Privileged by Ronald Mackay
I remember the pleasure of walking the mile to school as a child in the 1940s. Together, my sister Vivian and I – she’d started school two years before me -- would inspect the sky and dress accordingly. On Scotland’s east coast weather was capricious.
As we walked, several of my sister’s classmates would join us, then a boy from my own class. He and I would walk together, two happy five-year-olds, with seven-year-old girls behind, giving us confidence.
Blazer’s buttoned, ties neat against white shirts, hair combed or tight plaits for the girls, we were groomed. Parents taught us pride and the Morgan Academy had a strict dress code, so we presented ourselves as neatly uniform. Our conduct matched our attire both in school and without.
As we walked, we talked. We chatted about the homework we’d prepared, the day’s classes we were looking forward to, or the BBC radio programme we’d listed to the previous evening. We’d comment on the progress of our favourite trees and shrubs in gardens. Holding our breath, we’d hurry by the coal yard. Black clouds of dust billowed. Secretly, we longed to have faces black like the coalmen. Passing the Keiller’s Marmalade plant, we’d savour the aroma of cooked oranges. Once a week, ginger was added. We lingered longer on those sweet-scented days.
Weather didn’t bother us. We watched the clouds race across the sky or the trees bending lopsided before righting themselves. We competed to retrieve whichever girl’s school hat the wind sent spinning. We crossed rapidly at junctions in a happy, disciplined group.
We’d respond to one or other of our teachers who greeted us as they cycled past.
“Good morning, Mrs McDougal!” “Good morning, Mr Gellatly.”
We boys would raise our right hand to our temples. Teachers noted our behaviour. We’d be called to account if we fell short. It was our privilege to practice behaviour approved equally by our parents and society at large.
By fulfilling standards and expectations, we learned to take our place deliberately and proudly.
***
And so it was, 70 years later, with pleasant anticipation that I set out to walk my eldest grandchild to primary school in Scranton, Pennsylvania. My wife and I had come from Canada to stay while his mother underwent first surgery then chemotherapy. By walking my grandson to school, I saw an opportunity to pass on the enjoyment I had experienced. My grandson had arrived in Scranton from Peru only months earlier. After being assessed, he was placed in an advanced class, thanks to the sound education he’d enjoyed in a bilingual school in Lima.
***
During the 19th and 20th centuries, Scranton had grown into a solid and handsome American community. Anthracite and steel guaranteed regular employment. Russians, Welshmen, Ukrainians, Italians, Irishmen and others had willingly embraced opportunities.
North Scranton had grown and prospered. Men and women settled, worked hard, built comfortable, two-story homes each with back yard, a vegetable garden and a tree for shade. Families took pride in themselves and in their neighbourhood. They saved and sacrificed for those whose future wellbeing they recognized as their parental responsibility. They encouraged their children to become skilled workers and professionals.
***
That first white winter morning, my grandson and I left the house together. I expressed surprise at the heavy book pack he handed me to carry.
“Sure need all of those today?” I asked.
“I don’t know.” I was to become used to “I don’t know!” as the response to many questions I asked. Questions, I learned, were not welcome.
I made a mental note to check his class timetable later. My elder sister, younger brother and I had adopted a practical strategy at his age. We’d select only the books needed for the following day’s classes. This served two purposes. Our schoolbags were lighter and we knew exactly what classes to expect. My experience had skipped a generation, however. I’d never had children of my own.
Fluffy white snow was falling. At the first junction just yards from his home, I stopped to offer my hand to my grandson. No hand! I looked back.
“Your car’s here, Nonno.” He used the Italian to address both me and his grandmother because the family had left Rome for the New World between the wars.
“We agreed last night. We’ll walk to school.”
“I want to go by car.”
“It’s only 500 yards.”
“It’s a long way.” He paused to invent another objection. “It’s snowing.” When I made no response, he added, “It’s all uphill.”
“Then it’s downhill all the way back.” He appeared miffed by my logic. “Come on! I coaxed, “we’ll enjoy the walk. I’ll teach you how to identify trees by their bark alone.”
“Ma drives me.” His lack of enthusiasm puzzled me.
“Your Ma was busy. She had your baby brother to think about. I’m not busy. We agreed to leave early so we could walk together.”
Early? Much time had been consumed as he’d sought various necessary items scattered throughout the house.
Reluctantly, he took my hand but expressed his disapproval by refusing to show interest in the trees I identified. Within yards of his school, he ran off. I made to catch him up but found the scene before me confusing.
Cars, engines running, blocked the street. An accident? I wondered. But no! I saw pupils emerging from those cars closest to the school buildings. Each child would wave dismissively to the driver. Each lugged a bulky book pack. Most appeared underdressed for winter. Some staggered up stone steps leading to swing doors manned by teachers, others entered through the gate my grandson had taken.
Passing open car doors, I was astonished to see drivers at the wheel with only a coat thrown over pyjamas and bare feet pushed into slippers. Most gripped large mugs. Many smoked desperately.
I paused to make sense of the sight. It appeared that parents had unwillingly risen to drive offspring to school and were now impatient to return to bed. As one car moved off, the vacated space was taken by another and the ritual was repeated.
Bewildered by these rites, I returned to my own concerns., Have I completed my task? Should I follow my grandson? Should I enter the school and report who I am and what I’m doing here?
I saw a young man who looked like a teacher. He wore a down parka over jacket and tie.
“Good morning. Can I ask you a question?”
He raised his eyebrows inviting me to continue.
“I walked my grandson to school for the first time. He’s in third grade. He started here only last fall. As soon as we arrived, he disappeared. Is there something I need to do.” I gestured towards the two entrances.
“Are you the grandfather from Canada?”
“I am.”
“His teacher told me his mother is unwell. I’m sorry.” He took off a glove. “Joe Muller. Principal.”
We shook hands. I felt relief at familiar behaviour.
“These swing doors lead into the school cafeteria.” He pointed. “There’s an optional breakfast club. Or the student can enter the playground. When the bell rings, all students go to their respective classrooms. It’s simple.”
The situation was becoming a little clearer to me.
“Any other way I can help?” He asked.
I gestured to the cars disgorging lightly clad children and exposing the state of undress of the drivers. “This?”
“What? Oh, that. Yes. Good weather and bad.” He paused.
I waited for him to go on.
“The mines closed. Then the steel works. There’s little left.” He grimaced. I was unsure if his expression was in sympathy with the parents’ hardship, their pyjamas and bare feet, the inadequate clothing of the pupils, or because foreign oil and offshore manufacturing had killed a dignified middle-class life.
“I don’t have to report to anybody?”
“Nope. His teacher knows his mother’s sick and you’re bringing him to school. I know you now, so everything’s fine.”
***
Over the following months my grandson and I repeated this routine. After I’d made him breakfast, he would delay in the hope we’d be forced to drive to school. His bookbag never grew lighter. To express his disapproval of walking, he’d refuse to learn the names of trees and shrubs. I switched to identifying birds. His reaction stayed the same.
Before we reached school, he’d announce: “You don’t need to come any further. You don’t need to come into the playground. You don’t need to talk to my teachers.”
The first time he’d said this, my reply had been “I’m your grandfather. I want to. Which is your teacher?”
He’d looked at me defiantly.
I explained that my privilege of walking him to school was enhanced by the pleasure of getting to know him better through conversation, by meeting his teachers, by creating a harmonious experience.
“So, which one’s your form teacher?”
He’d simply rushed off into the seething mass of students.
I pursued my agenda. I spoke to all of the teachers who supervised in the playground. Their initial reaction suggested they weren’t used to conversing with parents or grandparents. I persisted. They engaged with me. I encouraged them to talk about the subjects they taught, where they’d trained, and their career ambitions.
***
Winter merged into spring; spring into summer. My grandson began to show less reluctance to walking. He even warmed a little to the differently shaped leaves unfurling on branches. I gave him the names of each tree and shrub and of each new migratory bird as it arrived. Together. we went to a bookstore and bought illustrated guides. Input from beautiful books might encourage his approval and even kindle enthusiasm.
On Saturdays, he, his grandmother and I would spend the afternoon in one of the many museums in Scranton. We visited an anthracite mine and a steam train exhibition. With him and his baby brother, we’d visit the playground in beautiful McDade Park or walk one of its marked trails. I hoped that our grandson might show off his knowledge of the names of trees and birds to his little brother but invariably, in response to my prompting: “What’s the name of this tree? Look at the bark. Look at the leaf. Look at the shape of the whole tree? His answer would be “I forget.”
None of the activities grandmother and I thought up kindled passion or the level of interest we anticipated.
***
Towards the end of the semester, our grandson showed his mother the class certificates he had been awarded at school. “Best students Grade 3 Math”. “First prize in English Composition”. “Star student in science studies Grade 3”.
We were proud of his accomplishments. His grandmother and I wondered if our efforts might have been making an invisible contribution.
***
I walked him to school for the last time before we returned to Canada after his mother healed.
As usual, he disappeared wordlessly into the milling playground. I followed to take my leave of Joe Muller and the teachers I’d come to know.
“I’d like to thank you,” I said to his form teacher.
“What for?”
“Our grandson has done well here – his first year in this primary school.”
“Your grandson has an unfair advantage.” Her tone was abrupt.
I searched her face for any hint of what she might mean. “I’m sorry?”
“He has an unfair advantage over his classmates.”
Do I detect disapproval? All I could think to say was: “He does?”
“You and your wife have conversations with him. You walk him to school. You teach him about nature. At weekends, you take him to places of educational interest.”
I listened. She continued her accusation. “Your grandson wins prizes because he is privileged. It’s unfair to other students. Prizes should be more equitably distributed.”
In silence, I shook her hand. Walking home, I struggled to make sense of the most confusing 8 months of my life.
