So, a 64 year old albeit strangely youthful Englishman cheerfully strolls into this fortress-like high school in Bayview, San Francisco. It is more than a little imposing: slightly rusty chain-link fencing reaching into the sky, formidable security gates, guards and simply oodles of cameras. Had it not been for the leafy surroundings and the improbably neat, colourful little houses, I’d have been reminded slightly of a maximum security prison in Britain like Dartmoor or Wormwood Scrubs. The views of Hunter’s Point and the Bay are pretty nice though.
I go in search of the office, which seems to be locked up. I eventually gain ingress and chat to the cheerful receptionist. Rather improbably, it appears that I’ve been assigned to the gym - I was rather hoping for English or History. I hobble up to a couple of amazingly tall young gentlemen shoving balls into a kind of net-like thing.
“Awfully nice to meet you. Is this what is known as baseball?”
After a little confusion while they sum me up, the kids are extremely warm and welcoming. They patiently explain that it is something called netball. One politely asks about my age in a slightly convoluted way:
“I am not asking how old you are or anything. But how long before you are a hundred?”
I perform a relatively rapid mental calculation and tell him that I’ve got a good 36 years to go. I ask why he is so interested. He tells me that when I have reached a hundred I get to meet the Queen. I refrain from mentioning that by that time she will be pretty elderly too.
The weeks pass and I look forward to each day. The students are a bit wild but tractable. They constantly try to mimic my accent - usually by saying “hey mate” with a somewhat Australian intonation. Whenever I walk across the ‘blacktop’ I get high fives and fist bumps.
In class I have my helpers - the tall chaps I met on the first day. At the end of one lesson, I suggest that they tidy up a bit,. Nothing much happens, but then a helper translates my request: “The little old guy wants you to clean up your Mother F***** Shit!” I could have hardly put it better myself.
Sadly all this is coming to an end. My wife has discovered that I am working in one of the most dangerous places in the Bay and is extremely nervous. The other day, I was waiting to meet her in an adjoining park - a fellow teacher drove by and shouted that I was ‘frigging’ mad and should get back inside the school posthaste. It seems that there are regular robberies and even shootings in the area.
“I grow old … I grow old … I shall wear the bottoms of my trousers rolled …”. Were I younger and more vigorous, I should stay. These children need help.
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