If there was anyone in the auditorium on the Principal’s side that morning,
someone who viewed her with considerable sympathy, if not bursting
affection, it was Mrs. Haliburton; seated in the second row, chatting away like
everyone else, until from the corner of one eye she sensed the anxiety
Principal Wamp must be feeling. Mrs. Haliburton tried shushing everyone
around her so things could get started. It was a gesture Principal Wamp
noticed and acknowledged with a weary, grateful smile.
Mrs. Haliburton understood what Principal Wamp was going through as the
first woman to be appointed to run John Wayne Cotter H.S. The first woman
of color – her mother was Philippine, her father American, though she looked
more Philippine than American. Her skin was almost white, bearing that fraction
of difference that, in someone holding so conspicuous a position, would not go
unnoticed.
She tested the microphone; she looked around as if she’d misplaced
something; she said something to one of her assistant principals in the front
row, walked back to the podium and stood ready to begin her presentation.
The buzz in the auditorium would not let up. Principal Wamp touched up her
hair and waited.
“Ladies and Gentlemen!” The microphone squealed and grated the nerves; she
looked at it in an amused, horrified way; the buzz in the auditorium swelled.
“Ladies and Gentlemen, if I can have your attention, please, we have a lot to
get through this morning.”
Getting them settled proved always a difficult proposition, more difficult that
it ought to be. She’d arranged a welcome-back morning breakfast spread in
the cafeteria, after which they always straggled up to the auditorium, still
munching and sipping. She'd spoken to her assistant principals about the need
for a tight schedule on this first day. Teachers should be handed a program of
activities; they should be reminded they were back to work, ready to care of
business especially at the September start.
This morning as she entered the auditorium, with her important guests and
their ground-breaking news, she was almost flattened by the noise level,
laughter and chatter coming at her over rows of chairs in anarchic waves.
Above the din someone was playing the piano – it looked like Mr. Bobcombe,
the band instructor, bald and bulky on his piano stool and singing some
jazzy melody; turning the auditorium into a jazz club, or a cocktail lounge.
And – please, heaven help! – there was one of the teachers, that short eccentric
woman in the English dept. who taught Drama, her skinny body perched on top
the piano, pretending to be swoony with desire for Mr. Bobcombe.
Her visitors shifted restlessly in their seats, their visitor conversation
exhausted. She caught the Superintendent looking at her, smiling patiently.
Principal Wamp rallied her flailing spirit.
She fiddled with the microphone, adjusting it up and down; and now, finally
losing patience, she raised her voice, meaning to signal she’d wait not a minute
more. “Ladies and Gentlemen…LADIES AND GENTLEMEN…we have a lot to get
through this morning.” Something caught in her throat; the faculty buzz slowly
subsided.
And then the microphone squealed and went dead. Fortunately, Mr. Dalghetti
who was in charge of rigging up the system hurried to the front of the stage. She
could wait no longer. Leaning forward on the podium and trusting to the
acoustics of the hall – at least until Mr. Dalghetti got his wires and speakers
functioning properly – she launched into the welcome-back speech she’d
prepared.
Mr. Dalghetti signaled the address system was working again. Principal Wamp
tried it; it screeched and howled. She recoiled, “It’s working too well now, but
better too well than not at all, right?” she joked. Then she touched her flower-
pattered scarf and ran her hand down the side of her dress; and she smiled a
dazzling smile now that the problems had melted away and everything was
finally set and ready to go.
FARJOURNEY CARIBBEAN 