Read by Peter Doolan
My secondary school was a small Christian Brothers school in a suburb of South Dublin. There were two Irish teachers there. Mr Edward Lowry was a pugnacious, portly, pustulous git of a man. Years of disillusionment and disappointment squatted on his shoulders slowing his gait to a malevolent saunter, like burger van on a drive-by. He had hands like the blades of spades and under his oxter he routinely carried a rolled-up tabloid newspaper. The black ink from the paper and the pale white dust of the chalk formed demented yin-yang symbols on his palms. These palms we saw often- raised in anger slapping desks, students and books on tables. Every inch of him carried the threat of violence and even though hitting students was banned in Ireland in 1982, Lowry had decided to take it under advisement. Rumour had it that his brother was head of the union and so he was impossible to sack.
Lowry was my first Irish teacher in secondary school. I left primary school good at the subject. I won our weekly Irish duais so often, they let me keep it. It sits on my mantel still, a cheap wooden plaque with a plastic, gold rosette glued to it. But his teaching was a lazy, neglectful thing. We were directed to text books while he put his feet on the table and read the paper. After three years, my primary school Irish had almost eroded away. But into our Senior Years, there came a branching point- the Leaving Certificate. This was the big one. The exam that paved our way to University. Lowry knew there were students capable of attempting the Higher paper and knew that he would be better off teaching Foundation. So we were shortlisted in preparation for the step up to Jacko’s class. Lowry also knew his Sun Tzu and understood that: “in the midst of chaos, there is opportunity” and so he smuggled in a ringer. A muppet he had grown to loathe, a kid thick as brick that he wanted shot of, the kind of snot breathing arsehole that makes a paedophile eat his own sweets.
Dara Duffy was an arsehole. The kind who distracted people from his own insecurities by harpooning the insecurities of others. There was no anxiety, impediment or imperfection Duffy would not pick on. To be fair, it was a kind of gift. He could pinpoint the one thing you didn’t want anyone to see and expose it to ridicule like a shopkeeper with a dodgy tenner. Duffy was the reason we called Stephen Murphy “Tampon,” the reason Seamus O’Neill had “eyebrows” whispered at him every time he walked down the corridor and why singing the chorus of “What is Love?” by Haddaway would reduce Donal O’Clarke to tears.
So we entered Jacko’s class and he lined us up. We stood facing his class, backs to the blackboard. They sat smug. They were safe today, fresh meat had wandered in, bemused Christians at a Roman public holiday. They were going to sit back and enjoy the entertainment. He went to each of us in turn, testing our language with simple conversational questions: What we did over half term, hobbies, favourite sports, where we live. The usual stuff really but asked with such piercing intensity you’d think the fate of nations rested on our responses. At the end of the line was Dara Duffy.
Like Lowry, Duffy instinctively understood Sun Tzu. Chaos presented opportunities for mischief, hurt, disorder, distraction and disruption. Or at least keep him out of lessons for 20 minutes. And so he readied his face. The right balance of disdain and smirk. Nothing that could be accused of disrespect but clearly not respectful either. It fortified him against any chance some learning might sneak in. Teacher and student alike lived in fear of Duffy’s toxic, infectious lethargy and his unerring ability to say the unsayable.
And so there he stood, the Darth Vader of dickheads, a carefully constructed artifice of studied disdain on his features. His jaw became slacker, his eyes more vacant, his spine looser- the vertebrae awash in loopy cartilage. Every sinew was focused on paying as little attention as possible. If he paid less attention to the world around him at that point, it’s possible he might have forgotten to breathe. But there is a cost to such concentrated inattention. He wasn’t watching Jacko pace the line. He didn’t measure the depth of the silence or the temperature of the room. And as Jacko interrogated each individual, he realised too late that they weren’t waiting to see what he would do. They were waiting for Jacko. Waiting to see what the raptor would do with the cuckoo in his nest.
In fairness, Duffy didn’t flinch. He’d taken down bigger before. His inability to master Pythagoras’ Theorem had once made his Maths teacher crack a filling and Dooley had been ex-army. His ignorance held real power. They couldn’t force him to learn anything. Duffy marshalled the two words in his Irish vocabulary like the last Spartans at Thermopylae: Ní thuigim (knee higim). This means “I don’t know.” Of course, what Duffy didn’t realise was that Jacko had no interest in educating him. His intention was the complete and systematic annihilation of Duffy’s self-esteem. He recognised Duffy as Lowry’s creature, a product of everything he sheltered his guttering flame against and he intended to destroy him. And then like an angry, mournful Achilles drag his body round the walls of Troy in his chariot of righteousness.
Jacko started easy: “Cá bhfuil tú i do chónaí?” (Caw will too i du coney: where do you live). This was baby stuff. Every primary school kid could answer this one. Duffy flourished his Ní thuigim. This garnered a snigger and Duffy recognised it. It was his currency but the timing was off. Could it have been directed at him? He needed to speak, say something, anything; he didn’t want them to think he was a complete tool. His stupidity needed to look deliberate or else all was lost. He trawled his memory for some Irish, any Irish. Surely he had picked something up during those six weeks at the Gaeltacht? And then like a swimmer borne away on the tide, he was back there on the shores of the sunny south-east, back there with buxom, freckled Grainne O’Hanlon the shopkeeper’s daughter, back there on that dusky evening when he let her gently finger his arsehole under the pier at Woodstown Strand. Lost in his reverie, he missed the intense appraisal Jacko was giving him. He missed the second snigger that was most definitely at him. And most importantly, he missed the hint of a wolfish grin that flitted across the teacher’s face.
Duffy came to and Jacko was asking him what he had been doing over half term as Gaeilge. Confronted by Duffy’s noxious, leering gawp, he mimed knocking on his head and boomed in his face. It took Duffy a second longer to respond.
“Ní thuigim.”
More sniggers.
As Gaeilge, Jacko asked him how old he was.
“Ní thuigim.”
He asked him his name.
“Ní thuigim.”
He asked him if knew how to use the toilet.
“Ní thuigim.”
Jacko asked him what he did know.
“Ní thuigim.”
It was open laughter now and the whispers of a hardening knot of mockery. To every question Duffy gave the same answer but he was not enjoying the frustration of the teacher, he was feeling the deep, intense shame of someone who is being humiliated but is not sure how. And you could see Jacko grow more malevolent with each question. Duffy felt the full fury of a man who has spent twenty years teaching kids who hate his subject. It was a massacre. He peeled away Duffy’s mask like old, dry wallpaper. Duffy began to sweat and grow red in the face. This was what he had always feared- to be pinioned to a wall, his ignorance exposed to ridicule in front of everyone. And to not even understand the insults was the worst humiliation of all. The questions and the laughter continued. He asked Duffy about his family, his house and then on to basic vocabulary. He pointed at the chair, asked him what it was. Duffy was transfixed, any hope of a correct answer was gone. Jacko’s rage built to a crescendo, ranting now, still as Gaeilge his massive hands articulating wildly, wringing imaginary necks, pummelling imaginary faces.
In the end, he bellowed so loud the panes trembled in their frames. Duffy didn’t need a translator to know he’d been kicked out. He departed with all available haste and from my position at the top of the row, I could see him through the window of the classroom door, stood out in the corridor. I watched him as he loosened his tie, and wiped the sweat from his forehead with the cuff of his sweater. And for just a moment,, I swear his expression was of the purest agony, like the mask from a Greek tragedy. An expression of pure anguish. But like a mask, it was gone as easy as taking it off. He performed a quick exploration of his nasal cavity and then went into Lowry’s class, his saunter re-positioned.
It’s a week later when I see Duffy again. It’s Dolan’s RE lesson. Mr Dolan has a pronounced stutter which is exacerbated when he’s tired or stressed and today Duffy has spontaneously developed a speech impediment too. He is playing to the crowd, volunteering to answer a question and then stuttering his answer. Dolan is shrinking by the second; he can’t tell Duffy off because to do so would admit his impediment and his weakness. Duffy’s face is a snarling rictus of malevolent joy as his false starts seem to go on forever and the wait is excruciating. We laugh but secretly we all wish he would stop. But then it happens. Floating down from the back row of the class, a high falsetto, an exaggerated imitation, “Ní thuigim.” And we laugh. Duffy stops and reddens. The false starts are real now and we laugh again. You can see his face trying to reassemble the mask, reassert his authority but it’s gone. Desperate, he tries to retreat in his mind to his happy place but even the dunes of Woodstown are empty, even Gráinne’s left him, gone back to her house to scrub her hands with Imperial Leather. Duffy lets his arm fall and without looking up mutters, “I don’t know.”
(c) Colin Adams, 2018
Colin Adams is 36 and lives in South Norwood, London with his wonderful wife and two lovely children. He is a teacher by trade. He is originally from Dublin, Ireland.
Peter Doolan was born in Tipperary in 1983. He’s a musician with a recently released EP entitled Modern Bombs Don’t Tick. He is also a performance poet who, and has released one collection of poetry entitled Collective Living in the Singular Age. He performs regularly at the Poetry Brothel London. Both book and EP are available for sale tonight!
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