Job Offer

Job Offer

Back in 1977, I was about to graduate from Wesleyan University in my home state of Connecticut, but without a job.  I’d been to parts of East and West Africa by then, so the prospect of teaching in South Africa had a kind of glib, complete-the-tour-of-Africa appeal.  My South African-born history professor, Jeff Butler, who had begun his teaching career at Kingswood College in Grahamstown, was kind enough to write on my behalf to a few South African private school headmasters.

Eventually a letter arrived from Rex Pennington, then Rector of Michaelhouse, a school in Balgowan, Natal, which has enjoyed recent fame as the setting for the comic novel Spud.  For a salary of R300 a month, Rex was prepared to have me join the school as a “supernumerary”.  I had no idea what this impressive-sounding job title might mean.

I thought it best to consult a dictionary. Running my finger swiftly down the many definitions in the super-this and super-that section, I finally came to the word itself.  The last three words of the definition hurled themselves off the page: “supernumerary: a person with no apparent function.”

Professor Butler surmised that my real job was to be a “stooge”. The only “stooges” I knew were Larry, Mo and Curly, whose TV comedy shows featured them giving each other a frolicsome variety of stomach jabs, eye pokes and head slaps.  Butler assured me that a Michaelhouse “stooge” was a cross between babysitter and bouncer, meant to keep a lid on physical farce of all kinds.  Without great expectations, I accepted the job.

When I stepped off the train at Balgowan, Rex Pennington, after asking briefly about the rigours of my journey, sized me up and asked: “Would you be willing to teach English?” 

It was the opening to my professional life. A mere glance in my direction had, by my callow estimation, allowed Rex to see that I was destined to be more than a mere “stooge.”  I had been deemed fit to exist on a more exalted plane: that of a Michaelhouse “master”.

Looking back, I suspect the gleam in Rex’s eye derived less from an appreciation of my incipient pedagogic glory than of sheer relief.  He probably had an extra class or two in need of a teacher, and here I was: a university graduate, a sentient being who responded when spoken to.  Ergo, I was ready to enter the classroom.

I did so with some trepidation.  At the time, Michaelhouse masters wore black academic robes over woollen suits or polyester safari suits, depending on the season.  This allowed even the least experienced to assume a façade of dignity.  Boys were trained to stand up as soon as the teacher entered the classroom.  I learned, quickly, that they would not sit down until bidden to do so. 

I became “Suh,” or more frequently “Please, Suh,” whenever I made a request. Occasionally I was met with “Oh … Suh,” rendered with a tone of utter dismay, when I would announce a test or quiz.  At 23 years of age, I was the youngest member of staff by 20 years, the sole representative of a new generation of teachers and an American to boot. 

It was not always an easy fit, but I cannot imagine a gentler introduction to the teaching profession in southern Africa.  I taught Oliver Twist to some very bright and well-prepared 13 year-olds whose lives were as remote as possible from the survival struggles of London street kids.  The only notable disruption to our English class came one brisk winter morning: “Sir! … Please, Sir!  It’s snowing.”  A few of the boys who had never seen snow before surged to the windows -- without permission! -- in hopes of catching a few of the huge flakes as they drifted down.  So much for discipline problems. styled itself as the “Eton of South Africa”, a proud outpost of a formerly great empire. A bronze plaque on the chapel wall listed all the names of Old Boys who had died in World War I.  The inscribed words asked a simple, if not entirely sensitive, question: “Who dies if England lives?”  

It was often difficult to feel that I was working in Africa, rather than, say, an unaccountably warm and sunny part of England.  Back then, Michaelhouse, as the Anglican Diocesan College of Natal,In the late 1970s, it was still illegal in South Africa to have black and white students in the same classroom.  Rex Pennington was outspoken in his desire to integrate, but the school risked being shut down if a student were to be admitted without state-approved pigmentation.  I was told that when Michaelhouse proposed admitting a “coloured” boy in 1978, Natal’s education administrator at the time asked: “How dark is he?”

So, with the notable exception of a Zulu language teacher, the students and academic staff of Michaelhouse were lily white in 1978. 

Michaelhouse and many of South Africa’s most prestigious private schools have come a long way in the 31 years since then.  They still face the challenge of providing sufficient access for students from disadvantaged backgrounds but I trust they are more fully rooted in Africa.

Are such private schools important, either in South Africa or here in Botswana?  Absolutely.  Only 5 % of Botswana’s school-age students attend private schools; in South Africa, it’s 4 % and rising.  But these schools produce a disproportionate number of the region’s leaders, whether it be in business, government, medicine, engineering or cultural life.  That being the case, private schools must keep their students connected both to local African, and larger global communities through service activities guided by good teachers. 

Perhaps it’s an encouraging sign that at Michaelhouse now, stooges are out and teaching interns are in.

And the position of supernumerary is no more.. 

Andrew Taylor is the Principal of the Maru-a-Pula School in Gaborone, Botswana.  His email address is: principal.map@gmail.com.  Maru-a-Pula’s website is: www.maruapula.org