Is This a Willow Tree?

[Jackie]

I used to teach in a boys’ secondary school in West Africa where a student named Oliver was forever falling asleep in class. Although the students assured me he did this throughout the school day, it seemed to pass judgment on my teaching. One of my professional goals became Keeping Oliver Awake.
One day toward the end of the marking period I wanted to test descriptive writing skills. There was a pile of broken furniture in a front corner of the classroom. I perched the worst of the chairs on an empty desk in the middle of the room for them to describe. Everyone groaned. I turned it upside down and round and round so they all could get a good view of it. Soon they had all buckled down. I moved around the room to keep everyone, Oliver included, on task. That night I had great fun reading those essays, but when I got to Oliver’s book I glanced at the last entry, frowned, and started thumbing on. Finally I came back to that last page. That was it. He’d written about a tennis match.
There were reasons explaining why Oliver was disconnected, another teacher and I told each other. He came from a mountain village that he walked to and from every day. He must get up very early and certainly did his share of the work in the house before leaving for school. He must be exhausted by the time he arrives. We wondered what sort of breakfast he ate.
Even today, some dozen years since we’ve both left the school, Oliver struggles to stay connected. He has a stammering, candid way of speaking which at times is endearing and funny, but at other times, impolite instead. Some days when he comes to our gate he is driven away almost before he's begun to speak. Other days, like early on Easter morning this year when he surprised me with fresh vegetables from his village, the gateman allows him in.
“I brought these for you,” he says.
He stands there. Then he tells me he sells charcoal, too. I don’t need any. He seems to want to hang around. We move on down to the palaver house and perch on the low wall, on both sides of a potted milk bush. We sit quietly.
“I’ll be in this area tomorrow,” he says. “I have to come to see my aunt up the road.” I tell him that would be nice, but we’ll have to make it another day because we won’t be home tomorrow.
“Is this . . . no, it can't be." He pauses. "Is this a willow tree?” He is pointing to the milk bush, whose stiff branchlets brush the ceiling of our palaver house.
“This isn’t a willow tree! They don’t grow here, do they?” He laughs at his mistake. I remember now that whenever his classmates used to rib him, he’d have a kind of apologetic, self-deprecating smile ready--just like this one.
But I look dumbly at him. Isn’t “willow” too precise a word to be a mistake? And what a mistake! The willow tree? That swaying tree that caresses the wind? Any attempt to bend the milk bush releases toxic milky sap from a branchlet. Since the day I left some on my arm and it burned into my skin, I give it wide margin.
“This is really tall," he goes on. "Ours at home is shorter, and rounder.” I tell him I trained ours to grow tall so it would take up less space. What are we talking about, I wonder to myself?
“I always thought I’d get to see a willow tree. They must be nice. Ever since you told us about willow trees I’ve wanted to see one.”
I stare at him.
“You know, the one in your yard you used to escape to when you were small. You would part the branches and go inside, and close them again and no one knew you were there. I always wished I had a place like that to hide.”
How can he know this about me?
“Don't you remember Twelfth Night?”
My mouth drops open. When I don’t answer him he says lamely, “Well, I always thought I’d get to see a willow tree.”
But I have remembered. That year I’d had the whole class memorize that speech—-the one where Viola, trying to win Lady Olivia for Duke Orsino, inadvertently captures Olivia’s heart for herself.

Make me a willow cabin at your gate,
And call upon my soul within the house;
Write loyal cantons of contemned love
And sing them loud even in the dead of night. . . (Act I, Sc. 5)

What’s a willow, the boys had asked, and I sat on the desk and told them about mine. I talked till I became homesick, summoning up that special place and the branches of countless other willows that reached down from river banks and fingered the streams we used to canoe on when I was in school--but of course my class wouldn’t have known that. I was, after all, just carrying out my lesson goals.
I was also, it seems, keeping Oliver awake. What breeze had swept the tree his way that day? What captured his heart and kept it precious ‘til today?

[Macavity]

hi Jackie,
A readable narrative/theme, but needs some colouring in. Perhaps some descriptive details of what the characters look like; age group; country rather than region...

He came from a mountain village...

Which mountains?

There was a pile of broken furniture in a front corner of the classroom.

Why was it there?

We wondered what sort of breakfast he ate.

Yes, I did too.

cheers

mac

[Jackie]

Points well taken, Mac. Thanks for your insight.

Jackie

[Antcliff]

Hi Jackie,
I enjoyed this tale...reminded me of some similar things. Not sure I have any suggestions of value,though I did wonder what role this passage was really playing in the tale.

"One day toward the end of the marking period I wanted to test descriptive writing skills. There was a pile of broken furniture in a front corner of the classroom. I perched the worst of the chairs on an empty desk in the middle of the room for them to describe. Everyone groaned. I turned it upside down and round and round so they all could get a good view of it. Soon they had all buckled down. I moved around the room to keep everyone, Oliver included, on task. That night I had great fun reading those essays, but when I got to Oliver’s book I glanced at the last entry, frowned, and started thumbing on. Finally I came back to that last page. That was it. He’d written about a tennis match."

Best wishes,
Seth

[Moth]

Interesting comments, and tbh I couldn't disagree more with most of what's been said. The passage quoted above is absolutely central to the story. What isn't essential is the paragraph which follows and therefore, rather than 'colouring' the piece in any more, I'd be tempted to trim it down both there and in a couple of places further on in order to place focus on the central message. After all, this is a short piece, not an extended, layered narrative. Possible reasons as to why Oliver was the way he was aren't relevant - firstly the reader can draw their own conclusions and secondly this is never fully explained which makes the passage redundant. Similarly, the name of the mountain village or why the broken chairs were in the classroom shouldn't matter either. The point is the pupil couldn't concentrate; the teacher, whilst doing her best, had basically written him off as a lost cause. She later realises this wasn't the case - and this was down to her teaching, or rather the boy's ability to relate to her, the message being that sometimes you have a greater affect on a person than you might think and for reasons you might never have imagined.

Also, for all I enjoyed the piece, one thing which did bother me was the inconsistent use of tense. I felt the narrative would flow more naturally if past tense was used throughout (with a couple of small exceptions).

--but of course my class wouldn’t have known that. I was, after all, just carrying out my lesson goals.

This could also be cut completely. Instead, consider starting the final paragraph with 'I was simply carrying out my lesson goals, but it seems I was also keeping Oliver awake... ' I'd also cut the final two words, ending the sentence on 'precious'.

Hope this has been of some help.

[Jackie]

Very helpful, Moth, thank you. Gives me a platform to move from.

[Jackie]

Seth, thank you. I think I need to connect the passage more clearly to the rest of the narrative.