The morning after I had walked into a bar on Madison Avenue, to be welcomed by a crowd of strangers with the words, “Ah, here comes the mad English Professor”– only one word of which I felt was strictly inaccurate–Bryna Pomp [mother of Joseph VIIL] asked me to write an article, while her dog remained silent and ignored me. Instantly I knew refusal was as pointless as throwing a pretzel into a hurricane. Besides, it is flattering for an old British pedant to be approached in such a distinguished neighbourhood and asked to write for New York’s most glittering journal. Actually, I welcome the opportunity to try to express some of the huge pleasure I derive from my visits to St. Bernard’s, so Bryna Pomp now joins the long list of St. Bernard’s folk to whom I am grateful.
The older I get, the more interested I am in the crazy kaleidoscope of coincidences and apparently trivial events which zigzag and stutter towards the present. How is it that a tired old teacher, prematurely grey and increasingly forgetful, has found himself teaching at one of the liveliest and most colourful schools you could ever hope to encounter? The answer lies with Oliver Bowcock, whose inspirational studentship I enjoyed many years ago at Shrewsbury and from whom I learned so much while teaching him. The great joy of teaching is in the learning and in those distant days (forgive me, Oliver!), when there was time and scope to teach, rather than cram for exams, the Winter Term I spent in the last century with Oliver and another boy preparing for entrance to Oxford gleams and glows in my memory. For me, it was the best teaching ever, and that is the first reason I have to be grateful to Oliver.
Of course he won a scholarship–despite everything.
Years later came the invitation from Oliver to visit St. Bernard’s and enjoy a week’s Shakespeare leading up to the annual production. What fun it has been for me! Living in New York for a week at a time, thanks to the characteristic generosity of the McSpadden family, is in exciting contrast to rural Shropshire. After three years it feels like coming home. I love the wide spaces of Central Park, the carefully designed romantic mounds, the stark trees, and the sense of space in the midst of that famous skyline, which never ceases to thrill me. I’m afraid there is a touch of the film-set come to life for me: the taxis really are yellow, steam does shoot up in the streets (Oh, where are you, Marilyn?), policemen are cops, and taking the A train is as exciting as when I first listened to that incomparably beautiful track over forty years ago. James Baldwin comes alive in Harlem, a Bloody Mary tastes sweet in the Rainbow Bar, while the Bronx makes me think of the younger, slimmer Marlon Brando.
But it’s St. Bernard’s I come for: St. Bernard’s approaching Christmas and the Shakespeare play. There in the faculty common room, a working and gossiping room with no frills but delicious bagels, I watch the creation of hundreds of gingerbread houses, listen to carols being belted out (Must be Santa!), enjoy conversations about the great roaches of New York and the challenges of dissuading Latin pupils from rhyming Agricola with Coca-Cola, a cause I adopted with manic enthusiasm. But for all the warmth and friendliness of the Common Room, it is in the classroom that I experience my happiest moments.
By the time I arrive, post-Thanksgiving, the senior boys have been taught so well they are bursting with ideas and theories about The Play. To be let loose in a room full of such bright and articulate boys raring to go is a real privilege. It’s a bit like being allowed to drive a high-performance sports car or helm a fine yacht in a Force 8 gale: in the midst of all the exhilaration and high octane you know that a touch on the tiller or a slight adjustment of the throttle is all you need. Clumsiness can only lead to a crash. Throwing out an idea is like dropping a piece of meat into a pool full of piranhas, though the boys are more polite and generally less savage. I have rarely encountered a group of boys of their age who can more deftly and relevantly discuss Shakespeare while making seemingly effortless references to other plays. This year it was Julius Caesar, and the boys made interesting links between the main themes and the Bush administration. The arguments about the justification of assassination, literal or metaphorical, set the air alight.
At another end of the age range, trying to explain the intricacies of the plot of Twelfth Night to an alert group of eight-year olds was both challenging and rewarding. Their suggestions as to what might happen next would have made the Bard scratch his pate and dance a galliard.
One incident still gives me pause for thought. I had just started addressing the Middle School and was grinding tortuously along a complicated link between Sir Philip Sidney, an alumnus of Shrewsbury, the publication of Julius Caesar, and Harvard’s Memorial Hall (a connection does exist), when I was aware that the headmaster was listening by the door. Exercising one of the privileges of being a headmaster, he quickly left. Three minutes later the fire alarm went off, and within seconds my audience had fled. Mr. Johnson denied any interference on behalf of his pupils, but I know how much he cares for their happiness…
Three members of the English faculty at St. Bernard’s have close associations with Shrewsbury; two attended as pupils, another taught there, and one did both. They certainly make me feel at home, and I value the links more and more as I begin to detect a natural progression from St. Bernard’s to Shrewsbury.
I thank all at St. Bernard’s for such warmth and tolerance.
Robbie Pennoyer ’97 will be the Harvard teaching fellow at Shrewsbury next year.
No. 32, Spring 2005, page 3