A MEMORABLE LESSON

The memorable lesson to which I refer was not, I hasten to add, taught by me. It was taught – if ‘teach’ can in any way describe what occurred – by my history teacher some sixty years ago. It was memorable because I can still recall it vividly when so much else has vanished into the mists of time.

I began to enjoy my schooling much more once I had entered the Sixth Form.

“No more Latin, no more French, no more sitting on a hard school bench.”

Well, not exactly, because French was one of my three A Level subjects, but there was no more Maths, no more Sciences, and I was mightily relieved to be shot of subjects that had always and stubbornly remained a closed book to me.

The school I attended was a grammar school in south London, St Joseph’s College, Beulah Hill. It was a religious establishment, run by the De La Salle Order of Brothers. The ‘brothers’ were not monks, that is to say they were not priests and were not able to celebrate mass. But they were members of a religious order, taking vows of chastity, poverty and obedience, and as the name suggests (De La Salle, of the classroom), they were dedicated to providing a Christian, specifically Catholic, education for boys (no girls, alas). My brother, who attended the same school, has said that the standard of teaching was “patchy”, and I guess he was right. But it was my good fortune to stumble upon excellent teachers in the Sixth Form in the two subjects – English and History – where I showed some aptitude.

Brother Paul was one of them. He was a thin, wiry man, an aesthete, cerebral, scholarly and bookish. Not for him the rough and tumble of the playground, the football pitch or the bottom sets lower down the school. He demanded the utmost intellectual rigour in our essays and as a historian, he was always driving us to research, to question and to use our brains, rather than just parrot what we had been told in the classroom. “Independent thinking” he called it.

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One morning, he entered the classroom and wordlessly handed out to each of us a Roneo-copied sheet of writing – in green ink. He always wrote his corrections of our essays  in green ink. Do you remember those old Roneo copiers, in the days before the Xerox machine and photocopiers? They had a distinctive smell about them because there was a certain alcohol ingredient used in the duplicating process. That explained why one hundred boys in the examination hall would immediately put their exam paper straight up to their nose once the papers had been distributed. This lesson was no different. We raised the sheet of paper to our noses, breathed deeply and gave each other appreciative winks. But when we used our eyes rather than our nose, our brows furrowed in puzzlement. What on earth had the lyrics of The Sound of Silence, the No.1 hit by Simon and Garfunkle, got to do with the Repeal of the Corn Laws, the subject of British History that we were currently studying? Still without any explanation, Brother Paul put the single on the record player (where had he got hold of that?) and sat, blissfully transfixed, as if he were listening to Beethoven’s Ninth rather than a pop song. None of us in our wildest imaginings had ever envisaged Brother Paul listening to Top of the Pops.  

  Simon and Garfunkle

The plaintive tones of Simon and Garfunkle faded away and still wordless, Brother Paul ejected the disc and turned off the record player.

“This,” he announced in the same reverential tones that he used to describe the Grand Old Man of British politics, William Ewart Gladstone, “is poetry. I urge you to study it and tell me what you think.”

That was a favourite ploy of his, to ask us of our opinion, not tell us his. In fact, once I started to read the lyrics, I began to understand what he meant. Hitherto, the words of the song were “planted in my brain”, but I had given them no heed. The words of a song, in my view, played second fiddle to the tune. I read on….

One by one, we started to expound on our views.

“It’s about the alienation of the individual in this modern world, full of adverts, streetlights and the loneliness of the city.”

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“People are drifting in their lives with no purpose or guidance.”

“Intelligent thought and comment are drowned out by empty sound.”

“It’s about loss of faith. Belief in God has been replaced by naked, grasping commercialism.”

“The sound of silence is a paradox. Empty vessels make the most noise.”

“Silence like a cancer grows is a symbol for the empty hedonism of modern pop culture.”

“Verily I say unto thee, no man is a prophet in his own land.”

I forget who said that. It certainly wasn’t me. The person who said nothing at all was Brother Paul. He would swing round to face each speaker and fix him with those gimlet eyes of his, as if daring us – fools if we did – to offer banal or hackneyed comment.

Soon – all to soon – the bell went. Still silent, Brother Paul collected the sheets, put the record player and disc under his arms and exited the classroom. We barely noticed he had gone, so engrossed were we in our critical discussions. The next teacher for the next lesson – I forget what it was – had to brusquely call us to order and to “stop babbling away as if you’re in a political meeting!”

Later, much later, I reflected on what had happened in that lesson. In truth, it was no lesson at all. ‘Lesson’ comes from Norman French, ‘lecon’, which in turn derives from the Latin, ‘lectio’, the past participle of ‘legere’, to read. Thus, in a lesson, the teacher ‘reads’ or imparts knowledge to the pupil. Not the other way round. The pupil does not ‘read’ to the teacher. By the same token, ‘teacher’ comes from mediaeval English, ‘techer’, one who provides moral guidance or instruction to another. Once again, the pupil is passive; he does not contribute, he listens. That is why I prefer the word ‘educator’ to describe what was my role in the teaching profession. It comes from the Latin word ‘educere’, ‘to lead out’ or ‘to draw forth’. That is what Brother Paul had done in those unforgettable 40 minutes. He hadn’t taught us anything, but he had allowed, encouraged, demanded that we think for ourselves.

Just to remind my readers what Simon and Garfunkle were singing about, I reproduce the lyrics here in full. I shall leave you to make up your own mind what it was all about.

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THE SOUND OF SILENCE

Hello darkness, my old friend

I've come to talk with you again

Because a vision softly creeping

Left its seeds while I was sleeping

And the vision that was planted in my brain

Still remains

Within the sound of silence

In restless dreams I walked alone

Narrow streets of cobblestone

'Neath the halo of a street lamp

I turned my collar to the cold and damp

When my eyes were stabbed by the flash of a neon light

That split the night

And touched the sound of silence

And in the naked light I saw

Ten thousand people, maybe more

People talking without speaking

People hearing without listening

People writing songs that voices never share

No one dared

Disturb the sound of silence

"Fools" said I, "You do not know

Silence like a cancer grows

Hear my words that I might teach you

Take my arms that I might reach you"

But my words like silent raindrops fell

And echoed in the wells of silence

And the people bowed and prayed

To the neon god they made

And the sign flashed out its warning

In the words that it was forming

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And the sign said, "The words of the prophets

Are written on the subway walls

And tenement halls

And whispered in the sounds of silence"