2027 Syllabus

1. My teacher asked me to write about happiness

            by Helena Maertins, Cedar House School (English Alive, 2014)

My teacher asked me to write about happiness.
Or, rather, a moment in which I felt happy.
Now,
I don’t mean to get too technical or anything
but what kind of happy was she talking about?
The long-walks-on-the-beach-followed-by-a-romantic-kiss-with-my-fiancé-
as-the-sun-sets-over-the-palm-trees kind?
Because
let me tell you
the only thing I have done while the sun sets over palm-trees
is play Frisbee
with my brother.
Or at least we did
until that wave swallowed it.
Spoilsport.
So we drew patterns in the sand
until the cold stung our feet
and the sun had set
and our lungs ached from the sea air
and our sides hurt from laughing
and sand caked us from head to toe.
And I wrote about happiness.

2. He can never know

            by Emma Mostert, Clarendon High School for Girls (English Alive, 2008)

I sit and wait for him, him with all his well-built stature, perfectly
structured face and beautiful hair. Him with his unassuming personality
and alluring charm.
My best friend since we were 11, he’d never guess how I feel about him.
I wish I had the courage to tell him.
I see him in the distance; my heart starts to race, my palms sweat and
I eagerly await his arrival.
‘Hey Boet!’ he yells through the crowd, I walk up to him and we slap
palms. My name is Michael, his Byron. I am in love with him, but he can
never know.

3. TADA ─ Teenagers Against Daddy’s Aspirations

            by Salma Khan, Durban Girls’ College (English Alive, 2012)

The cardamom tea powder and mint aroma brewing on the stove engulfed our home in intangible warmth in the way the only a good cup of home-made Mummy’s tea can do. The chitter-chatter chimed, alongside the hustle and bustle of any morning. Daddy crept into my room, gently to rouse his sleeping beauty from her not-so-eternal slumber.
But now it is eight and I’m just a little late. No tea ready and waiting for me, no freshly packed lunch, no hot toast just the perfect colour of brown that I favour, no ironed clothes, no housemaid to make my bed, or to wash the breakfast dishes. No nothing.
Somehow, freedom felt a little overpriced.
Meet me, Salma Khan ─ your not-so-average, anything-but-ordinary South African Indian girl. I can’t cook, I can’t clean and, most importantly, I am all alone in the Big Apple. When ‘Earnest and Old’ approached yours truly to offer a fully paid opportunity of attending business school in New York City, with a guaranteed American job offer, I couldn’t say no. No smart businesswoman would. Dad was a complete anti; Mum rather melodramatic (given her addiction to Indian soap operas). Let’s not forget how every aunty, cousin, cousin’s mother, brother and sister was ever ready to voice their opinions on my life choices. I think, as in every Indian home, my parents had the inherent desire to lock me up in their cage, let me fly to UKZN, where I would study medicine like the vast majority of the Indian minority, and then happily marry some rich man’s son and have three cute little children.
I am sorry I never quite bought the ‘All-Indian Dream’. So I packed my bags and off I went with heartfelt goodbyes, leaving a world of comfort and unappreciated favours.
There are a few things that I learnt from what my mother failed to mention, like washing powder being necessary to drive a washing machine. Or that two litres of milk curdles within five days when one lives alone. Or that one cloth is insufficient for its multiple uses, like drying dishes, cleaning stains, and ─ my personal favourite ─ wiping floors. Oh, no, my mother never did quite equip me with the intricacies of making a house a home. Nor did she equip me with the recipes to satisfy my selective and somewhat lavish palate.
They say in New York you can survive on take-out for months. It’s the truth. I survived a wholesome forty-one days, all delivered straight to my hips, free of charge. But eventually you do grow tired of your polystyrene crockery and you miss home food. Naturally, I phoned my mum to ensure my attempts tasted exquisite, like her own. I sat at my kitchen counter, a copy of Indian Delights, a pen and paper at the ready.
‘You put some cumin seeds and coriander in some oil and then add your onions and then add chilli powder with some salt.’ Mummy said.
I was utterly lost.
What on earth is ‘some’? (Is ‘some’: a handful, a teaspoon, a tablespoon, a pinch, a whole packet?)
‘Just feel it, you’ll know exactly how much to put in!’ said my mother, exasperatedly.
So I felt it, and as Nike said, I just did it. Suffice to say, I survived on take-out for forty-two days instead.
In all honesty, I don’t blame my mummy for my lack of culinary skills. I do, however, blame her for having spoilt me the way she did. She never let on how difficult it was. Amid all the things my mother failed to mention, she cleverly hid her exhaustion and frustration behind a beautiful smile. What my mother didn’t mention was her hard work and what I never mentioned my gratitude.

4. What my schooling was 

            by Claire Anderson, Cedar House School (English Alive, 2015)

My schooling was crying every morning when my dad dropped me off
My schooling was standing with my nose against the wall, stony-faced
And singing hymns and getting lice, foursquare, pinafores and chair-bags
My schooling was dyed hair and learning cursive, and listening to stories on
the mat
It was netball courts, netball skirts and regulation earrings
My schooling was folded notes, dichotomous keys, line monitors and
tuckshop duties
Linoleum corridors and metal lockers, snakes and ladder stockings
My schooling was train rides, walks to Putneys, cross legs and converse
hi-tops
My schooling was maps and beakers and special guest speakers, homework
diaries and projectors
During my schooling, I have learned that slicing thumbholes in your jersey
Accounts access to instant status
And spelling ‘license’ will always be puzzling to me
That the mitochondrion is the powerhouse of the cell
And how lucky I’ve been to be surrounded by people
Who care enough to ask how I’m doing
My education was conversation, Power Point and animations
It was late night and sleepy break-times on the grass
My education was the adults who grew me, the exam results that threw me,
and the spaces given to me to speak my mind
My blessings are incalculable and I am grateful head to toe
Thanks to these twelve years of school, I’ll be ready when I go

5. First Love

            by John Clare, 1793 – 1864

I ne’er was struck before that hour
With love so sudden and sweet,
Her face it bloomed like a sweet flower
And stole my heart away complete.
My face turned pale as deadly pale,
My legs refused to walk away,
And when she looked, what could I say?
My life and all seemed turned to clay.

And then my blood rushed to my face
And took my eyesight quite away,
The trees and bushes round the place
Seemed midnight at noonday.

I could not see a single thing,
Words from my eyes did start –
They spoke as chords do from string,
And blood burnt round my heart.

Are flowers the winter’s choice?
Is love’s bed always snow?
She seemed to hear my silent voice,
Not love’s appeal to know.
I never saw so sweet a face
As the one I stood before,
My heart has left its dwelling-place
And can return no more.

6. Curriculum Vitae

            by Lisel Mueller, 1924 – 2020

1. I was born in a free city, near the North Sea.
2. In the year of my birth, …
3. …

7. John Steinbeck’s letter to his son

New York
November 10, 1958

Dear Thom

We had your letter this morning. I will answer it from my point of view and of
course Elaine will from hers.

First ─ if you are in love ─ …

8. Rite of Passage

            by Jon Flach

I taught my son to shave today
Whiskers only he can see
The reflection in the mirror was
A yesteryear one of me
So serious and timidly
Careful with every move
He rinsed away the remaining suds
And again his face was smooth
I taught my son to shave today
With a solidly steady hand
He walked in my bathroom a little boy
And walked out as a proud man

9. The Seven Ages of Man
     (from As you Like it, Act II, Sc viii)

        by William Shakespeare, 1564 – 1616

All the world’s a stage,
And all men and women merely players;
They have their exits and their entrances;
And one man in his time plays many parts,
He acts being seven ages.
At first the infant,
Mewling and puking in the nurse’s arms;
And then whining school-boy, with his satchel
And shining morning face, creeping like a snail
Unwillingly to school. And then the lover,
Sighing like furnace, with a woeful ballad
Made to his mistress’ eyebrow. Then a soldier,
Full of strange oaths, and bearded like the pard,
Jealous in honour, sudden and quick in quarrel,
Seeking the bubble reputation
Even in the cannon’s mouth. And then the justice,
In fair round belly with good capon lin’d,
With eyes severe and beard of formal cut,
Full of wise saws and modern instances;
And so he plays his part. The sixth ages shifts
Into the lean and slipper’d pantaloon,
With spectacles on nose and pouch on side;
His youthful hose, well sav’d, a world too wide
For his shrunk shrank; and his big manly voice,
Turning again toward childish treble, pipes
And whistles in his sound. Last scene of all,
That ends this strange eventful history,
Is second childishness and mere oblivion;
Sans teeth, sans eyes, sans taste, sans everything.

10. At Least We Had Fun

            by Andrew Renard

40 years later I sat in the old school hall again.
And as I waited for The Crucible to begin
I thought of my experiences on that stage

A couple edged their way down the row
And then you sat next to me
a pause as we looked at each other

Recognition came to you first
Andrew? … Michelle?
Recognition that hurled us back in time

For, 40 years before, we had trod those boards together
In the delight and innocence of our teenage years
That came flooding back to us

As we waited for the tragedy of The Crucible to begin
We fell into those carefree days
When life was simpler and we were both so naïve

The day you walked home slowly from school
Because you knew I was behind you
But I was too shy to catch up

Debating society: is it better to get dressed before or after breakfast?
I made my final point by pulling my sister’s nightie out of my pocket
And you were laughing so much you couldn’t reply

The first play we did together
I deliberately got the words wrong in rehearsal once
And we couldn’t look each other in the eye after that

You had to pour a pot of water over me in the middle of that play
So on the final night you filled it nearly to the brim
Topped it with ice blocks and drenched me

Our attempt at staging The Importance of being Earnest
It never got beyond social gatherings
and finding safe places around the school to smoke

Between the acts of The Crucible
Where John Proctor and Abigail Williams lied and dissembled
We forgot their tragedy in the innocent truth of our school days
Our last play together was supposed to be a tragedy
With all the angst of lost love and teenage suicide
Yet somehow we were incapable of taking it seriously

Despite the dramatic music as the curtains opened
The gravestones and the giant hangman’s noose that circled the stage
The purest memory is still the after party.

The Crucible wound its way to its terrible but inevitable chaos
As the curtain fell I said, “Compared to them we were unbelievably bad.”
And you just said “but at least we had fun.”

Last night I dug out my old school photo album
And I found us, just as you said I would, after that last play
Smiling stupidly in front of a hangman’s noose, draped over gravestones

40 years later we met again at a brilliantly staged tragedy
But the hangman’s noose of teenage years never killed us
We were never brilliant, but dammit we had fun –
and those gravestones can wait

11. More than their words

            by Amoré Laubscher

They learned my name before they learned my heart,
Turned into laughter sharpened like a dart.
Hallways felt longer, the air felt tight,
Every step heavy; every day a fight.
Words followed me like swords at noon,
Whispers echoed far too soon.
I smiled to survive; learned silence well,
I built a wall where my softest feelings fell.
But even cracked glass still holds the light,
And stars are born in endless nights.
I am more than the names they threw,
More than the lies they swore were true.
One day I stood still shaking inside,
I am stronger than fear; stronger than snide.
I am not broken – I am becoming whole,
A quiet victory for a fearless soul.

12. Walking Away

            by Cecil Day Lewis

It is eighteen years ago, almost to the day ─
A sunny day with leaves just turning,
The touch-lines new-ruled ─ since I watched you play …

13. Fern Hill

            by Dylan Thomas

Now as I was young and easy under the apple boughs
About the lilting house and happy as the grass was green,
The night above the dingle starry,
Time let me hail and climb
Golden in the heydays of his eyes,
And honoured among wagons I was prince of the apple towns
And once below a time I lordy had the trees and leaves
Trail with daisies and barley
Down the rivers of the windfall light.

And I was green and carefree, famous among the barns
About the happy yard and singing as the farm was home,
In the sun that is young once only,
Time let me play and be
Golden in the mercy of his means,
And green and golden I was huntsman and herdsman, the calves
Sang to my horn, the foxes on the hill barked clear and cold,
And the sabbath rang slowly
In the pebbles of the holy streams.

All the sun long it was running, it was lovely, the hay
Fields high as the house, the tunes from the chimneys, it was air
And playing, lovely and watery
And fire green as grass.
And nightly under the simple stars
As I rode to sleep the owls were bearing the farm away,
All the moon long I heard, blessed among the stables, the nightjars
Flying with the ricks, and the horses
Flashing into the dark.

Then to awake, and the farm, like a wanderer white
With dew, comeback, the cock on his shoulder: it was all
Shining, it was Adam and his maiden,
The sky gathered again
And the sun grew round that very day.
So it must have been after the birth of the simple light
In the first, spinning place, the spellbound horses walking warm
Out of the whinnying green stable
On to the fields of praise.

And honoured among the foxes and pheasants by the gay house
Under the new made clouds and happy as the heart was long,
In the sun born over and over,
I ran my heedless ways,
My wishes raced through the house high hay
And nothing I cared, at my sky blue trades, that time allows
In all his tuneful turning so few and such morning songs
Before the children green and golden
Follow him out of grace,

Nothing I cared, in the lamb white days, that time would take me
Up to the swallow thronged loft by the shadow of my hand,
In the moon that is always rising,
Nor that riding to sleep
I should hear him fly with the high fields
And wake to the farm forever fled from the childless land.
Oh as I was young and easy in the mercy of his means,
Time held me green and dying
Though I sang in my chains like the sea.

14. Relevant Quotes

It takes courage to grow up and become who you really are. —  E.E. Cummings

It takes both sun and rain for a flower to grow. — Proverbial Buddhist Wisdom

There are things known and there are things unknown, and in between them are the doors of perception. —  Aldous Huxley

One can choose to go back toward safety or forward toward growth. Growth must be chosen again and again. —  Abraham Maslow

Stay afraid, but do it anyway. What’s important is the action. You don’t have to wait to be confident. Just do it and eventually the confidence will follow. —  Carrie Fisher

Wasn’t it beautiful when you believed in everything? —  Anon

It is true that those we meet can change us, sometimes so profoundly that we are not the same afterwards, even unto our names. —  Pi Patel, The Life of Pi

When I was a child, I spoke and thought like a child, but when I grew up, I put away childish things.  —  1 Corinthians 13:11

Though no one can go back and make a brand new start, anyone can start from now and make a brand new ending.  —   Carl Bard

After climbing a great hill, one finds that there are many more hills to climb.
—  Nelson Mandela