After my first year working for JAMAL (The Jamaican Movement for the Advancement of Literacy) in Montego Bay, we moved our office across town. The new space was larger, but was in terrible shape. I am not sure why, but we had to vacate the old offices with little notice, and classes needed to continue. The director and I, along with three other staff worked around the clock for three days to get the place ready for our students. We cleaned, patched, and painted. It was tiring, but a lot of fun. Mr. Drummond, the director, was a wonderful man who never lost his composure and always had a cheerful demeanor. We were worn out, but proud and our students appreciated the new classrooms.
I had been teaching a group of students for most of the year, and we had a great relationship. They were from different walks of life, but had bonded well. My favorite of this favorite group was Mr. Cowell, a sky juice vendor. Sky juice was shaved ice flavored with syrup. Sky juice carts (made famous by Cool Runnings) were home made sleds on wheels that carried a large block of ice and bottles of various syrups. The operator would shave some ice off the large block, put it in small plastic bag, then pour the syrup over it. This bag of cold refreshment came with a small straw. Mr. Cowell pushed one of these contraptions cheerfully ten hours a day, six days a week. He had cut his working hours down in order to attend early evening classes. He learned slowly, but was very eager and worked very hard. When I saw him in the day around town, he always made a big production, introducing me to his customers and "comping" me a sky juice. I didn't really care for the mixture, it was far too sweet, but I loved the interaction and ritual.
When we moved to the new office, we slowly gained more students. We had more space and a more visible location. I had a large desk in a corner of the first floor with a filing cabinet - my first official office space. We had a small cook stove in the backroom and Kingsley, our custodian, would make lunch everyday. We ate casava, dumplings, sweet potatoes, and greens. Morale was very high. It was a very dynamic time, and I was thrilled to be part of it all.
During the day, I worked out in the rural areas setting up and supporting classes. On two nights each week, I taught a class in the classroom above my office, where Mr. Cowell and his classmates made me laugh and love the fact that I was a teacher. Things were going so well, I should have known there would be an inevitable problem, not yet understanding how pessimistic karma really is. The problem came three weeks or so after the move, and I was totally unprepared for it (I guess that is what makes it a problem). I was teaching late one evening when three women knocked on the door asking to be admitted to the classroom. I was excited - three new students! As they entered, I felt a chill in the room and I saw the other students stiffen. The three women proceeded to the back of the room where they sat quietly and waited for my instruction. The other students shot furtive glances at each other, but said nothing. I dove back into the past tense or whatever lesson I was working on, hoping that the atmosphere would soften, and that I would figure out what the heck had just happened. The chill remained, but the explanation came at break time. When most of the class had gone downstairs for water, Mr. Cowell and a few of the other regular students stayed behind. The did not address the issue directly, but it was clear something was on their minds. After a minute or so I just looked at them and said "what?" Mr. Cowell stammered, paused, and blurted out that the new students were not proper women. The others just nodded solemnly. My three new students were prostitutes.
At first, I was somewhat indignant that such a thing mattered to these students. Who were they, who were we to judge anyone? I was really at a loss. I tried to remain patient as an ultimatum was constructed. By the end of the break, I was informed that the entire class would walk out if the new students were allowed to return. My instinct was to call their bluff and to take the higher ethical ground. But I owed these students more than that, more than my desultory liberality. Desperate to buy time, I told Mr. Cowell to tell the other students that we would end class early, and that I would address the issue before we next met again. I called the three women in on the pretext that I needed to do a registration for them. I really did not know what to do.
As we chatted and as I took their information, a plan slowly developed. I told them that since they were new, they would be behind the other students. Therefore, I would teach them separately for awhile, immediately after the scheduled class. They were deferential, and in hindsight, I suppose they were hurt. In any case, I had time to help them and to figure out a way to get them back into the regular class. In the end, it almost worked out, and I learned more about human dignity than I had expected.
The ladies and I met steadily for almost two months before one disappeared. In that time they worked hard at their lessons, and taught me about some very harsh realities in the pursuit of simple existence. As they grew more comfortable with me, they shared more about their lives and their occupation. I never asked, but I think they wanted me to know they weren't bad people. On one evening, the oldest of the group (perhaps 30) told me she did the work she did in hopes of purchasing a mattress for her three children. Their father had moved to Racine, Wisconsin and would be sending for them any day, at least that was the dream she half held for more than ten years. At one point early on, I realized I had seen one of them near the bars on several occasions, but she had been dressed much differently, even her presence had changed in the classroom. She told me she had seen me as well, as had the other two. I did notice that I never saw the three of them "working" again, as I suspected they began to avoid the few places I went out to.
Back in the original classroom, I had been fairly icy with the students. I felt bad for them, but I had not completely forgiven them. The three women always waited outside until the other students had left the classroom completely, and I could tell Mr. Cowell and some of the other students were curious about the second class. Our class never regained the ambiance it once had, but we attended to our business and the students learned. I still got my sticky sweet sky juice, and Mr. Cowell plodded along as earnestly as ever. At the end of the second month, after I had lost one of the three women, I was resolved to bring the other two back to the larger class. I sat down one evening with the original group and told them flatly of my intention. They muttered and made small protests. I explained that the two students had worked very hard, and that they deserved to be in a proper classroom. I went on to say that I was growing very weary of teaching a double class. Perhaps it was the latter appeal that moved some of them. When the following week arrived, most of the students returned, a few did not. The two women quietly sat in the back, and we continued to do our work into the next year. The class was never the same, we laughed far less often, but we all learned. I settled for tolerance when I was aiming at acceptance.
I don't think the women changed their profession while I was there, and I know the two groups never really interacted, but I was grateful for the peace we finally settled on. Mr. Cowell and I remained friends, and I had the hope that the seeds we sowed eventually spawned simple and honest dreams. I cling to that hope every time I step into a classroom anywhere.
