Thank You, Johnny, Wherever You Are

I am ancient. I know this because, when I tell people how old I am, they say, "Oh, that's not old at all!" People only say that to old farts like me. For this reason, if I write of my schooldays, you may be certain that I am talking of a time in the dim and distant past*.

In those days schools were schools. By this I mean that their prime intention was to educate the children entrusted to them, rather than to entertain, to indoctrinate or to allow them to discover their inner selves through freedom to do precisely as they wished. The methods chosen for them to attain this purpose of education were primitive by today's standards. They believed, for instance, in discipline. The theory was that, if they could persuade the students to sit quietly and listen, there was a strong possibility that they might absorb the odd fact or two. And I hardly need tell you that their chosen method of instilling such discipline involved the application of severe pain upon any dissenting rear ends.

Strangely, these outdated and inhuman methods were very effective in providing the vast majority of us with an education that was to prove of some use in later life. Without exception, we left school being able to read fluently, write a passable letter, solve basic mathematical tasks without recourse to a calculator (which did not exist then anyway) and dress appropriately enough for a job interview. Some of us were even taken beyond this already considerable achievement to what we might think of as higher things. These would include such matters as a grounding in the classics of literature and art, some vague acquaintance with calculus or trigonometry and a working knowledge of history and geography but, in some cases, there was a possibility that steps might be taken towards an understanding of self and society.

It should not be taken that it was the system alone that succeeded so well in its purpose. The fact that almost all of the teachers were dedicated to their task and gifted in carrying it out is another strong element in the effectiveness of the schools of those days. And the recruitment of such teachers was achieved by a scheme so devious that only an Einstein of bureaucrats could have designed it. The reasoning went like this:

Let us offer a mere pittance as a wage to those who wish to become teachers. In this way, any person in their right mind will scorn to accept our offer. Only those who are of sufficient insanity to desire from their hearts to become teachers will ignore such a detail as a salary and will apply. The saving to the Treasury in wages outgoing will be enormous and the quality of teaching should improve as a side effect.

That this worked in practice is evidenced by the fact that, throughout my school career, I was subjected to the ministrations of only one bad teacher; and he can be explained away by the fact that he was stupid enough not to have noticed the salary being offered. He did not last long. All of the others were effective teachers. I did not appreciate them at the time but I know now that I owe them a great debt of gratitude.

Although my teachers had in common an ability to teach, they varied greatly in approach and method. There were those who ruled by fear, others who used "psychology" and some who ruled purely by force of their personalities. There was one, however, who stood out both in his method of teaching and by his success in educating his charges. He was my English Literature teacher for the two years of ‘A' Level and my debt to him is greater than the amount I owe to all the others combined.

I should explain for the benefit of any American readers that the educational system in Britain and her Empire was directed towards two important qualifications, the ‘O' Level and the ‘A'. ‘O' Level was taken at the age of sixteen and was designed to test the student's knowledge of fact. Since it coincided with the school leaving age, for many it was the last they saw of that hallowed institution. For others, those who desired to progress to university for instance, there remained a further two years of school, at the end of which they would sit the ‘A' Level examination. This was a very different exam from the ‘O' Level, since it assumed knowledge of the facts and enquired rather into the student's ability to use those facts.

As I have mentioned, Johnny Bridle was my English Literature teacher for my ‘A' Level years. He was a small man, shorter than many of his students, but his body was tough and fit and he had one of those angular, hard faces that one imagines as belonging to a gymnast. Certainly, he had the energy of an athlete and he attacked everything that he did with gusto. In fact, "attack" would be a good word to describe how he dealt with us in our first year with him.

Johnny ignored the curriculum, that list of solid and worthy books that we were supposed to read and appreciate, classical authors like Jane Austen (I never did finish Emma - how ridiculous is it to give the longest novel in the English language to 16 year olds and expect them to like it?), Thomas Hardy and Dickens. Instead, he engaged us in discussion, always beginning with some scandalous statement on politics, religion or life in general. His statements were so opposed to anything we had ever thought true that our training in respect for authority would be forgotten in our outrage at his preposterous remarks. All of us, even the most withdrawn and shy, found ourselves driven to argue his point.

He never backed down. To him it was nothing to enter a contest of wits with the entire class, shooting down all of our points with a devastating accuracy and ruthless logic. We seethed with anger that he should resist us so and returned to the fray with point after point, only to see them destroyed by his nimble mind.

It could not last, of course. In time we began to get the upper hand and he would have to concede the occasional small victory for us. Throughout that year, however, he continued to introduce new topics with unlikely viewpoints and we came to expect and enjoy these heated debates and trials of strength.

After our first few and insignificant successes, he began a new tactic. Just on occasion, he would enter the classroom carrying an armful of books and throw them, one at a time, at whoever was first to raise his hand. His instructions were brief and simple: merely to read the book and then tell him what we thought of it.

And what books they were. Never culled from the lists of the ponderous curriculum, these were books that had been written within the previous ten, twenty or even forty years, written by authors we had never heard of. Their names are famous now but then they were still controversial and "modern". In that fusty old classroom I first met Mr Steinbeck and Mr Kerouack. There, too, began my acquaintance with the delectable works of Mr Salinger; yes, of course The Catcher in the Rye but, more importantly, the wonderful Franny and Zooey, Raise High the Roofbeam, Carpenters and the incomparable Seymour. Graham Greene entered the room and TS Eliot, Frost and Yeats too.

Reading the books was the easy part. We devoured them because they were such a revelation to us. The difficulty began when we had to return the book and announce to the class our opinion of it. Then we found that just an opinion was not sufficient. Johnny would pick at us, drawing us on to defend our viewpoint, never allowing us to rest in easy assumption or sloppy generalization. As the books were passed between us, more of us were able to participate in these discussions and we learned how to defend a viewpoint against all comers.

By the end of that year we were seasoned campaigners, alert to any flaw in logic or sly avoidance of a weakness. We were united into a band of bookish warriors, haughty and confident in our prowess. And, in the second year, Johnny released us upon the books of the curriculum.

They didn't stand a chance, of course. We devoured them with an easy bravado, picking them to pieces with accomplished skill, pointing out their virtues and skewering their weaknesses. And Johnny sat with us, enjoying our exercise of newly-awoken muscles, only interjecting a point or two when we strayed from the most rigorous path. How easy must that year have been for him, merely shepherding his charges from totem to totem; but earned only at the toil of the first year, when he had turned ignorant schoolboys into hardened warriors of literature.

I think we had some idea even then of what he had done for us. The full extent of how much he gave us has only become apparent to me with the passing years, however. I learned much more from Johnny than just a love of literature and writing. I learned more than an ability to defend a viewpoint or debate an issue. Over and above everything else that I had from him is the fact that he taught me to think. For that I am eternally grateful for without it my life would have been very different.

He did not shape my thinking or direct it into the paths that he might have preferred. He showed me how to do it and then stood aside while I found my own way and chose for myself the direction that was right for me. And that, surely, is the highest accolade any teacher can receive.

Thank you, Johnny, wherever you are now. You were and are the finest teacher that a student could hope for. You were a great friend, too.

* This is a cliché. However, it happens to be a good one if you think about it. When you are as old as I am, the past is indeed distant and must, for that very reason, be dim, obscured as it is by the mists of the intervening years. There are times when only a cliché will do.