I have days here where I literally go through every conceivable emotion possible before lunch, as I did this morning. It is…exhausting, but sometimes vindicating as well.

The upper-classmen (7th,8th and 9th grades) had ‘orientation’, where parents and students come in to meet with teachers, hand in pertinent paperwork, and generally get a heads up on what to expect in the coming term.

Sadly, not enough students or their parents attended.
Happily, most of the students with whom I worked closely last year (who are more, shall we say, disadvantaged economically and learning/behavior-challenged) showed up in their uniforms, many with parents in tow.

The principal gave a ‘welcome’ speech, re-iterating the rules of conduct and the dress code.

Claremont All-Age, like every other Jamaican school has a uniform, which is supposed to be strictly adhered to. However, adolescents being adolescents, enforcement becomes necessary to prevent the boys from “forgetting” their tie, low-riding their pants, wearing garish neon “g-shock” digital watches or even more ridiculous rhinestone studded affairs resembling nothing so much as hubcaps, or plastic rosaries. The gravitational allure and sartorial influences of Vybz Kartel and assorted other dancehall personalities cannot be overstated. Just take a look at the pants of a school boy next time you’re out and about on a weekday: 7 times out of 10, you’ll be able to spot where he’s taken in the inseams of his uniform khakis himself to get that “straight and fitted” look.

I digress, though. The point is that the kids need to look a certain way, which includes closely shaved hair for the boys. Everyone was well-groomed with sleek heads expertly shaped and shaded, everyone expect Kamal.

I’ve worked with Kamal since I began at Claremont All Age, and while I truly love all ‘my’ kids, Kamal holds a very special place in my heart. He’s kind and sweet, and he tries. He’s always cheerful and he’ll be the first to carry books and supplies for me, and I’ve yet to see him exhibit any signs of aggression or aspirations to gangster grandeur. His family doesn’t have much, which is nothing unusual around here, but he’s one of the few kids who’s never asked me for money.

So it especially pained me when Kamal was singled out in front of all the students and their parents for not having gotten a haircut. When told that he’d better have one come the first day school on Monday, he quietly responded “Miss, my mother’s not working now.” And it killed me to hear the principal tell him “That’s not my problem.” In front of everyone. No child should ever be shamed publicly like that, and unfortunately, it’s all too common here. It’s certainly not Kamal’s fault his family doesn’t have the resources for a haircut, and who can blame them? His new uniform certainly isn’t free, nor are the school fees. A haircut should really be the last priority.

Anyway, I just felt the most visceral reaction to the unjustness of it all, like someone had squeezed all the air out of my lungs and twisted my stomach into knots. After orientation, I took Kamal and one of the other boys down to the barber shop and paid for a hair cut.

Barbershops are a purely male domain here. The walls were papered with dancehall artists and Magnum girls (“10 Long and 10 Strong”- yes, WITH A RULER!), and a TV in the corner was blasting the latest hip-hop videos. We had to wait for a chair to free up for Kamal, so the boys and I settled on the pleather bench along the wall. The boys were immediately hypnotized by the music videos, and I put up with the double-takes of the men walking in. Finally, Kamal was able to “get correct”, I paid, and as we were walking out, I was called back in. Prepared to argue about the tip (I always tip for nails and hair here, much to everyone’s surprise), I was instead told to sit back down on the bench. With no idea what to expect, I plunked down and the man (good-looking and well-dressed, I might add, though neither of those things are uncommon in Jamaica) who was sitting next to me grabbed my right hand. The boys working in the shop said “Miss Taylor, yuh a get one song now!”
I was like, “what? Song? Huh?” and sure enough, the man who was holding my hand began singing some romantic ballad-y R&B lyrics. He had a lovely voice, and I have no idea if it was his song or what, because I was so mortified I could barely pay attention to the words. He only serenaded for a stanza or two, before letting go of my hand and letting me rejoin the boys who were still outside, pressed against the glass door and looking in.

I still have no idea what to do with…all of that, but I can tell you that after buying Kamal and Howell patties and box drinks and sending them on their way, I felt like I’d actually done something worthwhile. I can’t give every kid a haircut, or a new school bag, or taxi money, but maybe one less boy will feel ashamed or self-conscious on the first day of school. It’s not a big thing. It’s not about to turn the world upside down, but one small injustice was righted and someone even sang me a love song. How wonderful and ridiculous is that?

I think we can safely chalk today up as a “Good Day”.