. I then don’t smoke; just dance with the girls I know. These people then report me to school, and my name goes into the black book. I admit that some of my friends are older than me, are working, buy liquor, and then I’m with them when the drinking goes on. But I, Donald, don’t drink. Every one of my friends know I don’t drink. I speak strongly about this point of drinking because the truth is many people are wrong about me, in this respect. I may look like somebody who is a drinker, but I’m not, I argue. I may look like a gangster, but I’m not! How many people have not asked me these questions? How many people just dismiss my answers, as lies? Most of them! We sit there in the office looking at each other over the desk. I dare not look away. I’m strangely calm at this point, simply because it is the truth. I anticipate the next question, and again, answers truthfully.
‘I smoke cigarettes, sir. I don’t smoke dagga!’
How many teachers, too, have asked me that question point blank, and have turned away in disbelief when I answered truthfully? Almost all who asked? It always gives me a strange delight to see them being wrong about me. It’s because they are looking at me from a distance. No one has ever been near me or tried to get near me.
When the man asks me whether I’m a gangster, my answer is a soft, ‘No!’. It is soft because I know the next string of questions will all be about my involvement with gangsters. I decide there is no point n lying. My whole life seems to be captured in that file in front of the psychologist.
I sit for a minute or two, head down, looking at my hands in my lap, and then I start to tell the stranger in front of me, about my life in Cape Town, and where I stay, when I go to my mom. I leave out huge chunks, but tell him how difficult it is for a young boy living in a gang-infested area not to become sucked into the lifestyle of gangsters who live opposite you, next to you, and behind you. I tell him there are many young boys, who walk the streets with the gangs and sit in class the next day, like me. Like me, these boys dream of one day completing studies to earn enough money to take their parents out of such circumstances. But for now, our parents live there; they must walk there freely. They cannot become targets every time they come outside their houses. I explain I make it possible for my parents to walk safely there because I’m known to the gangsters. This does not necessarily make me a gangster, or skollie, too. I repeat to the psychologist man: like several other school boys, I walk with them, I acknowledge them, but don’t smoke dagga, or drink with them, and that they accept and respect us as schoolboys in the area. In fact, I tell him, they are actually proud of the schoolboys in their midst.
Mr Cronje, listens to me intently, twirling the pen round and round with the fingers of his one hand; the other elbow on the table, chin in hand, listening to me. It does not seem that what he hears is new to him. It seems that he has heard it all before.
Then he switches his questions to schoolwork. He wants to know how I’m going to improve on my marks, because my marks are not good enough for Standard Ten, as they are. I explain that I will be getting my own textbooks at month end. To this, Mr Cronje looks up, quite surprised. I explain how I borrow books from a friend, for a day or two. I then give back the borrowed book and gets a different one to work from, for a day or two.
This also comes out easily, because it is true. But the questioning is getting to me, and I wonder when it would be break-time. This guy must give me a break too! Then the questioning goes to my rugby playing for the school, and the club. All this information comes from the file Mr Cronje has in front of him. He asks me about the rugby injury I sustained a few years ago. As the questions continue I’m getting scared of what may still come out of that file. I tell him about the school’s rugby team, and that I’m sometimes called to play for the club.
The questioning goes on for a while still, covering mostly, what I will do to change my attitude towards school, and the teachers. When that subject is opened up, I clamp down again. I do nothing wrong at school.
‘Do you know what I see when I look at you, Donald? It’s what other people also see!’
‘Do you see a gangster, Sir?
It comes out, just like that. Mr Cronje sits back, thought about an answer for a while, and then he closes the file. It is then that I notice he was working from the Vocational Guidance file that was opened in Standard Seven. I remember that my buddies and I decided out of pure naughtiness, to put a scowling, hard-case look on our faces, just to annoy the teacher in charge. This photo is on the cover of this file! When Mr Cronje speaks, his answer surprises me.
‘I think you must have a heart-to-heart talk with the principal. I think people may misjudge you. What I know now, after speaking to you, is that you give them a reason to judge you. Open up to people, Donald! Show people who you really are! People don’t know you!’
He speaks softly across the desk to me. He looks me in the eyes all the time. He is serious. He sounds, and he looks, sincere to me. No one has ever spoken to me like a father speaking to his wayward son – pleading with him. I feel something stirring inside me – behind my eyes.
My head drops, and I clutch my hands in my lap. I feel weak. What must I say? This man has seen something in me that no one has noticed before. This man seems to care. Is it because I opened up to him?
‘I will monitor your progress from now on, Donald. You gave me your word that you’ll improve, and pass Standard Nine. I’m writing a confidential report about my session with you. I want to ask you now: think carefully about your life, Donald! Just don’t fall by the wayside. Please! I have confidence in you! You call me if you need anything, or feel I can help you with something at school. You can make it! Your grandparents depend on you. Don’t disappoint yourself! Don’t disappoint us!’
I just sit there, nodding. To me, it’s like my late father is speaking to me. I’m afraid to look up, because I feel the tears welling up in my eyes. Mr Cronje must have sensed it, because he ends the conversation soon after.
‘Is there anything you want to say to me, Donald?’
I cannot think of anything further to say. I finally look up at Mr Cronje. I don’t care that the man sees the emotion all over my face. My voice is soft and trembling:
‘No, Sir. Thank you, Sir.’
And then it is over.
I slouch into class, and slump into my desk. I feel as if I have been in a life and death battle. The teacher continues with the lesson, and only gives me a sideways glance. I’m sure all the teachers will know the school psychologist is on the premises, and why he is there. I put my head on the desk, and try to get over the feeling of utter dejectedness. I’m hurting inside. Somebody has been brought to school to strip me naked; to humiliate me; cut me down to size! I put my head on the desk, and bury my face in my folded arms. What is wrong with me, I think. The man’s presence meant some people here, at school, believe I don’t belong here. I belong on the streets! Do they know there, on the streets, I’m so much happier than here? Here is humiliation, where nasty, big people, don’t speak to a person – they whisper behind your back about you. They judge you from a distance. They send people to look into your background, and into your head, to see what is wrong with you. Why has no one ever called me in, and asked me those questions? Out there, on the streets, everybody is the same. All exactly the same! Whether you live upstairs, in a flat, or in a shack made of poles, corrugated sheets, and lined with cardboard and beautiful pictures inside, does not matter. The streets level everybody. But, don’t make a mistake: they also dress well! Some of them also speak well, depending on who is being addressed. Some of them, I know, have had school till the high standards, some even higher. They are polite to decent people; they show respect, where respect is due. I don’t agree that I’m a bad person! Maybe I look like a bad person, but I’m not! I’m not!
Towards the end of the period, during the question and answer session, the class normally becomes quite lively, as pupils respond to questions, and ask questions of their own. All attention goes to the side of the class where the discussion is taking place. It’s my chance to steal a glance, under my arm, backwards, and to my left. I see two big eyes, under dark eyebrows, looking back at me. There is a furrow on her brow. Her hand comes up, slightly and opens, as if to ask, ‘What’s going on?’ I know I’m not imagining this.
By the time the period ends, I have made a decision – to go to my mother’s for the week-end, and make the final decision there. I want to get out of this school. Then it is break-time, and everybody rushes out, to their usual places, on the field, or in the shade of the oaks, jostling and pushing each other as they go. My buddies come past. Some just run a hand over my head; others slap me on the shoulder; others just push a fist in my side – gestures they are still there for me. It makes me feel a bit better. But I decide not to go out for break! The whole world will know I have seen a psychologist; that something is wrong in my head. I will just stay in class. I will feel better after the break. Besides, I need the silence; to be with myself.
Then I feel a light touch on the front of my head, the part that is sticking out above his folded arms. Somebody is touching my forehead where the hair starts, and running a finger all along the hairline that’s available, ever so lightly! I lift my head slightly and see a school dress in front of my face. My heart sinks. It’s her!
‘Donald!’
Alex Marshall hails from Heidelberg in the Western Cape. He was a teacher at Trafalgar High School in District Six, whereafter he taught English at Masibambane High School in Kraaifontein. He was an activist for South African sports; has a great interest in history, and holds a master’s degree in Philosophy from UCT. Alex is passionate about reflecting on his community in his writing.
