Trees Grow Over Fences

By Michaellee James

Schooling for five-year-olds in Trinidad and Tobago became compulsory in the mid-60s. She was a frail little girl, nervous about separating from her mother to whom she had an extraordinarily strong attachment—a relationship that developed during her turbulent period of infancy. Her mother took her to school for the first time. She felt detached and abandoned and she struggled to settle into the school routine.
At the end of primary school, she was not given a place at a secondary school because she ‘failed’ to attain the necessary grade in the 11+ Examination- Common Entrance. Her mother, who also could not read, never gave up on her and tenaciously pleaded with a senior teacher of a secondary school for help with admittance.

At the beginning of the school term, she was placed in a class but her circumstances made life within the walls of the school increasingly difficult. It became a place where she did not want to be, as she felt most insecure and inadequate. She struggled to achieve while she tried to conceal her pain and insecurities.
Failure stared her in the face.

She felt defeated. She wanted to run away; she wanted to disappear; she wanted to hide so that she would not have to look into the faces of her parents, her siblings, her classmates and the villagers.

Sadly, she found herself slipping into a world of greater desperation and hopelessness. Her parents, sensing the depth of her agony, came to her rescue. It was at that point she decided- against all odds- to defy expectations.

She saw a glimmer of hope. Dreaming was once again- possible.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Pegasus Books
• Release date: Mar 13, 2017

Book preview

Chapter One

Philip walked into his new classroom, swinging his shoulders. He pushed the polished wooden desk to one side, slumped into an empty chair and sat like a drooping teddy bear, scowling his face in an awkward protest over the head teacher’s seizure of his kite. He curled his index finger, swept the perspiration from his forehead and brushed his hand against his blue cotton shirt.

I paused for a moment in dismay as my eyes followed the young child across the room, the class register and pen in my hand. Philip rocked his shoulders like a see-saw, slammed both arms across his chest and sprawled his legs, his feet extending beyond the front of his desk.

I continued to call the children’s names… ‘Philip Monroe,’ I said in a soothing tone.

He opened his eyes and stared at me as if to say, you already see that I am here.

I decided to allow Philip some time to calm down, but Philip refused to open the book in front of him. He sat, batting his eyelids and pouting at his classmates, who were not able to ignore him.

I gradually connected with this seemingly difficult, stubborn little boy. I was eager to find out more about him and to let him know that I disapproved of the way he conducted himself during the lesson.

‘Philip! I want to see you for a few minutes during the morning break,’ I told him.

I could see he was not happy about missing part of his playtime. He pushed his lips even further forward, sucked his teeth, and flapping his eyelids once more, he turned his head in the opposite direction.

It was not long after the school bell rang, marking the start of morning playtime. The children stood single-file at the rear of the classroom, which led to a platform that joined a flight of stairs descending into the playground. Philip, eager to start an argument, sprang from his seat.

Standing with his feet apart, he raised one leg and firmly planted it on the floor. The muscles in his upper arms bulged below his brown skin as he clinched his hands in two tight fists that hung at the side of his thighs. He stiffened his lips, and flexing his upper shoulders, he looked towards his classmates.

‘What you all staring at?’ he bellowed. ‘Mind your own business!’

With Philip’s outburst, his nervous classmates glanced towards him and then in my direction, as if to ask for my response.

‘Sit down this moment, Philip!’ I commanded.

He turned around, threw both his hands into the air, flung himself on his chair and sat with his shoulders touching the back of the chair, his bottom hanging off the edge of the seat. I could tell that Philip was far from being settled when he leaned forward, scratched his ankle, tossed his hands into the air and clasped both palms on the crown of his head. I pretended to ignore him, hoping he would calm down.

Meanwhile, I began placing the children’s maths books on their desks in preparation for the next lesson. Having done so, I ambled towards the sulking boy.

‘You seem to be forgetting the school rules, Philip! I am not at all impressed with your behaviour!’ I stated in a manner that left him in no doubt that I was unhappy. In response, he replied, ‘I don’t care.’

‘No, Philip!’ I said even more firmly. ‘This is a new school year, a new class, a new teacher. No nonsense, Philip! No nonsense!’

He sat still, shoulders slouched as he focused his glance on the floor. His dark, curly hair slid forward and covered his forehead, leaving his eyes barely visible under the thick lens of round metal-framed spectacles. Intending to ease into a conversation that would be less reprimanding, I began, ‘I would like to know why you feel that it is okay to conduct yourself in this manner.’

Pulling a chair from a nearby desk, I sat directly opposite him.

‘Why did you refuse to open the book?’

Philip remained silent. He seemed to be struggling to tell me something, something I felt I already knew. The little, ten-year-old boy slowly turned his gaze towards me and stared into my face, half-hoping that I already knew and half-daring me to find out.

Rising to the challenge, I leaned forward, whispering.

‘You cannot read. I know you cannot read.’

He wriggled his bottom on the chair like a swimming duck, rolling his eyes across the ceiling.

‘You don’t want me to know that you cannot read,’ I continued, ‘but that is okay. That’s okay, Philip.’

He bowed his head and fidgeted with the leg of his wrinkled baggy trousers. Then he turned his wrist and slowly moved his hands towards the sides of his face and extended his fingers over his forehead to conceal his eyes.

A teardrop made a dark blue spot as it landed on his shirt. He placed his two index fingers beneath the lens of his glasses and rolled them over his eyelids. Overwhelmed, he could no longer contain his emotions and burst into a fit of sobbing. I felt a hard lump pressing against my throat; a watery cloud seeped across my eyes as I struggled to keep my eyelids from blinking. I could not cry along with Philip. Professional ethics would not let me do so. I was, after all, his teacher.

However, at that moment, I could no longer ignore my memories of pain, embarrassment, brokenness and the sense of failure I felt when, like Philip, I could not read at the age of fourteen.

I placed my hands on Philip’s shoulders as I tried to keep my voice from cracking. I swallowed to get rid of the hard lump that stifled my vocal chords.

‘Don’t cry, Philip,’ I whispered.

Raising his head, he stared into my eyes. As I studied his face, he had evolved into a wonderful little boy, a little boy bent on creating an invisible shield to hide his pain and insecurities—but also a little boy who wanted to be able to read.

‘You are wonderful and intelligent, Philip. You’re a champion!’ I told him.

I told him the same thing my father used to tell me. As he turned his head towards me, it seemed he wanted me to confirm what I had just said.

‘You are a wonderful and intelligent boy!’ I repeated. I told him that he was full of possibilities, and there were so many things he could do that he had not already done. I assured him that being able to read was just one of those things.

Philip nodded his head, slightly twitching his pink lips to form a discreet smile.

‘You do not need to hide behind your tough attitude,’ I continued, ‘You could choose to overcome your situation by settling down, by working hard to change.’

When he pretended it did not matter, I felt he had put up his ‘invisible shield’ again.

During his remaining months at primary school, I formed a bond with Philip. Every morning, he came to school early, stood outside the classroom door and popped his head through the doorway.

‘Do you want help, Miss?’ he asked.

‘Yes, Philip, thank you for asking,’ I would reply.

I remembered how, unlike my other classmates at primary school, I was never asked to do a task. I had wanted so much for my teacher to ask me to help, because it would have gone a long way towards making me feel I could do something useful.

I sensed that Philip was somehow seeking the validation that I never had. It was the confirmation I longed to see on the faces of my teachers—even if it was not expressed in words. But perhaps my agonising sense of failure and low level of self- esteem did not allow me to do so.

I understood Philip!

Sometimes as I looked at the boy, going about his little classroom jobs, I was amused by how he performed the tasks with the seriousness of a paid employee, wanting making a statement for promotion. He was so eager to make a good impression. I could not help but notice that he was also aware that he had to leave when it was time for me to attend the morning staff meetings. He knew exactly when he needed to join the other children on the school yard.

Half of the school term had passed, and it was the beginning of a new week. The staff meeting had just ended, followed by the loud sound of the school bell. I walked briskly towards the courtyard. As I approached the doorway leading to the playground, I could see Philip walking alongside the line that his classmates were forming.

‘Get behind each other,’ he politely instructed.

I was certain I was beginning to see a boy who was gradually settling down. I recall one occasion when I took the class to their regular Wednesday morning visit to the school library down the hall. Philip chose four books and walked towards the large cushions that lay on the blue-carpeted floor. Holding all four books close to his chest, he knelt and sat on a green spongy cushion.

Shuffling the four books in his hands, he held one before his face, looked at the cover and placed the other three books beside him. His chest and tummy shuddered as he shifted again and stretched his feet out, pointing the tips of his dusty unlaced trainers towards the ceiling.

He lifted the book with one hand, and after examining the back cover, he opened it and began to turn the pages. It was a book that I knew Philip would have difficulty reading. Nonetheless, he slowly turned the pages, though he could not read the words.

He was turning the pages! Philip began to turn the pages!

I observed him with a sense of joy. I knew that Philip’s journey towards becoming a reader had begun, as now he was choosing the books he wanted to read. He was opening them for himself. Although I knew he was not able to read all the words on the pages, it was sufficient to know that he wanted to be able to read. He was positive. He had a change in attitude, and from my own experiences at school—that action marked the start of a positive, upward journey.

Later on that day, I sat in the staffroom during my lunch break, reflecting on my childhood. I remembered the exact moment when I, myself, decided to ‘start turning the pages’.

Over the ensuing months, I spent a lot of time helping Philip. I tried every single approach to reading I knew. It was like starting from the valley and hiking up to the side of a steep mountain. I understood Philip’s journey, because I started from that same ‘valley,’ and there was a welcoming sense of accomplishment when, towards the end of the academic year, Philip started confidently sounding out letters to read simple words.

But time did not wait on Philip. Like always, the seconds, minutes, days, months and years travelled on. Finally, the last day of his time at primary school arrived. I looked over at Philip, sitting on one of the shiny benches in the Assembly Hall.

I did not see his mother among the parents who were seated close to the stage. I did not expect to see her, though. She had to be at work, and I knew that it broke her heart to be away. She could not afford to forego any of her wages, which is something she confided to me during the previous evening.

Yet as I looked at Philip, he seemed so much more confident, so much more responsible. For a moment, I was overcome by a wave of sadness because he was about to leave. I was concerned that he was going to enter secondary school with a level of achievement that was way below national expectations for a child at the end of the primary school stage.

However, I felt reassured when I considered that Philip was gradually awakening the dormant abilities that slept within him. I was consoled by the thought that, although there would be difficult moments at school, his growing confidence would see him through, and it did not matter how incremental his achievements were along the way, he had the ability to succeed.

My thoughts returned to the present as I scanned the pale, cream-coloured walls that enclosed the Assembly Hall. The entire place seemed to be transformed into an art gallery, with the writings and a kaleidoscopic exhibit of coloured paintings and drawings that showcased the talents and skills of the leaving cohort.

After the ‘Leavers’ ceremony began; applause echoed through the school and the children sang their final song that they rehearsed for many weeks. Then the ecstatic sound of the piano fell quiet. The Headmaster stood up, surveyed the room and