Earlier this week, I was given reason to reflect upon my youth and years as a student.
I had finally managed to track down a favourite teacher from John Gray High School – after searching the Internet on and off for decades – and as I informed friends from those classes that I had found him, we shared memories and laughed about the nonsense we got up to when we were teenagers.
My mother was a teacher at the school at the same time – something that was a blessing and a curse. On the one hand, it was nice to have her a short walk away every day. On the other, whenever I was late with homework or a little sassy in class, she’d be told by a colleague in the staff room. It was never something bad enough that would have warranted teachers calling a parent, but since Mum was sitting there at lunch having a sandwich, why not share that Vicki clearly rushed her recent piece on bauxite mining in Jamaica? (On the plus side, look at me – over 35 years later – remembering that Caribbean fact. Don’t get me started on the tar pits in Trinidad!)
From the age of 12, I went to the government public schools, and although some children came and went, for the most part, the same group of us basically grew up together.
Looking back, we had some really good teachers – and I’d like to think we were fairly well behaved. Remember, those were the times of no mobile phones. Notes got surreptitiously passed in class, but that was about the limit of our ‘subversive’ student communication.
I have no idea what the rules are in schools these days, but if teachers have to combat mobile devices, it must be an uphill battle.
In high school, films like ‘Sixteen Candles’ were all the rage. I had short hair and wore Ray-Ban Wayfarers, which I thought made me look cool. The result was probably more Andrew McCarthy than Molly Ringwald.
If any of you were around back then, you’d recall the likes of Fred Speirs, the head of the maths department; Derek Tyler and his random socks walking at speed past the classrooms; Richard McLeod stopping us from blowing things up in chemistry; Ken Pooley (who taught my technical drawing class, where I was the only girl); and countless others who tried to shape our young minds.
A pioneer of local theatre, Geoff Cresswell, was bringing his visions to life through the school’s drama department; it was impossible to not be swept up in the man’s enthusiasm. And then there was Chris Everett, who came to John Gray to teach music. He was the teacher I just managed to locate this week.
My memory is a bit fuzzy on some details, but on others, it’s crystal clear. From the moment Mr. Everett came into the lives of those of us who loved music, he began to make a profound impact. The choir, which had previously been a bunch of voices singing in unison, was split into soprano, alto, tenor and baritone. Students who wanted the join the band were allowed to borrow school instruments for a period of time to take home and practise, giving them time to save and buy their own. Once they did, the borrowed flutes, saxophones, clarinets, trumpets, trombones and the rest were returned so new students could start to learn. Mr. Everett taught everyone. It seemed there was no instrument the man couldn’t play.
Christmas and seasonal concerts that could have been more of an obligation than a pleasure for parents to attend were highly anticipated events, and although there were classical pieces to be sure, this teacher immersed himself in the local culture and music. He loved Caribbean rhythms, and we’d also often find ourselves playing top 40 numbers in the band. Dionne Warwick’s ‘Heartbreaker’ was definitely in our repertoire. Would we have attempted an Eminem hit in later years? Or Lady Gaga? I have no doubt. That’s what Slim Shady’s missing – a cheeky bit of clarinet.
Beyond being an incredibly gifted educator, Mr. Everett was fun and interactive. As one of my old schoolmates, Crystal Hennings, said, “He always treated us as grown-ups, but without being smarmy.”
That being said, we didn’t always behave as grown-ups. I remember one concert where a bunch of us girls were sitting backstage, waiting to go on, and we got a terrible fit of the giggles – we just couldn’t stop laughing. The light scolding we received just made it worse. It was genuinely terrifying to think we’d be going out in front of the audience, unable to sing a note because we were enveloped in mirth. I don’t know if it was the fear of letting Mr. Everett down, or a healthy amount of stage fright, but somehow, as we walked solemnly into the spotlight, we got a hold of ourselves. It was, perhaps, a more spirited version of ‘I Saw Three Ships’ than we’d rehearsed, but we made it through without a single chortle.
Those were great times. I don’t know that we fully appreciated then how lucky we were to have the teachers we did – people who genuinely cared about us and made sure we stayed on the straight and narrow. I also hope those teachers know what a difference they made in our lives.
Certainly, my mother left a lasting impression. Whenever she walks around town, supermarkets or any kind of store, past students are always stopping her to ask how she’s doing and to say that she was one of their favourite teachers. It means so much to her. That’s why it was really important to me to find Chris Everett – so I could tell him the same thing. I found out that even though he’s retired, he’s playing in a band – an Afro Caribbean band called Kizamba, based in Penzance in the UK. It seems the music of the Caribbean never left him, even after he left the islands so many years ago.
We should all take the time to seek out those who made us better students, better people, and showed us how to appreciate what the world has to offer. I think I’ll get my tenor sax out of storage tonight; time to start learning some Megan Thee Stallion numbers.
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