Words are power

Words are power. Wrapped up in squiggles, incomprehensible to some, words can entrap, empower and enlighten. Often, I do not appreciate the influence of an English teacher; you can open up an infinite world of wonder or close people’s hearts to appreciating the miracle of language.

Today I found myself as the student – surprised - being bowled over by the force of a collection of letters on a page. Lunchtime had hit. My rumbling stomach had been satiated with chicken and fried potatoes (the best day at the school canteen) and I was sat, cocooned in my classroom, desperately attempting to catch the breeze as it drifted from the whirring fan and open windows. Thoughts were already jumping to 80 minutes ahead where I had a diminished Literature class of two students, as the others had escaped my clutches to play hockey in the searing sun.  I flicked through our poetry anthology, hoping to have an epiphany that would translate the two students’ resigned boredom to excitement – how could I get them to embrace a lesson of ‘exploring the beauties of the English word’?

I began to read the following poem:

Once Upon a Time

Once upon a time, son,

they used to laugh with their hearts

and laugh with their eyes;

but now they only laugh with their teeth,

while their ice-block-cold eyes

search behind my shadow.

There was time indeed

they used to shake hands with their hearts

but that’s gone, son.

Now they shake hands without hearts

while their left hands search

my empty pockets.

‘Feel at home’! ‘Come again’;

they say, and when I come

again and feel

at home, once, twice,

there will be no thrice-

for then I find doors shut on me.

So I have learned many things, son.

I have learned to wear many faces

like dresses- homeface,

officeface, streetface, hostface,

"my teeth like a snake's bare fangs"

cocktailface, with all their conforming smiles

like a fixed portrait smile.

And I have learned, too,

to laugh with only my teeth

and shake hands without my heart.

I have also learned to say, ‘Goodbye’,

when I mean ‘Good-riddance’;

to say ‘Glad to meet you’,

without being glad; and to say ‘It’s been

nice talking to you’, after being bored.

But believe me, son.

I want to be what I used to be

when I was like you. I want

to unlearn all these muting things.

Most of all, I want to relearn

how to laugh, for my laugh in the mirror

shows only my teeth like a snake’s bare fangs!

So show me, son,

how to laugh; show me how

I used to laugh and smile

once upon a time when I was like you.

By Gabriel Okara

Suddenly I was transported away from my humble surroundings in the suburbs of Mombasa and enraptured by the sheer emotion of the poem. Empathy bubbled inside. My flashbacks sped to the forefront of my mind with the force of a hammer, to moments of false smiles and insincere greetings. But most of all I felt an extreme sadness – the sense of loss swarmed forwards. His description of a world where people ‘shake hands without their hearts’ is empty, as they have lost their ability to laugh with their heart. To me, it conjured an image of a dystopia; people are intent to conform, expecting to secure happiness in superficial interactions and society’s acceptance. Yet, I was repelled, clutching to my life here where true smiles proliferate and blossom.

It was then I picked up the textbook, ready to learn the context of the poet’s experience. Apparently Gabriel Okara is an African poet who moved to the West and was writing about his disillusion with the new society he found himself in. Having done the reverse move a year and a half ago – the West to Africa -  I feel in a unique position to comment on these perceptions.

Largely, I feel defiant, wishing to defend my dear ‘ole Britain from these observations of fake communication. One could argue the ‘ice-block-cold eyes’ reflect the English reserve, a hard exterior that shuts out strangers with a fierce push. The poem seems to emphasise the fact that not only does this cold behaviour cause hurt but it also drains the warmth of others, compelling them to conform to the disingenuous politeness. Even I can hold my hands up and admit I occasionally say ‘ ‘Glad to meet you’, without being glad; and to say ‘It’s been nice talking to you’, after being bored.’ Consequently, would it not be hypocritical for me to shield my nation from these spears of discontent…? Maybe, but I’m doing it anyway:

Englishness is strange. Intangible: the intent grumble of people about grey weather, the sarcastic jibe that spills surreptitiously into conversation without warning, the slapstick humour of practical jokes and hidden innuendo. Each has their place within the national psyche. All of these, to me, ring of one thing - sincerity. I do not accept the accusation that we don a ‘fixed portrait smile’ on necessary occasions– in fact the Brits will just choose not to smile - anyone who has ever sat on a London tube can be testament to that fact! Yes, I do admit that Africa exudes warmth in its people (not only in the climate) however, this kindheartedness can be matched by the friendship of Brits, once the shell of reserve has been broken.

"Englishness is strange" - showcased on a London tube

So I am only led to conclude one thing. Gabriel Okara did not migrate to the UK, instead he found himself in the amorphous world of America - I will happily join in with his derision then. Half of me wants to check the truth on Wikipedia, but I’m secretly too scared about what the words might say.  So at this point the professed English-teacher-come-student chooses to reject the next step in her learning and not read the words!