------------------------------------------------------------------------ * G * O * A * N * E * T **** C * L * A * S * S * I * F * I * E * D * S * ------------------------------------------------------------------------ Enjoy your holiday in Goa. Stay at THE GARCA BRANCA from November to May There is no better, value for money, guest house. Confirm your bookings early or miss-out
Visit http://www.garcabranca.com for details/booking/confirmation. ----------------------------------------------------------------------- SOMETIMES BITTER, SOMETIMES BETTER: Out of ordinary relationships with Britto's -- Avelino D'Souza of Bastora/Kuwait and from St Britto's Class of 1979 looks back at some experiences at his old school to draw lessons for today's world of parenting. Email: [EMAIL PROTECTED] -- The Yahoogroups-based Britto Boy's Network buoyed pleasant memories to the surface. Reminiscing and going through write-ups by fellow pupils merged the past into the present, creating a seamless time entity. The out-of-the-ordinary relationship with our alma mater is truly inspirational; it has the unique ability to cross frontiers and to travel through time. There is a feeling of a mysterious force luring us closer and closer to our alma mater; like sea of devotees flooding a holy shrine. What's more, the umbilical cord which binds us to our alma mater is compassionate, motivating, and supportive. Its giant reach and captivating might, like tentacles of a giant octopus, is embracing all its alumni joyfully and creating a tide of unprecedented deja vu. Alma mater's mesmerizing power to reach thousands of miles, to all generations of its former students is absolutely thrilling. The build-up of nostalgia and the sense of belonging are hysterically overwhelming. SCHOOL UNIFORM, OVERSIZED BAG As I look at my son in school uniform and over-sized school bag, the memories of yesteryears in St Britto's come flooding through. Every time I take his lessons or look at his school books, I remember my school days and my school teachers. Unconsciously I share all my experiences and my teachers' finer moments with him. I wish for my sons to experience the unique sense of belonging, the way I do, to an institute which molded its past pupils, for generations, into fine men. I brush aside past memories and come back to the present. I am, in a way, connected to school chores. Once again I find myself in the midst of school books, school uniforms, early morning routine of getting my kid ready for school, attending PTA (parent-teacher association) meetings and the like. Now it's the other way around and I am not happy about it; I am the parent and the part I am playing in relation to school activities is not exactly what I wanted, it's not what I had in mind. The envy I feel for children going about their school business is heartbreaking; school days were the most memorable and carefree days of my life, and if possible, I wish to turn the clock back to 70's and once again be part of the school. I have to visit Joshua's school to collect his report card today. I am upbeat about the school visit; it helps to bring fond memories of my school days to the fore. I call out to Joshua and ask him to be quick. We flag down Bus 102 proceeding towards Fahaheel. Joshua and I board the bus and pay 150 fils for the fare. Joshua takes the window seat as usual and I take the only seat left, next to him. We had left our home in Fintas at 5 PM to collect Joshua's school report card. The final report today will decide Joshua's fate; in no certain terms will dictate if he is fit to be in the fourth standard or not. Joshua reminded me about my promise and told me not to go against it; the promise to travel by bus during the school vacation. I usually drive as it is more convenient. SHOUTING, COAXING, OCCASIONAL THRASHING Grudgingly, I conceded to Joshua's request to travel by bus to collect the report card as he had committed himself to study hard. A bit of shouting, coaxing and occasional thrashing was required to keep him in line. Joshua simply loves to travel by bus. The summer heat does not bother him at all. He prefers the bus to a car; he can enjoy the ride for a much longer time and have fun in the sun. He makes the best of it every time he gets a chance to go out. We get off in Mangaf, cross the overhead pedestrian bridge to get on the other side of the freeway. The school is near the highway, barely few minutes of walking. We enter the school compound and after walking through a long corridor and 30 flights of steps we are in Class III C. Joshua's class teacher, Mrs Pereira, greets us. We take our seats and wait for our turn. Two students along with their parents are also waiting for their turn. We are lucky to be third in line. We can overhear the teacher and parents dialog. The usual litany of complains, can-do-better, mischief, playful and such key-words. We proceed towards the front of the class and take our seats across the table facing the class teacher. The teacher's surprised face lit up and said, "My, my, Joshua! You look clean and very quiet today. What's the matter Joshua?" VERGE OF WEEPING Looking serious she added further, "You have failed and have to repeat the class." Joshua turns pale and mutters, "Dad, I did well, answered everything correctly". He is on the verge of weeping. The teacher is quick to calm him and says "Joshua, I was only kidding, you are promoted to the fourth standard! But, your average is not good in Math, English and Hindi. You have done well in Science and Social Science. You are smart and can surely improve your grades next year if you stop being playful." She ended her say with a no-nonsense stare to Joshua. Joshua was excited by his school report; the dream of collecting replicas of six sports cars was finally coming true. Joshua's class teacher looks at me and says, "He runs around and is not behaving well in class. He tends to get disturbed very easily and in turn disturbs other students." I am quick to point out that the responsibility of maintaining good discipline in class is the job of school and its teachers. "We parents can't be blamed for all the mischief he does in school. At home we shout and use the cane if we have to. Why don't the teachers discipline them if necessary?" The teacher replies, "We are not allowed to shout and use force on the students. It's against the school ethics. We are helpless; our hands are tied, we can't do much to control errant students." She adds with a sigh, "A group of four to six naughty boys makes teaching and controlling the class very difficult, almost an impossible task." We thank Mrs Pereira and leave the India International School to go home. We get off the bus and after five minutes we are home. Joshua is cheerful as usual and I find his thrill not complementing my mood; the bus rides all the time makes me tiresome. NO FORCE, SHOUTING "We are not allowed to shout and use force on the students", was the phrase that kept continuously playing in my mind. I felt like I have a mini-disk player permanently embedded in my head on auto-play. I see the face of Mrs Pereira, Joshua's class teacher, again and again. Her words sounding, echoing, reverberating, repeating a hundred times, and a thousand times over. I have lost count of the sheer number; I see her whispering, shouting and sometimes helplessly pleading; she wants to discipline and instill good behavior, but unable to help her students. I go to bed; I am unable to get out of this imagery and voices relentlessly inhabiting my mind. I see more dreams, hear more voices. I see few clear visions, some blurred. I focus on few clear voices; they are sobbing, crying, shouting and screaming. Flashbacks have created a whirlwind which is making a mince-meat of my brain. It's a jumble of pictures and sounds. All these visions and clatter are flooding my thoughts. I am stunned, I find myself sweating, and I am terrified by all these sudden rush of revelations and reverberations. All these quiescent pictures are struggling to come to the fore and grab my attention. The pictures and voices are not clear; it's like looking through frosted glass panes on a stormy night. I am waiting for the storm to recede and get beyond the frosted glass to get a better look at these aspirations. I am trying to make sense but without much success. I am trying to fathom their locations back in time. I am trying to identify the faces and recognize the familiar looking sights. I am straining my self to listen to cacophony of sounds, to identify the voices and grasp what these voices are trying to convey. It's midnight and I am unable to sleep. I get up and pour myself a glass of water. I take two quick sips. I feel cool and relaxed. I go back to bed. The apparitions continue but have some semblance. FATIMA'S, GUIRIM, DON BOSCO'S Then, I see myself going to school. I see my first school, Fatima High School, in Bombay. I also remember the familiar sight of Monte de Guirim and Don Bosco, where I studied for a year each. St Britto's in all its majesty is now prominent and has taken center stage in my mind. I see my school in all its grandiosity comfortably sited on a hill-top. I remember my first day in Britto's. I am holding my mother's hand as she walks me to school. I see myself in new uniform, new shoes, new water-bottle, lunch box and new school bag full of books, pencils, crayons, color-pencils, sharpener and scale. My class IV is on the first floor, below the dormitory. All my teachers are ladies, except Sir Olavo, our PT teacher. The school has two football grounds. The school canteen is crowded during the interval. I see boys buying samosas, batatawadas and other snacks. I take a bite from my lunch-box. I never bought any snack or drink from the school canteen. I have no desire to go against my mom's wishes; she advised me to keep away from canteen and not to carry any money to school. Whatever the reasons, I never questioned then. I find my self in 8th class. I also see leveling and cutting of rocks between the school and lavatory for a new basket ball court. I turn and twist in my bed. I see my school, teachers, classmates and friends through a cloud of fog. I feel tired, drowsy and totally drained. I slip into blissful state of unconsciousness. I hear a familiar sound, to my shock I realize the buzz is from my alarm clock. I tap the clock and find my self sleepy, stiff and heavy. Last night was strenuous and I did not get adequate sleep. Reluctantly I get up, clean my self, get dressed, have my coffee and on the streets heading towards my work place. As usual, the first few hours are hectic. I am fully engrossed in work. My second cup of coffee has given me the much required stimulant to get along. I feel refreshed and good. Finally it's quiet at my workplace. I can fully contemplate my days in St Britto's. The flood of dormant past images will help me to go back in time to comprehend my school days. It will help me to know my teachers, classmates and friends. It will help me to illuminate all the scolding, crying, shouting and thrashing which my mind conjured and refuses to let go. It will take me down memory lane to explore the events during my school days in Britto's. I try to recollect my school days from 4th standard onwards. In my minds eye, I see my classmates punished for coming late, for not doing their homework, for not keeping pin-drop silence in class. I see their tear-jerking faces. I see the pain in their innocent eyes. I see them asking for forgiveness. I see them begging their teachers to show mercy and to be lenient. I see them promising to be good and to eat humble crow. I don't want to see all these horrific past images. I can't see my friends being humiliated. I find it difficult to believe all the sadistic punishment meted out to my friends. I know it's disgusting and totally inhuman. I know how they feel because I have gone through most if not all of these agonies. I find it sick to see young boys being punished ruthlessly. I get into my head. I explore the dark recesses of my mind. I am obsessed by these new findings which I have been part of it. I am looking for more clear-cut series of abuse which happened three decades ago. The very thought of disturbing the past make my hair on the neck to stand. I am not sure if I am doing the right thing or not. I find it extremely difficult to get my mind to make a decision. Enough is enough! This has gone too far, simply too far. I will not allow my feelings to come in my way. I will get my head to do the thinking. I find my self diving deeper and deeper into the unknown territory of my mind. I find some alarming yet clear stories which took place way back in 70's. There are too many out there which require my immediate attention. I start making detail notes of these unattractive episodes between the teachers and students. I place red flags for the ugly memories and blue for not so disturbing, almost pleasant ones. There are too many repulsive scenes. I'm sure to run out of red flags. LIFTED, SUSPENDED My first finding is utterly shocking. I see my classmate being lifted by the sides of his head and kept suspended by this gorilla of a teacher for a long time. I hear the boy crying with pain, too respectful to say anything more, meekly giving himself up to the lust of the sadist. What a disgusting scene! I find my self gasping for want of air. I get out in the open to get a breath of fresh air. I felt like throwing up. The nauseating feeling lingers for a long time. Part of me wants to stop looking for red flag attachments. The other part of me wants me to get to the bottom of this bedlam. I reluctantly go to the next red flag; the intoxication gets to me and I am too weak to let it go. I find teachers being inventive in their method of punishment. I see a teacher using a pencil to punish the student. The boy about to be administered the 'pencil therapy' looks at the teacher and than at the pencil. He seems relaxed, not too worried about the pencil therapy. He has no idea about the pencil therapy, though he has gone through much harsher forms of punishment. He wonders about the pencil punishment, scorns at the teacher, thinking aloud about its silliness. The teacher coolly walks towards the boy and places the pencil between the index and middle finger of the boy. With a tight handshake grip, the teacher rotates the pencil clock-wise and than anti clock-wise. The boy cries and jumps. He is shocked, caught off guard, by the ever increasing and excruciating sense of pain, and humbly succumbs to its effectiveness. No more contempt but total acceptance. Another brutality comes to the fore. "Get your lazy bones in here", the teacher screams, mouth spewing spittle, face turning red and grotesque, sending shivers down the spine of the poor boy. Thud! Thud! The sound of two hard and quick slaps in succession. The boy opens his mouth but nothing comes out of it; it's the botched co-ordination between the brain and the mouth. Fear and shock grips the boy, a momentary effect of paralysis. I feel tiny explosions in my head. What a mess I got myself in. I should have left the ghastly past alone. I keep promising, without much effect, not to disturb the past. On the contrary I find my self looking for more and more of the unsavory delights. It's the fire within which makes me crave for these nasty yearnings. I have no desire to put off the fire right now, may be later. If it goes off accidentally, than I will never able to figure out all the terrible things which took place long, very long time back. I take a break, drive around for a while. The gust of air in my face has a soothing effect; it helps my mind to clear and feel happy. I park the car and close my eyes. I feel great. I feel fresh. I take a long and deserving break. I am addicted to these past nightmares. I can't stop going to the depth of my mind. I am weak, unable to overcome the temptation to seek more shocking episodes. I see my classmate shivering, and talking incoherently. I am baffled by this unexpected scene. I put my hand around his shoulder and try to calm him. He confides and tells me that he forgot to do his homework and he will be punished. He understands the agony waiting for him too well. He has seen his classmates go through it before. There is no time to get his note book in order. DESIGNER STICK The teacher looks at his book and instructs him to stand near the door. There are two more boys heading towards the door. All three are shaking uncontrollably like jelly. The teacher gets his designer stick out of the bag. It's a branch from the local bush. He has half a dozen in his bag. The stick strikes the palms of the boys with cruel force. Their palms are red, sore and aching; pain clearly visible on their tender faces and in their watery eyes. The rest of the class looks at the scene in total fear. I had enough of red flag stories. With disgust, I leave the red flag infested areas and move to the blue flags stories. My mind's eye sees few blue flags fluttering, trying to say something, in a way inviting me. I look at them with appealing curiosity. I see boys made to write essays on different subjects. To know more about the subject they have to first read books from the school library. After school hours they have to go through number of books to collect sufficient material to write an essay. Then they have to go home and write the essay. Writing and re-writing the essay many times over until the write-up is meaningful, tidy and presentable. Of course there is no guarantee that the teacher will be pleased with it the next day. I see bitterness with this type of punishment. They are totally resigned and bored to death. This punishment is slowly killing them emotionally. They prefer physical punishment which is quick and over with. They like to prove to their friends that physical punishment is a piece of cake and they are mentally receptive to go through it. They love to show-off. There is no doubt that they prefer the physical punishment, which is quick and fast, to the more torturous type; writing, reading and being tied to their study desk for hours together in one corner of a dreary room. The excessive time consuming type of punishment crush their jittery nerves. A day lost in the lackluster room without playing with their friends gets them into frenzy. They pray not to get anywhere near this dreary type of punishment. They find it really hurting them in all respect; emotionally, physically and socially. This correction method works quickly and has a positive effect on the naughty boys. Their attitude towards school, teachers and studies is absolutely remarkable. It's like hitting the nail right on the head. TOTAL ATTENTION, SERENITY, CALMNESS I take a look at another teacher. This incident is surprisingly pleasant and nothing short of wonder. Teacher walks with his back straight and head held high in the classroom, towering above the students. His voice loud and deep, reverberating the classroom with authority. The no nonsense voice clearly demonstrating who is in control without much fun fare. The distance between the teacher and students is obvious and well maintained; no chance of getting too cozy now or in the near future and definitely no buddies and chums in the classroom. He attracts total attention from students and upholds serenity of a worship place. He accomplishes the calmness without shouting and without thrashing. However, he smiles, jokes, and, quick to shower praises when the need arises. I ask myself why some teachers are friendly and others hostile. Why do they behave the way they do? Their confidence to control the class has somehow ebbed; is it at a very depressing level? Is it the constant stress which finally gets to them and make them slaves of the stick? What goes in the mind of a school teacher when confronted by unreceptive students? All these queries will help to fathom the delicate and at times volatile relation between teachers and students. It will surely assist to get a clear picture of the classroom. In Britto's, I remember my school teachers when I was in eighth standard. In the beginning of a new academic year, all the teachers are nice and fresh. Their attitude towards the class is pleasant and helpful. As days go by, the students seem to take advantage of some teachers by not being attentive. The students are not listening when the teacher is trying to explain an important part of a lesson. Also, the students are not doing their lessons at home thereby creating unwanted friction with their teachers. At times showing disrespect and being stubborn. The unruliness gradually increases and teacher finds him (or, occasionally, herself, in this boys' school) at a receiving end. All the soft modes of controlling the class become useless. The teacher losses cool and opts to go for the cane. The use of force is now the only option to control the class. As days go by innovative forms of disciplinary methods are giving birth. The teacher looks at its inventions as a means of maintaining discipline and also as a means of survival in an unruly classroom. A teacher with a class of fifty or more students with out back-up to control a class is in dire straits. It is the sheer hopelessness which drives the teachers to use force for every form of indiscipline. Day in and day out the teachers, on their own strength without any resources, are maintaining discipline, inculcating good behavior and educating the students. PARENTS' TRIUMPH? Parents are quite happy about their children not being part of corporal punishment. They feel that they have triumphed over the teachers and the school administration. This short term feat will have long term repercussion for the society as the child grows up. The school and the teacher can't do miracles as far as development of social literacy of the child is concerned. The responsibility of the student is now the collective responsibility of school along with teachers, the education ministry and parents. Educational authorities are more concerned in putting more and more matter into the child's head rather than focusing on child's thinking and reasoning capabilities. The school along with the parents is concerned about academic excellence, but not concerned at all about all round social and emotional growth of the child. The present and future generations are sure to excel academically but their behavioral pattern is sure to cause problems for them and to their society. UNRULY, RAUCOUS More and more classrooms are becoming unruly and raucous. students are learning and imitating the techniques of a local gang, and almost behaving like one. Students are bringing in hockey sticks, knives, drugs, mobile phones and even guns to school. Teachers are clearly outnumbered, vulnerable and alone in the face of the danger. The hapless teacher, who otherwise loves to correct and discipline the students, is indifferent to the classroom due to limited resources available to deal with such type of situations. The hands of the teachers and of the school are tied with a tape called 'corporal punishment'. The rowdiness of the present students will reflect on the society they live in. The freedom which they enjoy without caring for the responsibilities, which are the integral part of any freedom, will have drastic consequences on their well being and that of the general public. Small size classrooms, more teaching and non-teaching staff, psychologists and community workers may be the answer for the students and teachers to have a decent learning and teaching environment. Good behavior, respect to teachers and elders, and civic sense will play a positive role in children's attitude and avert future social catastrophes. The end of corporal punishment in school is causing a lot of anxiety among the parents and also among the children. Parents find extremely difficult to control their children who are having a free run and picking awful stuff from other students. The little time they have for the children, after duty hours, is draining their energies further and short circuiting the little patience or whatever is left of it after a full day of work. The school, which earlier took the sole responsibility of disciplining the children, is not concerned any more with the behavior and social literacy of the child. Corporal punishment in school has receded but the domestic corporal punishment is raising its ugly head. Parents are now forced to use the cane more often to control their errant children. The child feels that punishment from parents is much more severe compared to the one received from the teachers. The child is punished either way. In the eyes of a child, the mighty and immortal cane has now changed hands; from hands of an unfamiliar teacher to hands of a familiar parent. -- ABOUT THE AUTHOR: Avelino D'Souza, from Bastora (Bardez) and working in Kuwait, is an active member of Goanet, and attributes his interest in the written word, in large part, to the library at his old school, St Britto's at Mapusa. Britto's alumni network is in cyberspace at http://groups.yahoo.com/group/britto Many other schools in Goa are currently also building their alumni networks, and Goanet seeks to support this venture. ---------------------------------------------------------------- GOANET-READER WELCOMES contributions from its readers, by way of essays, reviews, features and think-pieces. We share quality Goa-related writing among the 7000-strong readership of the Goanet/Goanet-news network of mailing lists. If you appreciated the thoughts expressed above, please send in your feedback to the writer. 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