Articles by Ma Thanegi
Teachers Who Terrorised
I must hasten to explain that our teachers were never cruel and we were not abused students or else at any hint of slander here the whole body of the Methodist English High School alumni will descend en mass to crush me with their combined weight. Which, considering the amount of fat they have accumulated over the years would be .. phew!….akin to Mt. Everest toppling over me. Kidding! Just kidding! Don't any of you start calling Brother to complain yet again, you tattletales. Oh, KIDDING! I didn't mean that either.
At school we were terrified of them but somehow, even as we quaked in our boots waiting for them to enter the classroom we looked forward to the sheer enjoyment of hearing them teach English or Bama literature. Strangely enough, it was the language teachers and only one history teacher we feared most in school.
The Principal, Mrs. Logie lived in a pleasant rooftop apartment over the school and fortunately for us her pet Dachshund called Wieny liked to trot in front as if she were leading the motorcade. This way we were warned about her imminent presence and could hide our comic books, sunflower seeds, plum pickles and to pat down our hairdos. This last was because she would not tolerate the high 'bee-hive' hair dos of the 50s and with grim determination would personally comb out the bee-hive of any girl she came across. Took some doing, as we had to tangle up the hairs with 'back-combing' to create the hillocks out of our locks.
On days that Wieny was sick we would be ambushed by Mrs. Logie who, in spite of wearing high heels, could step as silently as an Apache about to spring on a covered wagon. We used to wish her (the dog) good health and never did any of us feel such goodwill towards a Dachshund and probably never again did in our whole lives.
When we girls added wide swinging stiffened underskirts called can-cans to our fashionable getups, the poor lady had to patrol twice as often to send offenders to the washrooms to remove this undergarment. We wept copious tears as we sat under her comb or came back into class with drooping skirts, but she stood firm. She must have been relieved when those fashions passed.
She was a woman of great humour and tolerance, an able and fair administrator the teachers loved but to us she was only She Who Must Be Obeyed, First Class.
The other non-teachers we also feared was Mrs. Po Saw from the Principal's office, not because she ever said or did anything to us but because she looked stern and said very little. Tall and thin and stiff as a ramrod, she would peer over her gold-rimmed spectacles if we needed to go into the office. She would have been astounded to learn about how our hearts thumped at those times, if only she knew.
Then there was Mrs. Greenwell from the library who had the most beautiful green eyes I've ever seen, glinting like icy emeralds at boys who ripped her books. She too said little and maybe it was the mystery of talking little that awed us, as she truly was a kind person.
Nurse Julie of the school clinic did not terrorised us but she wasn't a pushover either. Go groaning to her about stomachache to avoid a Math test and she would instantly produce a large bottle of castor oil, and you quickly realise that Math is the lesser of the two evils. She seemed to know the schedules of exams for all grades.
U Wain who taught Physics in tenth grade once tried persuading his class, one year our senior, to study more by promising Kyats 50 (quite a hefty sum) to each who got a distinction in his subject on the condition that every one else obtained it as well. The entire class of '64 came out with distinctions in Physics. When he welcomed us, the new tenth graders, the very first announcement he made was that never ever in his life was he going to make such a promise again. "I'm bankrupted!" he wailed, but his eyes shone with pride. He needn't have worried about us. The whole class had answered a quiz saying water flows from smaller into bigger quantities.
Daw Khin Nu Swe taught Bama in eighth and ninth grades and my love of literature sprung from her classes. Long minutes before she entered our class we would be as quiet as mice hiding from a cat. Petite, plumb, and immaculately dressed and coifed, her teaching was as sharp and neatly presented. She has a sweet but resonant voice and although she spoke without emotion, the stories of the wise Mahawthada Minister came to life in our minds as sharply defined as if we were watching him in person. Lakes of lotus bloomed in front of our eyes, great kingdoms stretched to the far hills as she walked up and down between our desks, retelling the text without any notes or book in her hands.
We would sit silent in wonderment, still lost in her words, long minutes after she has left the class. Thanks to her, I learnt to read Bama books with my heart while I read English ones with my mind.
Another Bama teacher who brought life to literature was Daw Ma Ma Gyi who taught in the all-important tenth grade. She analysed the Waythandara Jataka and dissect it into neat digestible segments for us, brought us to hysterical tears or gave thoughtful insights as she read from the True Stories of Theikpan Maung Wa. One particular story of the author's chauffer in battle against the pariah dogs who would insist on lying in his path was memorable, and I remember while rolling in my chair with mirth, that underneath the deadpan expression her eyes were twinkling with fun.
Miss Gaw who taught History insisted we know all the dates at the snap of her fingers and students, mostly boys, who did not had to stand on their chairs. Once our group of girls by reason of a Sandra Dee movie the previous night had not learnt our history lesson and thought we would save her the trouble of snapping her fingers by just getting on the chairs before she came into class. She wasn't one bit appreciative of our thoughtfulness and let us know very clearly.
Mrs. Evans, she of the commanding presence and steely grey hair and eyes taught us English and also Optional English, a subject we could take in place of Maths in the tenth grade and if not for that option I'd still be in high school.,/p>
Once someone… was it you, Charles John?… recited from the Charge of the Light Brigade, "Half a leg, half a leg, half a leg onwards, into the Valley of Death." Chaos reigned for a full five minutes and Charles was made to stand in the corner on one leg.
While choosing entrants for an all-school elocution contest, she auditioned 8th grade boys and asked them to sing in turn. Brother, ever wise, and his mates each sang the school song, until the turn came for one named Cecil who sang the latest Elvis complete with lip curl. Big mistake.
She made the rule that those who spoke in Bama during her class would be fined 25 Pyas (1/4 of a Kyat), which would be half our pocket money for the day. One of my mates, who apparently had forgotten the History class Up-on-chair fiasco, went up to Mrs. Evans as soon as she entered the room and paid up her 25 Pyas, so that, she earnestly explained, she could chatter in Bama with a clear conscience. A much bigger mistake.
There was just one phrase from her classes that I can recall, one that gave my best friend Pat and I many moments of the giggles. In one story there was a person accusing another of being "a potential homicidal hysteric."
I wonder why she had looked straight at me when she read that? Never mind, I'm sure she had her reasons.
Chitter Chatter
My friends know better than to chat on the phone with me. They are supposed to state the bare facts of the reason for calling, let me know if they're fine or not, say goodbye and hang up. They may even hang up without saying goodbye and there's not even a need to ask if I'm fine, because, just not to be bothered I'd say I'm fine even if an alligator were chewing on my big toes right at that moment. Its not that I don't like my friends or don't like chatting with them but face-to-face is the only way to talk with people you like, not through an infernal machine that rings just when I'm in the shower or trying to get a sentence right.
Recent friends may think I've always been like this, no time to talk busy busy busy but my school chums know darn well how I could chatter…on the phone and in class, especially those times that Father was trying to call home or while Math teacher Daw Than May the "Pyidaw Thar Hsadon" was explaining the intricacies of Algebra. (She was called "Utopia Chignon" because she liked to wear an old-fashioned tube-like chignon everyday to school, but it's a name given with love, I swear. "Pyidaw Thar" was what the politicians of those days promised us. Even we kids knew it was a farce.)
I talk less nowadays as there are things going on that I should be reading about, writing about or watching on TV and only a saint or a genius or a mute would not chatter during Algebra class. God be praised, I no longer need to study Algebra.
In school, our desks were placed in pairs, and I usually sat with my best friend Pat Ba Khet from 4th grade onwards.
Now Pat as a girl used to be quiet and shy, a girl who usually hid behind others, but somehow we share a silly type of humour on the lines of a more moronic version of the Three Stooges. Nobody could understand what we found so funny however hard I tried to explain and they still can't. Her elder sister would dismiss us and still does as inane idiots heading to the loony bin while my elder brother eyed us warily and avoided us like two cases of bubonic plague. But chatter constantly and giggle hysterically, we did, but not during Burmese lessons, as we were terrified to death of teachers Daw Ma Ma Gyi and Daw Khin Nu Swe.
Other infuriated teachers whose lectures we disturbed with a constant buzz would insist that we sit apart during their classes. This separating was never meted out to anyone else and so we resigned ourselves, in the 7th grade, to Pat sitting with a boy called Sydney Kyee Sein and I with Clive Thar Khin. Then as later the teachers chose new seatmates for us who behaved in class but I soon managed to infect them.
Pat didn't chatter away from my disturbing companionship, and as both Pat and Sydney liked to draw they just quietly doodled together. Clive was a bit stiff at first, enraged that he should be made to sit with a girl, but then I discovered that his passion was Astronomy. I borrowed a few books from the Library, asked him to explain them and voila, before you could say Jupiter we had enough material for constant conversations.
In the 8th grade Pat and I were in different classes due to she taking History as a minor and I Geography, but in the 9th and 10th we were again in one class and again split up. Pat was paired with Mi Kyaw Thaung, a quiet studious girl so my best friend finally had the chance to improve her grades by studying as hard as Mi. I had to sit with Mi's best friend Cissy Taw, someone who was a whiz at Math, on the presumption that I would not be able to chatter during Algebra if my seat partner was concentrating on the blackboard. Mi and Cissy, saintly girls, never showed how upset they must have been to be separated.
What happened was far better for me as I refused to do any more Math homework and just copied off Cissy's sums into my books, and Cissy was so brilliant she did not need to listen to the teachers.
Cissy, like Clive, would not talk about anything that did not interest her, and oh dear god, just for someone to chatter to, I had to read the newspapers every single day.
And not just any news news but only politics and international affairs, which were her passion. I have never read news in any form before, but I gritted my teeth and dutifully studied everything political, much to Father's astonishment. Slowly I became interested in world affairs through heated debates with Cissy, and my interest lasted since then although I'm still a bit shaky on Astronomy. My work now as journalist may be entirely due to Cissy. And to the teachers who couldn't stand my chatter.
That was in school. Back home, I'd change, and walk straight to the phone to chatter with another best friend also called Pat, Pat Po Hla, as she was in another class and we had few chances to talk.
Phones were the lifelines of teenagers back then, as maybe they still are. Father tried to call home once for four straight hours, found out from the operators that it was I on the line, and the same day notified the phone company to disconnect us. A phoneless state lasted six months until Mother threatened me with death and destruction if I touch the phone and had it reinstalled. Those days, it was easy peasy with phone installation… here one day, gone the next, and back again with one call.
Father wouldn't believe it if he were here that I no longer chat on the phone, as in his life he had few reasons to believe me, poor man. But wherever he may be, I'm sure he's trying to send a message of thanks to the Ministry of Communication for raising the phone rates.
I can just hear him chuckling to himself, "Now you just try chatting for four hours, my girl."
