Anyone who stepped into the office of Principal Theresa Wamp ̶ and being
ordinary mortals, teachers had no reason to step in unless summoned ̶ might be
struck by what seemed an extraordinary otherworldly place; like a retreat from
the chaos in other parts of the building.
"Have you ever looked in there?" Mahmood Sharif once asked Radix. "I'm thinking
of organizing a field trip to her office for my students. We're discussing tenant
farming. Just one quick look, that's all, would help them understand the two
separate worlds: the privileged class and common labor".
Just one quick look would bring to the eye, first, the shiny display of school
trophies; then the burgundy drapes, the beige carpet; and if you shut the door,
the soft silence, the feeling of being comfortably ensconced.
Adjoining her office was the conference room: more burgundy drapes, a
varnished table, a coffee cart and a coffee maker ̶ everything required to
coddle the decision makers at John Wayne Cotter. On her polished desk were
framed pictures of her father, and of Theresa Wamp's properties, a home on
Long island and in Westchester (the opinion, even among her harshest critics,
was that they were "quite lovely" homes).
Then the flowers. Theresa Wamp loved flowers. If you wanted to thank her, or
for any reason show your appreciation, a bouquet of flowers brought to her face
a full moon of delight. There were flower decals on the windows of her car, on
the lapels of her jackets, on notes she sent to the administrative staff.
Once, as she addressed the incoming freshman class, she felt impelled (at the
end of remarks about the need for respect, the importance of discipline and
"good tone" in the building) to suggest the following, spoken in all seriousness:
Wouldn't it be nice if every family of every child sitting in this auditorium
took the trouble to do a little planting of flowers, around their homes in the
Bronx. It would do so much to lift the spirit of the borough, which has been so
unfairly stigmatized ̶̶ as an orphan borough, a borough beset with crime,
ugly poverty, ugly rundown buildings.
Imagine: looking down from apartment buildings and seeing not the desert of
weeds and dry brick, but flowers; bright, defiantly beautiful flowers. Wherever
there was bush, empty lots, unsightly weeds, let everyone pitch in and plant
flowers. What transformation! People would see results right away. They'd feel
better about themselves.
There was rumor and speculation about her single, unwed status. Theresa
Wamp did in fact have a lover. The only person in the building who knew
about him was Mrs. Haliburton, who kept this nugget of information like a key
in the folds of her bosom. (It thrilled Mrs. Haliburton to think she was privy to
information which many in the building ̶ in particular her white colleagues ̶
would give an arm and a leg to possess; and use to their advantage.)
For her part Principal Wamp handled the problem in a clever way, keeping her
guard up, always smiling, maintaining a professional tone even in casual
conversation. After all, gossip and speculation was the price she had to pay for
being a woman in a position of authority. It was a tough choice, in a tough
Bronx neighborhood.
She put in long, hard hours. She left the building late afternoons in her Buick
Regal. Once she'd passed through the toll gate at the Throgs Neck bridge that
part of her that made decisions and kept the lid on things would empty its bin;
she'd feel instantly relaxed; she switched on the car radio.
The home on Long Island she considered a place of refuge; she could take off her
shoes, pour herself a drink and begin to unwind. She lived for the weekends,
which was when her lover came to visit. He spent an evening dining with her;
sometimes he slept over, leaving early the following morning. Not much shared
time as these things go, but then she'd schooled herself not to ask too much of
him. Besides, one evening, carefully and graciously arranged, could release an
eternity of delights.
Who was her lover?
Whenever she visited her father in Natick, Massachusetts he put the same
question to her. "So who is this man you've been seeing all these years? How
much longer will you keep seeing him?" Theresa Wamp would say only that he
was a wonderful man, wonderful to be with. "But if he's so wonderful, what's
stopping you from marrying him?" Because, she crooned, she didn't want to get
married. Marriage would imperil what they now enjoyed. "Imperil? What are you
talking about? Am I never to be visited by my daughter and my grandchildren on
Thanksgiving?" And Theresa Wamp would kiss him fondly on the forehead and
point out with a heaving heart that the prospect of a visit "with grandchildren"
for Thanksgiving dinner was, well, with each passing year, not sustainable.
(from "Ah Mikhail, O Fidel!", a novel by N.D.Williams, 2001)
FARJOURNEY CARIBBEAN 