At the Community/Teachers Association on Friday morning, Mr. Bockarie stood to make a comment. “Yes, I just want to address my fellow parents,” he said. He has an intimidating presence, tall with broad shoulders and a stern face. There is kindness and sense of humor in his eyes, but I would never dare to cross him.
“As parents, it’s our responsibility to make sure our children learn,” he was saying in Krio. “Our children need to fear the teachers. If they fear them, they will always pay attention in class.”
I kept my expression neutral, but I wanted to laugh as I remembered the previous Tuesday in language arts class. Mr. Bockarie was right, parents do play an important role in getting their children to respect teachers. His son Abubakar certainly respects me, but it’s not me Abubakar fears. He’s afraid of his father, and I use this knowledge to my benefit.
On Tuesday, I had asked Kadiatu to read aloud from the board and she accidently pronounced the word “prefect” as “perfect.” Abubakar snorted with laughter, eliciting an embarrassed frown from Kadiatu and an uproar from several of her friends.
“Miss Kenley, Abubakar is always mocking at us. He thinks he is the only one who has sense and knows how to read.”
I quieted them down before turning my attention to Abubakar. He is not the most serious student, but he can read better than anyone else in the form. Regardless of whether or not it’s well earned, his pride is a problem.
“I don’t want to hear you mocking your companions,” I said.
“Yes, ma,” he replied. His expression was completely remorseless, so I fixed an angry glare on him.
“I’m serious,” I said in a sterner voice.
“Yes, ma,” Abubakar repeated, but his voice had become quiet.
“Your father stopped by the school this morning.” I added. (This was true.) “He wanted to know if you were doing well in class. Do you want me to go to your house after school and tell him that you provoke your classmates and laugh at them when they try to answer questions?”
Abubakar’s eyes grew wider, but he didn’t speak. He has grown over the past year, but it’s still hard to believe that he’s seventeen. Gangly and suddenly afraid, he looked like a small child.
“What would your father say?” I asked.
“He’d beat him,” another student piped in.
“This is the last time I’m warning you. If you ever laugh at someone in this class again, I’m going to inform your father.”
As I expected, AbuBakar was perfectly behaved for the rest of the class. Mr Bockarie is right: having parents who are involved in their children’s lives makes a world of difference.
