Perhaps they’ll listen now…

“What do you think, Dusty?”

I think you’re an idiot.

“I don’t know, sir.”

“Come on Dusty, you must have an opinion?”

I do.  And don’t smile at me with those disgusting teeth.  You make me sick.

“It’s nice, sir”

“Just nice?  Surely you can see the beauty in those words?”

Yes I can, but you’re so ugly with that revolting beard of yours, you destroy all beauty in anything.  Why don’t you trim it?  Or better still, shave.  With any luck, you’ll cut yourself and bleed to death. Then we won’t have to put up with your crazy ideas any more.

“The lyrics alone speak volumes,” he continued.  “And when he sings, can’t you hear the passion and the pain?”

Yes I can.  You give me the pain. Peering at me through those Petrie-dish glasses of yours.  You look like a Bohemian mole.

“There you are. I can see you smiling.”  He was triumphant.  “I knew you’d see how lovely it is.  Come, I’ll sing it again, and then we’ll discuss the lyrics.”

Oh God no, please.  Please don’t inflict yourself on us again.  I hate the way you cross your legs like a girl when you play your guitar.  And you look so pathetic when you close your eyes and tilt your head back at the end.

 

“Starry, starry night.
Paint your palette blue and grey,
Look out on a summer’s day,…

There’s a knock at the door.  It’s the headmaster, Mr Steyn. 

“Mr Burger, could I have a word with you please?”

The silence in the classroom is thick with adolescent suspense.  The sultry summer breeze lifts some papers on the cupboard by the window.

“Excuse me class, I won’t be a moment,” said Mr Burger as he strode from the classroom, his unruly chin thrust forward in a caricature of a Dickensian tyrant. He closed the door so that we wouldn’t be able to hear.  But he had forgotten about the small ventilation windows above the notice boards.  The notice boards which were covered with the obligatory pictures of dead poets and quotations from Shakespeare.  All twenty-seven of us heard every word of the conversation.

“Mr Burger,” started the headmaster with his strong Afrikaans accent, “Why are you singing pop music in your classroom?”

“I’m using music as a way to communicate with the pupils.  It’s a medium they can identify with.”  He paused. “And I’d hardly call Don McClean ‘pop’ music, sir”. He made a sound which was a combination of a snort and a giggle.

Even when you’re speaking to the headmaster, you can’t behave like a normal person.  You’re such a freak.  I hope you get bust, and lose your job.

“I don’t care what you call it.  It is not acceptable in this school.”

“But Mr Steyn, the song is about the artist, Vincent van Gogh.  It’s perfect to illustrate how his brilliance was misunderstood by his peers and critics.”  He paused, but there was no response.  “We are also going to examine the construction of the lyrics in terms of traditional poetry conventions.  So not only is this a poetry lesson, but it also introduces the pupils to a little about the history of art.”

It was quiet in the corridor outside.  And in the classroom, nobody moved.

“That is not in the curriculum. I would remind you again to stick to the syllabus.”

Again the silence.

We heard footsteps, walking away, down the corridor.  A moment later, our English teacher entered the classroom, his face red.  He sat down at his table, which was covered with papers and dog-eared manuscripts, and reached for A Century of South African Poetry, Michael Chapman, 1981.

“Right class.  Please turn to Page 72.  Dusty, will you start by reading the first verse?”

Why do you always pick on me?  I always get good marks.  I wish you’d just leave me alone, and get on with your miserable life.

 

.o0o.

 

Twenty-five years later I still think of Mr Burger each time I hear Don McClean’s Vincent.

 But these days I smile, and admire the courage of that non-conformist eccentric whose passion for language overrode his survival instinct in a conservative, middle-class whites-only school.

 

Now I understand what you tried to say to me,
How you suffered for your sanity,
How you tried to set them free.
They would not listen, they did not know how.
Perhaps they’ll listen now.