Speaking to young people should not be a difficult task. I mean, what could possibly be the hindrance? Yet often the paradigm is not without obstruction. This, irrespective whether you are teacher, parent or grandparent (with the possible exception of godparent – as I gleefully report I have the distinction to be to my elder and inexpressibly handsome niece Jennifer, the equestrian and professional photographer non pareil). As a general rule though, if you’re an outsider such as I am most frequently there is added vagary and irrelevance to the menu. And don’t get me started about the ostracizing ambiguity of being a lawyer! White hair – or, simply, the over 30 crowd – don’t always predict a welcome insinuation or digestible narrative in the nest of vigour.
Until my absorption into old age, I have always felt estranged from youth, as though I were unqualified by an unforeseen standard to intervene in the complicated process of minority. Allow me the defence of courtesy. With incremental decomposition (and, admittedly, the reinforced persuasion and poetic authority of a stick – the faux silver lion’s head being my favourite), I have laughingly abandoned my erstwhile reluctance to communicate with anyone. It isn’t a singular liberty; rather, a universal dedication (some might even suggest less magnanimously the first sign of encroaching dementia). After all – as I prefer to speculate – the guiding principle should be no more or less than the same as when speaking to anyone. We do however – especially as putative adults – tend to put on our best when addressing those who are younger. It is our attempt by the appearance of moderation, conviction and knowledge to protect them from misunderstanding and misdirection. The enforced accommodation may however do more harm than good. It certainly goes against the prescription of uniformity – the ethical and ethereal mandate of reliability. At the very least its commercial value may be doubtful.
In my experience, being instructive – or a model – to youth is an inimitable authenticity which only derives from example; that is, the unheeded expression of oneself. I would recommend preserving academic instruction for the classroom where it is expected to evolve as part of a dedicated cultural agenda. Beyond the boundaries of the didactic motif, the plausibility of adults is immediately unmoored and set adrift in the changeable sea of life. It is there, amidst the turbulent waters and shifting climate, that we all face the challenge of direction and buoyancy. It is there we all glean our meaning. It is thence we speak, not from behind calibration or a curtain.
Youth, having, as they so often do, both perspicacity and insight, are notwithstanding the profit unflaggingly curious about the parameters governing adults. I suppose they give us – albeit impatiently – the benefit of doubt. They are nevertheless by further noticeable warrant quick to discern lack of sincerity and irresolute connection. The rule of conduct is as much a rigour imposed on ourselves as it emanates from others of any age, recalling as we each must do that, “The best mask for a treacherous heart is any honest face!”
You, dear Reader, no doubt recall those of superior age who have had an influence on your thinking and character. Mine began with former prep school masters, including my closest associate Lloyd (“Fudd” because he looked like Elmer Fudd) Campbell MacPherson (House Master Fourth House where I boarded), and Louis Pitman (English master and Flavell House Master), James Carmen Mainprize (History – we ended dining together over 10 a decade later when I undertook the Bar Admission at Osgoode Hall), “Mither” Timms (Latin – he had a lisp), Tibor P. Bozzay (French – who memorably exclaimed in what I believe was a marked Hungarian accent, “The crucifixion of the Jesus Christ is NOTHING compared to what you buggers will be getting!” His discipline for misbehaviour was, “À genoux!” – “On your knees!” beside your desk), J. L. (“Lips“) Bradley (Music), Courtney Stoate (House Master Memorial House), R. C. (“Thube”) Gibb (Geography – his signature looked like “Thube”; also having memorably proclaimed one day in class, “Who’s the dirty little boy who farted? Shields, open a window!“), J. L. “Jack” Wright (Macdonald House Master), K. H. “Pussy” Ives (Lower School Master – who got his nickname by wearing Hush Puppies which enabled him at night to walk the hallways of the dorms undetected and to catch boys talking after “Lights Out!”), J.S. (“Stan”) McFarlane (Mathematics – “Okay, Dy by Dx, square both sides and let’s go!“) among others. Theirs was a unique but I believe honestly held influence as demagogue, educator and makeshift parent, a visibility which over the course of repeated daily encounter could not avoid the peril of exposure.