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http://www.nepalitimes.com.np/2009/08/21/268
Father James J. Donnelly wanted his students to not only learn
English; he wanted them to learn correct English. In his office, he
kept an abundant supply of comic books for students to read during
their free time. When a student asked if he could see the comic books,
Fr. Donnelly corrected him, "Do you want to 'see' where the comic books
are, or do you want to read them? You don't 'see' comic books. You
'read' them or you 'look at' them!" I didn't fully grasp the difference
between the verbs as a sixth-standard student at the time, but I
certainly learned to ask to "look at" comic books if I wanted to find
out how Superman overcame villains in colorful costumes. I think comic
books were one of many ways in which Fr. Donnelly tried to teach
English to his students.
When I was in sixth standard at St.
Xavier's Godavari School, Fr. Donnelly was our principal and also
English teacher. On most weekdays, English class was in the morning. We
read passages from stories, which Fr. Donnelly meticulously combed for
words we might not understand. Each student was to keep his Oxford
English Dictionary handy. In fact, the dictionary was to be used so
frequently that Fr. Donnelly had the school cobbler bind each student's
copy in hard leather to protect it from clumsy twelve-year old hands.
"Okay, everybody, look up the word in your dictionary and tell me what
it means," Fr. Donnelly would challenge the class. When there were
multiple meanings of a word, he asked which one was applicable to the
passage under review. Most of the time, we were clueless, having
encountered the word for the first time, and on days when chicken was
served at lunch, wondering how long it would be till lunch time. So,
most of the time, the answer was an unadulterated guess: A coin toss
with low odds. If the answer ended up correct, Fr. Donnelly would beam,
"Yes! That's correct!" with an emphatic swing of his arm, fist clenched
and head nodding to the side "a proclamation of victory" followed by
an explanation of the word in great detail. Conversely, if the answer
was wrong, Fr. Donnelly was prone to a sudden transformation "into a
raging bull, crimson in color, nostrils flaring" and his voice would
carry across the classroom like a volcanic eruption. And the hapless
student with the incorrect answer would inevitably be proclaimed "a
Jackass!"
Godavari school consisted of first through sixth
standards. After completing sixth standard, we were automatically
transferred to the day school at Jawalakhel, where we joined the
Jawalakhel students in completing the remaining four years of school
leading up to the government mandated School Leaving Certificate
examinations. Fr. Donnelly kept a keen eye on his students after they
were packed off to Jawalakhel. I think he was disappointed when
Godavari students did not outflank their Jawalakhel counterparts in
their studies. For him, the successes or failures of his students were
his own successes and failures.
After completing school at
Jawalakhel, along with several other classmates, I returned to Godavari
to teach mathematics for a year. It was customary for a handful of "old
boys" to return as teachers to Godavari every year. When we arrived,
Fr. Donnelly addressed us as "sir," the title reserved for teachers. In
our mid-teens, and having been pronounced Jackasses merely four years
earlier by the same Fr. Donnelly, this caught us off guard. But, I
wonder whether my newly minted fellow teachers found themselves a
little taller the next time they caught their reflection in the mirror.
I certainly did.
Fr. Donnelly was famous for his memory. Once,
about three years into college in the United States, I returned to
Nepal over the summer holidays and visited him. By then, he had stepped
down from his principal role at Godavari and had moved to Jawalakhel. I
met him in his small, windowless study.
"Hello, Abhaya!" his
voice boomed, "Now let's see? Godavari class of '86. And your brother
Ajaya was three years junior to you." Fr. Donnelly scratched his chin
and then went on to tell me my father's and mother's names and their
respective professions. As he spoke, I noticed that in just a few
years, he had aged. His generous figure had shrunk and his eyes peered
out from deep within his face, covered by slightly bewildering bi-focal
eyeglasses. But, his memory was intact. "Yes, Father," I acknowledged,
in turn, all the facts he pulled out of his memory bank. It would not
have surprised me if he had remembered the name of my fifth cousin.
Fr.
Donnelly asked me about my college experience in the United States. I
mentioned that I was working as a teaching assistant at the college.
The earnings helped with my pocket expenses and a college job was a
requirement of my scholarship. The competition to obtain teaching
assistant positions was modest. But to Fr. Donnelly, even the small
success of his student meant the world. "Does that mean you are
teaching Americans? Wow!" his pride filled the entire room. That was
Fr. Donnelly. He found his greatest reward in the successes, small or
big, of his students.
In later years, whenever I visited him,
Fr. Donnelly remembered my name and the small details of my years at
Godavari. And, as most of his students must have felt, every time I saw
him, I felt a pang of pleasure to be recognized and remembered by my
teacher.
I heard yesterday that Fr. Donnelly had passed away. I
also heard that he had wanted to die in the country he loved and served: Nepal.
I am lucky to have been one of his students. I
remember that "horizontal" is flat, since, as Fr. Donnelly pointed out
in sixth standard, the word contains "horizon." I remember that a
school "principal" is spelled with a "pal" and, according to Fr.
Donnelly, that's who a principal is. But to me, and I am sure to many
others, he was more than a pal. He was a teacher and a guide, and his
work for his students, performed with infinite dedication and love,
will remain his enduring legacy.
Abhaya Shrestha