Interim writer, Joe Campbell, Light is Right
By Joe Campbell
When I was in Grade 10, one of the teachers bent over my desk and whispered, “Joe, you are a conceited, prodigious ass.”
I forget what outrage of mine prompted his sibilant complaint. I can’t forget the complaint. A student spoken to in that manner today would go to his parents, to the school board, to the police, or to a lawyer and demand satisfaction. I didn’t go to anyone. I went to the dictionary. I wanted to learn how to talk like that. As soon as I could afford it, I bought a copy of Roget’s Thesaurus and began working on my vocabulary.
That teacher had sparked a latent interest in English composition and contributed to my becoming a journalist. His bold intervention was a decisive moment in my education.
He kept it up, too. Not only could he whisper pedagogically significant messages, he could shout them. Once when I was ignoring a history lesson, talking and fooling with a couple of scholars nearby, his voice exploded like thunder: “Joe, get out of the room.” I left at once and took my thesaurus with me.
Equally important in my educational formation was the strapping I received in Grade 7. It was administered by the only male teacher in my eight-grade elementary school. His placement was no accident. He was put there as much to administer corporal punishment as to teach. The authorities evidently thought that by Grade 7 students who were inclined to be flippant, disrespectful, and arrogant needed a firm hand. He had two firm hands, not to mention a strong grip, which he used to good effect whenever he threw a recalcitrant student, invariably a male, out of the room and down a flight of stairs. I saw him do it.
Although I strove mightily to keep a low profile, I incurred his wrath when I was –what else? — flippant, disrespectful, and arrogant. It happened one day at recess. As we filed out of the room, heading for the school yard, a group of Grade 5 boys filed in. I didn’t know why they were filing in. I still don’t know. As we passed each other, I told the Grade 5s that they were going to get the strap, all of them.
By the time I reached the school yard, my mind was on other things and I was surprised when one of the Grade 5s approached and said that the teacher wanted to see me. I learned later that several of the Grade 5 boys were emotionally sensitive and one was mentally frail. They, particularly the mentally frail one, were upset by my warning and wept wildly when the teacher approached them. He sent for me as soon as he learned the source of their discomfort.
Normally, you got the strap in the office. This time, the teacher decided on a public execution. He thought it appropriate to punish me in front of my victims. After a brief verbal reprimand, he gave me 15 of his best on one hand — I can’t remember which — and 11 on the other. I don’t know why he favoured one hand over the other. Maybe after 26 strokes he lost interest.
Whatever the reason, he stopped before my throbbing hands burst into flame and returned the strap to his desk. As it was still recess, I left the room with what little dignity I could muster and made for a deserted basement area, where I nursed my swollen fingers and howled.
Only much later did the educational significance of the assault become apparent. After being flogged in public, speaking and performing in public came easy to me. At the first sign of nervousness, I would tell myself, “This can’t be as frightening as a public beating” and my anxieties would cease. Little wonder that I chose broadcast journalism as an initial career and formed a Dixieland band to play dances, receptions, commercial promotions, weddings, and funerals as an enduring hobby.
A good beginning is the key to a successful education. I had an excellent beginning. I was expelled from Grade 1. My parents had sent me to school before I was ready for formal learning and I didn’t fit in. I confused education with entertainment. I considered school a joke. I thought my teacher was a clown. When the principal summoned my mother to her office, she decided to keep me at home for another year. I heartily agreed. I felt certain that by then the teacher would have matured.
Without classmates, my resistance to peer pressure stiffened remarkably while I waited to be re-admitted. As a result, I developed an independence of mind which ensured that I would never fit in. Truly, my education had begun.
