CHAPTER 1
IN THE BEGINNING
It was around 3:30pm on Thursday, August 06,1931. I had been playing with several of my playmates, atthe corner of Richelieu and Lacasse streets (in Montreal'sSaint Henri district), roughly half a block from my home.Suddenly, one of my friends called out to me, telling methat my dad was being taken to the hospital. I ran towardsmy home, but only got there in time to see the ambulanceturn the corner at St. Antoine Street, enroute to the RoyalVictoria hospital.
Around 10am the next day, Mother received thenews that Dad had succumbed to his illness during thenight. Mother was barely in her thirties, and was now awidow, with several small children to take care of.Understandably, she was devastated by the sudden death ofher husband, and it was to affect all of us adverselythroughout our lives, in many ways. However, inretrospect, Dad's death should not have come as a surprise,in that, at that time, he had been essentially bedridden(while under the doctor's care) for something like eighteenmonths. Nevertheless, his passing heralded for me (thefourth of six children), the start of a long and at timesdifficult journey, to a reasonably successful adulthood.
Although I had had a dad for only a little over fouryears of my life, I believe that a lot of him rubbed off onme. For one thing, Dad was widely respected in the Black-Caribbeancommunity as a scholar, having emigrated fromBritish Guyana (early in the 1900s) to study Medicine. Heattended medical school at both Howard and McGilluniversities, prior to marrying Mother.
Some of his friends even referred to him as 'Doc' Massiah,although regrettably, he never graduated from eithermedical school. I never found out why. Yet, despite hishigher-than-normal education, he spent his all to briefworking life as a sleeping-car porter for the CanadianPacific Railway (CPR). But this perceived failure (on hispart) instilled in me at an early age, the commitment, that atleast one of his children would obtain a doctorate, althoughnot necessarily in Medicine. And because I seemed to havebeen blessed with an insatiable curiosity about how andwhy things work, together with the facility to learn things, Istarted my arduous academic journey towards a doctorate,in the post stock-market crash, depression-years of the1930s. An early picture of Mother and Dad is shown below.
CHAPTER 2
SCHOOL DAYS-DEAR OLD GOLDEN RULEDAYS
By the age of three, I could read. So the transitionfrom home to elementary school was uneventful. Theschool was Lewis Evans — a one-story, rectangular eight – roombuilding, situated at 4275 Richelieu Street, just southof the CPR railway tracks, that walled off Montreal's St.Henri district, from lower Westmount to the north. It waspresided over by a dapper, but sadistic principal (Mr.Snodgrass), who also taught grade seven.
From the day I entered Lewis Evans School, until Itransferred to Royal Arthur school (at the end of grade six),I was at the top of the class. Learning came easily to me. Itook great pride in receiving gold stars on my report,denoting excellence, and the honour cards given to theleading students at the end of the school year. But myotherwise carefree days at Lewis Evans were affectedadversely by my fear of the principal. He seemed to relishinstilling fear in the students through his unbridled use ofthe strap — a practice that I found to be abhorrent,especially since it was being used on pre- pubescentyoungsters. Therefore, I rejoiced when this medieval formof torture was finally abolished in all schools.
Ironically, it seemed like poetic justice, that sometime after being transferred to another more affluentschool, Mr. Snodgrass was convicted of sexual malfeasance,involving some of his students. I do not recall what hispunishment was, nor do I remember even being concernedabout it.
There is something that occurred in grade 6, whichmerits mentioning. I think of it, even today, as an act ofextraordinary kindness.
A number of black youngsters were chosen eachyear, by Mr. Dudley Sykes (the Executive Director of TheNegro Community Centre), to attend the Rotary Club'sChristmas Dinner, at Montreal's Windsor Hotel.Fortunately, that year, my younger brother Michael and Iwere chosen to attend. At the dinner, each boy was placedalternately beside a Rotarian. The man who sat betweenMichael and me, was a Mr. John Mills. He told us that hewas the President of the Westmount Rotary Club. Duringthe dinner, he asked us what we would like Santa to bringus for Christmas. I blurted out — a Meccano set — havingin mind something in say a 12 x 12 box, selling for nomore than $5.00 — a princely sum in those days! Ofcourse, by then, I no longer believed in Santa Claus, nor didI have any expectation of actually getting a Meccano setfrom Mr. Mills, or any one else, for that matter. Still, I wentalong with what I thought was a ploy on his part — bygiving him our names and address. At the end of thedinner, we thanked him for his kindness, and left, neverexpecting to hear from him.
On Christmas Eve, we were busy setting up ourChristmas tree in a wooden box, filled with lumps of coal.Around 8:00pm, the doorbell rang. When we opened thedoor, a man asked if Michael and George Massiah livedthere. It was Mr. Mills! He said that Santa had left apackage for us at his home, and had asked him to deliver itto us. Then he brought in a huge flat box that had to be 3ft.long x 2ft wide.
It contained the largest Meccano set that I had everseen! There were hundreds of parts, a large instructionbook, and two wind-up motors. What a gigantic number ofobjects we could build! A Meccano set like that must havecost at least $100 — an unimaginable sum to me, back in1937. We couldn't believe our good fortune. No one hadever given us a gift that could rival what we had been givenby Mr. Mills. As I said earlier, it was an act of extraordinarykindness and generosity.
Michael and I enjoyed our Meccano set for manyyears. When we felt that we had outgrown it, we donated itto the Salvation Army. We hoped that some otheryoungster might derive as much pleasure as we had — fromMr. Mills' gift to us.
Now let us return to my public school days, at theend of grade 6. Reluctantly, I had to transfer to RoyalArthur School, in grade 7, as our family had moved intotheir district.
My teacher there was a Miss Feilde. She had upperclasspretensions, based on the fact that her father was amedical doctor, and that she lived on Sherbrooke Street(near to Guy St.), some distance north of the school. RoyalArthur school was situated below both the CPR and theCNR railway tracks. So Miss Feilde never disguised herdismay at having to teach there.
I adapted readily to the new school, but found thatdespite my best efforts, I could never achieve a placementof being higher than second in the class. There was aFinnish girl named Sirrkka, who always managed to beatme (albeit barely) mark-wise. But more serious than thiswas my disappointment in not winning the boy'sscholarship, later that year.
In the penultimate report, I obtained an average of95%, whereas, my nearest rival — a chap named FreddieGrevatt obtained an average of something like 83%. Yet onthe day when the final results were revealed, Freddie wasgiven the boy's scholarship (with an average of 88.1%),while my average was 87.5%.
To this day, I wonder if factors other than meritwere operative in Miss Feilde's marking. You see, Freddiewas white and I am black. Regrettably, it would not be theonly time throughout my life that I would ask this question.
As an aside, Sirrkka won the scholarship for girls,and Freddie was awarded the boy's scholarship. So far as Iknow, neither of them finished High School.
CHAPTER 3
THE INVISIBLE YEARS
By the time I reached High School (in the Fall of1939), three of my siblings were also in High School. Myolder brother James (or Johnny as we called him) was on a4-year Athlone scholarship at the Montreal TechnicalSchool, thanks to the efforts of Mother, who succeeded inobtaining it for him. My two elder sisters (Helen andMargaret) were enrolled in the Commercial course atStrathearn High School.
Except for Johnny, none of us had the wherewithalto attend our respective schools, since fees were mandatoryin those days. So my ploy was to attempt to be asinconspicuous as possible in class, hoping that the teacherdid not notice me when payment of fees was brought up.My sisters probably adopted similar coping strategies.
Eventually, towards the end of September, we wereeach awarded a bursary from the school board, and ourstudies could continue.
I enrolled at The High School of Montreal(popularly called Montreal High). There were only twochoices insofar as to a curriculum — Latin or Science. Iknew nothing about Latin, except that it was an archaiclanguage, sometimes used in medical prescriptions, and inLaw. Since I did not plan to enter either of theseprofessions, I opted to study science. But which science?
In our first year at Montreal High, we wereintroduced to the study of Biology. Our teacher was a Dr.Lead, a newly minted Ph.D. in biology. Over the four yearsof High School, I received a first class exposure to biology.
We went on field trips, where we collected andmounted many different species of plants and animals.However, despite the excellence of the exposure that Ireceived, in those days, I could not see how one couldmake a living as a biologist. Of course, today it would be adifferent matter, thanks to the current interest in molecularbiology. So I looked for other choices in the field ofscience.
In my second year at Montreal High, I wasintroduced to something called General Science.Essentially, this was a means of introducing us to the metricsystem, some elementary concepts in physics and also tomensuration. Chemistry and Physics were introduced in mythird year, and was continued in my fourth and final year ofHigh School. With three sciences to choose from, how didI come to choose Chemistry, as the career path that Iwould follow?
The choice was almost accidental. Each of ourlaboratory-based science courses required that the studentpay something called 'caution money' as insurance againstbreakage of laboratory equipment. I didn't have 'cautionmoney' (or any other kind of money) for any of thecourses. Dr. Guest, the chemistry teacher 'forgave' mychemistry course 'caution money'. I felt indebted to himbecause of this, and thereafter took a special interest indoing well in the chemistry courses that he taught. Later, atuniversity, I discovered Organic Chemistry, which becamemy professional life's primary pursuit. But I am getting alittle ahead of myself.
There were several teachers at Montreal High, aswell as events there that had a lasting influence on my life.
Aside from Drs. Lead and Guest, Messers. McGarry,Reeves and McBain all were important influences in mydevelopment — each in a different way.
Mr. McGarry taught French in grade 10. He was avery competent teacher, having been the recipient of aprize that enabled him to study in France. But this is notwhat constituted how he influenced me most. It was howhe explained Shakespeare's peerless stature as a dramatist,to me. I had asked Mr. McGarry why Shakespeare was heldin such high esteem, since I could not find anythingappealing in any of his plays (such as A Midsummer Nights'Dream, and The Merchant of Venice for example) that Ihad read up till then. His explanation went something likethis. He said,....
"If I were to ask you to draw a man, you wouldprobably draw me a stick-figure representation, and label it'Man'. But if I asked Rembrandt to draw a man, he woulddraw a figure with depth, passion and sensitivity.
Well that is the difference between Shakespeare andother dramatists."
From that time on, I have been able to read andreally enjoy Shakespeare, thanks to the perspective givenme by Mr. McGarry.
Mr. Reeves was my homeroom teacher in bothgrades 10 and 11. It was he who instilled in me the love ofmathematics that I have retained to this day.
Then there was Mr. McBain. He was a rathereccentric English teacher, whom the students called'Cuckoo McBain'. He was also rabidly anti-Semitic, despitehis constant disclaimer ----
"Boys ... On the staff they say that I'm anti-Semitic.No; no such thing! I just don't like the people!"
Despite his obvious prejudice, he was also anexcellent teacher of English, and especially of Englishcomposition. Whatever skills I have as a writer, startedunder his tutelage. Every day, he would announce in classthat our assignment was to write a composition, and hewould hand out over-size sheets of foolscap paper. Thenhe would destroy our completed essays by awarding markssuch as minus 20, (out of a 100). It was infuriating, but itworked in the long run. He confessed to me using this ployas a stimulant, during my High School graduationceremony.
Montreal High was a strictly non co-educationalschool. The student body numbered 1200 boys, and wascomprised of representatives of every nationality inEurope, together with a few Chinese students. There werebut six black students in this very diverse student body.This made for no end of problems for us, in that in thosedays, we were invariably subjected to being calleddemeaning names such as 'rastus, coon, lightning andsnowball'. Our usual response to the verbal assaults, was torespond with our fists.
One of the Black students who attended MontrealHigh when I did was Oscar Peterson, who was to becomethe legendary jazz pianist. Although he is one year olderthan I am, he entered Montreal High (in 1940), one yearafter me.
This was due to his having been ill for a protractedperiod. Initially, Oscar was loath to retaliate to the verbalabuse by some of the white students, demurring that hewas a pianist, and therefore could not be involved infisticuffs. However, later that year he changed, and becameproficient at using his fists to redress the name–calling andother racial barbs, as did the other black students.
Contemporaneously, Maynard Ferguson (who laterachieved fame as a jazz trumpet and French Horn player)and his brother Percy (in whose band Oscar made hisprofessional debut), were attendees at Montreal High. SoJazz was definitely a hallmark of my high school days.
The strap ----that abhorrent relic of my public schooldays---- achieved vaunted status at Montreal High. It wasused so extensively, that the teachers almost had to make areservation to access it. One teacher announced to his class(on the first day of school) that he planned to strap everystudent at least twice during the school year. I understandthat he did so one and one-half times!
I was strapped unjustifiably (in grade 8) for the oneand only time in my life. Then I was informed by one ofmy classmates (probably erroneously) that my having beenstrapped, disqualified me from being eligible to write thescholarship exams. So with nothing more to lose, I becamedecidedly rebellious at school. I vowed that the next time Iwas strapped, I would deserve it. That never happened.
In fact, what surprised me was that, despite thevicissitudes that I experienced during my High School years(coupled with my at times non-compliant behavior there) Iwas able to graduate at age 16, coincident with the 100thanniversary of Montreal High.
One factor that helped restore my focus towardschool — aside from Mother's unflinching discipline athome — was my entry into our school's Air Cadet Corps.Participation in the corps was mandatory, back in 1942. Ienrolled in the NCOs course, and obtained the rank ofSergeant. The following year, I was promoted to Flight-Sergeant,becoming the first black student in Montreal toachieve this rank. Our squadron (#242) was the largest inMontreal, and consisted of 12 flights. Each flight wascommanded by a Flight-Sergeant.
A special parade (involving the best marchers in thesquadron) was planned as part of our school's 100thanniversary observances. Roughly one-quarter of the entirecadet corps made the cut to participate in the parade.Those chosen were minimally corporals, and each had toexcel at marching. Then, which Flight Sergeant would leadthe parade, had to be decided. I competed for the honour,and wound up tied with Mickey Stein, another FlightSergeant. We resolved the impasse by deciding that I wouldlead the processional phase and Mickey would lead therecessional phase of the parade, which included a rifle-totingarmed guard. Thus it was with pride that I shoutedout the commands.... "Parade! ... Atten Cha!; Move to theright in column of route, Right Ta!; By the left, QuickMarch!", to start the parade into our school's gymnasium,marching to the beat of the drum and bugle band.
