School Memories
My school life was divided into two parts. The first part, from Kindergarten to Class Five, was in Blue Bird School in my hometown Sylhet. After we moved to Dhaka in 1970, I attended St. Joseph's High School in Dhaka from Class Six to Ten.
Although I had excelled in my studies in Sylhet, I found myself struggling in the new environment in Dhaka. For one thing, speaking in Bangla with teachers at Blue Bird had been acceptable, but at St. Joseph's one had to speak in English with teachers. This requirement led to my eventual fluency in spoken English, but to this day, when I meet another Bengali who fumbles trying to speak in English, I instantly feel their pain. Another reason for my fish-out-of-water situation stemmed from my skipping a grade in Sylhet. I was double-promoted for reasons that escape me. As a result I was at a competitive disadvantage at St. Joseph's.
Blue Bird had been a small school with affectionate teachers where everyone knew each other. At St. Joseph's I landed as a stranger in a large school, dealing not just with classmates teasing me about my small-town ways but also with teachers who appeared ruthless. One of my earliest Josephite memories is my collar being grabbed by Brother James, a massive, ruddy-faced, towering red-headed figure (Donald Trump is vaguely reminiscent of him) because I had asked my neighbour a question during class.
But I soon found my niche at St. Joseph's – in the basketball court. This was the result of a string of happy coincidences. One was my height. Another was the house we had rented: it was across the street from the school. Even back then, I loved being outdoors, and the open-air, cemented basketball court beckoned me. I came home after school ended at 1:30, and after lunch and some quick homework, I was usually the first one on the court for the afternoon's basketball games. For today's pupils locked into game-playing smartphones, the pull of the open fields of St. Joseph's where dozens of kids gathered every afternoon for outdoor sports would be, regrettably, incomprehensible.
It was on one of those afternoons that Brother Ralph – who had watched my dedication and poor technique - showed me correct dribbling and shooting. I recall my thrill at correctly executing my first jumpshot, how I levitated for a fraction of a second to fire off that ball. Later, Brother Thomas More, probably the gentlest missionary to grace the school, helped me refine my layup and rebound. I made it to the Varsity team and eventually captained it.
I never did find my academic stride at St. Joseph's and, after yet another double promotion, graduated with ho-hum grades in “Matric” Secondary Examination. But immediately after this exam, along with two other brilliant boys from my class who became lifelong friends – Qader and Taukir – I was able to schedule tutoring time with Mr. Shawkat Hussain, mathematics teacher extraordinaire. Within a short time Math and Science clicked for me, opening the doors of academic excellence.
My parents made big sacrifices for their children's education, including giving up life in their beloved Sylhet. Times have changed but one thing remains constant, I think. The sacrifices that parents make for the education of their children are probably their best investment; I am certainly grateful to my parents for all they endured for me and my siblings.
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