By Johnny Coomansingh
It’sdifficult for me to make mention of it, but preparation for high school was literally non-existent at my primary school. Indeed, at the primary level, I learnt verbal ability, English comprehension and composition, some reasoning ability, and a little arithmetic for the national eleven plus Common Entrance Examinations (CE) which I passed. My elementary school was extremely effective in teaching me about the Holy Bible, singing hymns and choruses, art, choral speaking, poetry, etiquette and good manners, but there was something missing in the equation.
It is my opinion that maybe the teachers in my primary school had no clue or did not bother about what obtained at Northeastern College, the high school for which I was selected to attend. Maybe their ideology catered more for ‘saving my soul’ while they prepared me for a celestial home; a place they referred to as ‘heaven.’
There was this day at my primary school when I ventured to start cleaning the weeds growing in a plot of nice lush lettuce in the small school garden. I never saw him there, but the school principal firmly called out to me to get away from the plot of lettuce. Walking away, I felt bewildered because I so wanted to be part of the school gardening exercises. I never got the opportunity.
I surmised that the ‘brighter’ students were exempt from school gardening. I couldn’t understand why they did not want me to participate in school gardening! Nevertheless, I made up for this lack at home. Vegetable gardening was always a part of my life. At home, there was always some crop to look after including corn, pigeon peas, dasheen, cassava, seim (a vining bean), bodi (snake bean or asparagus bean), and sorrel. Later down in my life, I studied tropical agriculture at the Eastern Caribbean Institute of Agriculture (ECIAF), Centeno, Trinidad.
Not being exposed at primary school to the rudiments of chemistry, biology, physics, geometry, algebra, agricultural science, health science, notable artists and their works, and great musicians and their scores, the languages of Spanish, French, and Latin, I found myself in a serious pickle. This school also blocked my appreciation for calypso, the steelpan instrument, the pre-lenten carnival and parang which were all part of our culture.
I was wallowing, as it were, in a cauldron of confusion at high school. I was probably too occupied with the conditions at home and the worries of my mother to think straight. Other students in my class were sailing through the subjects without any hindrances; I was struggling, really struggling to keep afloat.
At my primary school on Adventist Street, I used to be in first place on end-of-term tests, but now I was slipping under, and my mother kept asking me in an almost scolding fashion: “How can you not come first in test?” What could I say? There were things, deep thoughts about my distressed condition, and my status as a student. I was just a poor churchgoer preparing for this beautiful place called ‘heaven.’ There were conflicting thoughts that clouded my mind. No one knew the problems that were affecting me; I mastered the art of hiding my thoughts and my feelings.
There were things and events that occurred at school that my mother could not understand. I felt it a hopeless situation to try and explain to her my demise. She was too busy with the daily rounds of toil and the pressures to feed so many mouths. She had enough to worry about. Frustration and despondency got the better of me and nobody ever entertained the thought that I wanted to quit high school four times! I looked normal; fine indeed. Nonetheless, my mind was telling me to leave. I really wanted to run away!
Despite my miserable feelings, I reluctantly trudged along at school. Dealing with the happenings at home was enough. It would seem that my mother had to work harder at making the toolum, a confection that consisted of grated coconut, brown sugar, molasses and spices. Toolum brought in a paltry income.
We eventually left the one-bedroom adobe house located at the corner of Ramdass and Adventist Streets in Sangre Grande. She continued making and selling the toolum sweets when we took up our new residence in Boys Town, Upper Sangre Grande. We were now living in a new house where the rent per month was double that of the sum we paid on Adventist Street.
Getting acclimated to the neighbourhood was yet another hurdle to overcome. Breaking into the culture in this new environment took time. Eventually, I came to know all the people around me. Similarly to that of the teasing of a woman we labelled ‘Black Cyat’ on Adventist Street, the children I befriended in this new neighbourhood teased an old man who reacted violently to the label ‘Radio Mouth Allen.’
Mister Allen owned the vacant allotment right behind our house. On evenings and Saturdays, Mister Allen would come up to the village of Boys Town to brush-cut and clean up his plot. His radio-like whispers while working and talking to himself earned him the name ‘Radio Mouth Allen’ because he sounded like a radio when it’s searching for a station. The children just loved how he would stop his cleaning activity to chase them with a machete for a couple minutes.
Finding a river in the area was not too difficult. The Sangre Chiquito River was good for an enjoyable river bath. At the river we all took a good rub down with the leaves of the chanchamuchin bush or blood bush (Saint John’s Bush –Justicia secunda) before taking a plunge. It is well known that chanchamuchin bush is one of the best herbs to use for a good ‘bush bath.’
On some evenings, I would visit the family that resided down the hill adjacent to the house. Many times I was offered hot bread and butter with cheddar cheese accompanied with hot chocolate. In fact, I was always given some morsel to eat at this home. This family had a profound impression on my educational development.
Every member of this family was involved in some sort of study, and their influence spilt over to my questioning mind. One of the bigger boys was a mentor to me. He taught me how to manage with my algebra. I never forgot the verse he taught me. The verse went like this: “When the signs agree, add and put the sign you see. When the signs differ, subtract, and put the sign of the greater number.”
Although we were living below the poverty line, I enjoyed the simplicity and friendliness of the neighbourhood. Sometimes our family couldn’t pay the electricity bills on time and we would be without electricity for a while. This did not bother me in the least. I remember the light pole with a dimming lamp in front of a certain house.
I learned the trick of ‘switching on the lights’ by banging the pole with a large log. It worked every time. Despite my arduous task of pounding the light pole to ‘switch’ on the street lamp, it was in this light that I did my home lessons – thanks to the Trinidad and Tobago Electricity Commission (T&TEC) for such a wonderful installation.
Finding my way in the world saw me doing odd jobs here and there, for example, cutlassing (brushcutting), house painting, running errands, and cleaning people’s yards. I worked for the neighbors who lived around me including a wealthy East Indian family.
Although the man of the house seemed a bit haughty and a little on the rough side, his wife was the kindest woman you could have ever met. I loved her because she was warm, kindhearted, and honestly cared; always with a bright smile. Quite early every morning we would hear the tinkling of a bell at their home. It was part of their religious ritual as Hindus. While we resided in the area, there wasn’t any morning that we did not hear the bell. I guess they were very devout.
Our economic struggle was a constant battle to make two ends meet. However, my uncle showed my mother how to make the best-salted peanuts ever so that she could earn a little more money. He also gave her some haberdashery goods to sell on consignment. Disappointingly, the goods were not ‘moving’ as fast for a profitable turnaround so I decided to go house to house to sell some of the items.
My journeys away from home with a big bag of stuff were tiresome but I was determined to sell all the items in the bag. The people I called on greeted me with smiles, and although they seemed not to want anything, they still gave me a sale. They found that it was so nice that little me was selling goods to help my mother. I guessed they were full of pity. When I returned home I was excited to tell my mother about my sales experiences and the people I met on the way. My mother was happy that I was able to sell some of the items and it felt good inside; I was making an effort to help with our economic circumstances.
On August 02, 2017, my mother celebrated her 95th year on this Earth; she passed not long after on September 17, 2017. Ma, as we referred to her, taught us to believe in God. Worshipping on Friday at sunset to welcome the Sabbath was part of our belief. Going to church on Sabbath morning was another thing. The church was situated obliquely opposite the Sangre Grande Hospital. A good two miles away, the distance was more than a Sabbath day’s journey.
Attending church was almost ‘mandatory.’ Much of the dogma and many of the rituals I have forgotten. Nonetheless, I remember having quite a lot of activities in the church to allegedly ‘spread the gospel.’
In that brief moment, my life was all about the need to ‘save souls.’ However, as Saint Paul in 1 Corinthians 13: 11 says: “When I was a child I spake as a child. I understood as a child. I thought as a child: but now I have become a man I put away childish things.”
Everything I did was orchestrated in such a way that I would be of service to the church. My mother even wanted me to be a pastor. Back then, the work of the church was uppermost in my mind, and I lived to please my mother. What could I say or do? Maybe it was all about my soul.
