He was a terribly sensitive lad, so inward-looking, so self conscious, that even rising out of bed in the morning required every ounce of courage he could muster. His mother understood her son, realizing early on that he was a special boy, a being with special gifts way beyond those of his peers. He too was aware of these gifts but felt ashamed because it distanced him from his classmates because they really believed he was a freak of nature. The boy’s gifts were indeed extraordinary, an insight and natural skill for drawing realist depictions of nature and writing brilliant essays on life and love.
The young man’s teachers were astounded at his
stories, including myself, however a few superficial teachers
believed the quiet boy plagiarized his writings, copied the words
from the great masters because really, they could not even write half
as well as the boy. These small hearted and malice teachers soon had
to relent in their accusations because, one day a few years back, the
lad was made to sit in a classroom alone, a test of his integrity,
and asked to write on a particular subject. The topic was unfairly a
first year philosophy subject, Existentialism: and for any average
Year 9 student, this was an absurd task. He was given one hour, and
the question read as follows:
“Explain why the philosophy of
Existentialism had such a major impact in post WW2 France?”
To
be fair, most educated adults would struggle with this obscure
question.
What truly upset me at the time was the attitude of
these “teachers”; out of their small and black hearts, they
wanted the lad to fail, reveal some sort of fraud therefore appearing
“right” to the rest of the world. Of course this is pathetic, but
I felt worse as these were teachers, my apparent fellow educators,
one of the last Noble Professions, and they were smearing its name
across the boards; treating a special child with contempt, jealousy
and spite – I felt embarrassed and mostly shame.
(This was
not one of the high points of my career).
Needless to say, our
quiet lad sat for the hour and turned in a hand written 3000 word
essay. This had been the most sensitive, insightful and informed
piece on existentialism that it has been my good fortune to read. (I
still have the hand written essay in my study as evidence…)
He
turned the paper in to the doubters, and out of denial, psychosis or
extreme anti- social behaviour, would not believe the lad had written
the piece.
This is the point that I jumped in and attempted to
set the record straight.
“You people are truly a cancer in
our profession. The lad was not given a clue what the subject of the
essay would be; you, like true fascists, searched him for hidden
microphones and receivers and found absolutely nothing. We all
observed him throughout the hour writing his little heart out…and
still you do not accept the boy’s gifts!”
The ugly, and
most sarcastic of the three, Mr. B, a teacher that is hated by most
students, (and he likes it!) piped up: “Mr. M… though we
appreciate your unbounding enthusiasm, this boy is obviously a fraud
and it is our job to prove the fact.”
This teacher was not
in the profession to nurture young people but to rise to power in his
little pond of influence: though a small fish a very nasty one.
“Mr.
B, you have had the opportunity to prove that our student is a fraud
and you have failed. What is your next port of call...torture,
getting the boy to admit to cheating as he is electrocuted to the
point of passing out from the pain!?”
Startlingly, the
worm’s eyes looked up to the ceiling, revealing my suggestion might
have some credence! His reptilian eyes came back to mine, squinting
like a snake in the desert sun.
“Mr. M…we do believe your
arguments have some value. Let the committee come back to you with
our judgement.”
Mr. Reptile, after making this statement,
disappeared out the back, his shrivelled, pathetic cronies following
in tow.
Our young lad waited outside in the hall looking like
the end of the world had actually arrived in his lifetime, pale like
a sheet; eyes full of fear and as large as an owls…his right leg
shook at top speed to the point where I thought the boy was on the
brink of a Cardiac arrest!
“You did fine, son. C’mon mate,
I’ll buy you a coke…what do you say?”
He seemed to relax,
and agreed to the coke, but after that experience, he never, really
trusted people again.
The lad’s school work duly followed
this change in attitude, his marks plummeted. He just did not try
anymore.
Mr. B. and his legion of snakes looked smug, happy
with themselves that our lad was a fraud and they had revealed this
fact to the school.
It was a few years later that our lad
reached Year 12. To be fair, I had to fight the committee again to
let him into VCE (Year 12 curriculum) and with a little blood and
sweat…and a few tears, he was permitted entry.
What followed
was nothing less than astounding!
Every test the boy sat for
he aced: 100%, perfect. And the snake patrol could do nothing because
he followed State protocols and won top marks every time.
It
was mid year that the lad began to look more sick than usual, he
began to miss class too much, particularly for VCE, as this is
frowned upon and affects one’s overall grade.
I began to
become aware that our lad was slowly shrinking from the world. He
gradually began to literarily disappear, fading like an evaporating
fog in winter. By July, however, he made his exit, passed away to the
other side, faded into invisibility with an appreciative, lovely
smile. I believe he died because of the harshness of life.
As
I sit in my study and read those wonderful works of literature and
poetry, gaze at his art folio and marvel at the realistic brilliance
of his style, I continue to wonder where he is now, such a beautiful,
gifted young soul.
A true pleasure to know and teach …
I
miss this lonely genius...
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