The School Play

It is difficult now to recall the warmth of tropical nights. The sounds of the crickets and the mosquitoes have been consigned to the deep depths of my memory. I can clearly recall lying awake under a single sheet, reading boys adventure stories and The Lord of the Rings. Closer to hand a ginger cat purred as it sucked the sheet and clawed my naked ribs.

At the time I believed that my difficulty in sleeping was due to the unaccustomed heat. On reflection the thought of another day at my uptown school may well have caused my insomnia. This was my fourth school yet it was difficult to compare it with the previous three.

It was my first fee-paying school, with the hint of privilege that seemed to excite my mother whilst disturbing my father. It was my first tropical school, with the architectural emphasis on promoting rather than preventing the free circulation of air in the buildings. It was the first school where I had no friends.

My two younger brothers had friends at school, so it could hardly be due to inherent Jamaican racialism. It was true that the only other white kid in the class, an Australian girl, had no friends either; but she never spoke to anyone. I began to feel alienated from my classmates and my family.

My father was happy with his work. He had achieved a promotion that someone from his social and political background could have waited a very long time for in Britain. My mother had found the challenge of supervising a maid and a garden boy to her taste. When mother found a job as a teacher we became a two-car family and her cup clearly dripped onto the tiled floor. It seemed that I was the only one who longed for cold water, from the tap. The only one who preferred the soft light and slow sunsets of the north.

My sense of unease increased when my teacher selected me for a major part in the school play. There were only three parts and a choir to tell the story. The other two stars were pale skinned Jamaicans, well liked by the pale skinned Jamaican teacher. Why me? I had a sense of foreboding about the school play.

My mother was enthusiastic about using her dressmaking skills to make my costume. Uptown Jamaican schools expected high standards in costume making. My part was simple enough; there were no lines to remember. The choir sang about the Queen of Hearts making some tarts, the Knave of Hearts (my role) stealing the tarts and the King of Hearts chastising the Knave.

On the night the action proceeded smoothly. The favourite girl in the class looked splendid in her (professionally made) Queen of Hearts outfit. I was also dressed for the part, ten blood red hearts on my white satin shirt. I stole the tarts and hid behind a curtain. The teacher’s favourite male pupil then beat upon another part of the curtain as the choir sang the story. All that remained was the curtain call.

A great success with the audience, including my mother. Why had I felt so uneasy? Only my father seemed a little reserved in his applause. Maybe something to do with his socialist principles?

Previously published on graduates.com

September 2001