Dear Editor,

  When Monsieur Ligarius grew frustrated by what he most likely perceived as our lack of effort, of application, or by our poor performance, he would try to motivate us by scolding and lecturing us. He would call us barbarians, savages; with no regard for the beauty and importance of instruction in general, and of the French language and culture in particular. He would reproach us our so-called (material) privileges as compared with students in some of the poorer communes in his native Guadeloupe. He would explain how students, there, were eager to learn, despite their lack of classrooms, of materials and teachers.

  Those impromptus, those lectures still resonate in my head. Oddly enough, that is when I felt him the most caring. He would have been a superb lawyer, statesman, university lecturer, or a scientist (like his son Philippe: Ph.D. in Applied Sciences, Rouen, 1995; reportedly, a genius in Math; once a teacher at one of the most prestigious “lycées” in France; now, if my information is correct, an inspector.)

  Some of us savages would set about provoking the lectures, those admonitions we so enjoyed as they would also take him away from the planned routine instruction. Some others resented his whippings, his reprimands, and the referring to us as savages.

  But we were no easy lot, and he was, most likely, merely trying to motivate us, as best he knew how – there was no malice intended. To tell the truth, most of us were, indeed, barbarians, savages of sorts. In those days, that is how most St. Martiners were regarded by French education officials in Guadeloupe and beyond. Back in those good old days, “barbarians,” or “savages” were folks who didn’t speak the Greek of that era (the 50s and early 60s): the French language. And so, why feel aggrieved? Why be bitter? Why be resentful towards our teacher?

  The fact that some 10 to 15 years later, he had acquired sufficient competency to teach English, that he taught English in Saint Martin, and later in Guadeloupe is ample proof that he had nothing against the language itself, or against St. Martiners, for that matter.

  During those early years of his teaching career on the island, he may have simply misread the attitudes of most of us towards the French language, and the difficulties we faced. Monsieur Ligarius mastered the French language; he was a superb teacher. One got the impression that he loved the profession, that he loved teaching his savages, despite the challenges we placed on him. Maybe, in part, that is why he stayed so long among us.

  I couldn’t find any reference to him online apart from the info on his son, but my search was not exhaustive. When I left home for the first time, in 1963, he was still a young man (in his early to mid 30s), and a school principal for a number of years already. I am told that he returned to Guadeloupe in the mid 70s, that he finished his career teaching at the secondary level, and died there, in the 1990s.

  I have it from a reliable source that there was one St. Martiner at his funeral – one of his numerous students – to bid our old master farewell. We get caught up in our little lives, and much too often, we cannot find, or make some time to say thank you to folks we are indebted to. Such is life, but it need not be that way.

  I have often wondered how he happened on the isle of the savages. Did he request the posting, or did they just dispatch us one of their brightest due to the heavy challenge we presented? But the two are not mutually exclusive. He arrived a few years after Guadeloupe became a DOM (French Overseas Department) in 1946; when an Antillean intellectual élite began to replace metropolitan functionaries in some such posts. For some reason, the obvious bright young man did not pursue higher education in France. All of that, I think, may explain how the exceptionally gifted young teacher happened among us.

  It doesn’t surprise me at all, that no school is named after Monsieur Henri Ligarius, our master, my idol; neither in his native Le Moule, in Guadeloupe, nor in St. Martin where he spent most of his teaching career. He was a man whose bearing, education, principles, abilities and talents must have incited a lot of envy, caused much jealousy. And it must not have helped matters that he didn’t suffer fools easily. He was not intimidated by education authorities in Guadeloupe and/or by politicians there, or in Saint Martin.

  The next time I’m having coffee on the Water Front, and I see my master striding hurriedly up the Bayside, I won’t let him get by me. I’ll insist that he joins me, and I’ll set about trying to impress him with my French, so as to make him proud of me. I doubt I’ll succeed, for he has such high standards. I’ll tell him that it’s been quite a journey, but that most of his savages, old men now, have done quite well, given their handicaps; and so did some others who have long departed.

  I’ll explain that, for all of us, it was due, in great part, to his selfless, dedicated, “no nonsense teaching.” I’ll inform him that some of his star students have had schools named after them. That, for sure, will impress him, and he’ll smile.

  I think I know what our old master will be thinking: “Plus ça change, plus c’est la même chose,” the more it changes, the more it’s the same (old) thing. I’ll tell him how much we are, forever, grateful to him. We’ll laugh about those bygone reprimands, and the whippings. My master and I will then discuss education (teaching/learning); the fickleness of recognition; politics and the profession, namely the politics of education.

Gérard M. Hunt

Dear Editor,

  As I ponder over the latest campaign rhetoric, coming out of the United St. Maarten Party (US Party) camp, I wonder about the use of some words and terms by the US Party’s political leader. I want to give the author and the presenter of the latest US Party release the benefit of the doubt, because surely had both these persons given any serious thought to the use of the word “manipulation,” as an accusation directed to members of the United Democrats, the US Party would have refrained from the word manipulation.

  Imagine, accusing others of manipulation and this coming from the one who is best known to have orchestrated the “Carnival Coupe.” What was that again and who was the main actor?

  Story line/Political History: In the wee hours of Saturday morning, April 28, at the end of the Calypso-finals in the Festival Village, three members of Parliament stood up and announced that they were ready to form a new Government with the National Alliance.

Romain Laville handed in his resignation as the fraction leader of Heyliger’s United People’s Party to become an Independent Member of Parliament (MP) and to hook up with Independents Patrick Illidge and Frans Richardson – who were both at one time members of the National Alliance (NA).

  Frans Richardson’s “teachings” on going independent as a Member of Parliament in 2011:

“I will support the initiatives of other Members of Parliament when I feel they are in line with achieving the collective needs and goals of the people of St. Maarten. I remain committed to using my years of experience as a contribution to the forging of the kind of St. Maarten we all want for ourselves and future generations.”

  MP Frans Richardson: “Constant development is the law of life, and a man who always tries to maintain his dogmas in order to appear consistent drives himself into a false position.” (Ghandi)

  Richardson: “We, as a people, cannot afford to remain complacent and stagnant. We must progress in our development, both personally and collectively.”

Richardson: “I strongly believe that I will be in a better position to bring forth my vision, ideas and ultimately legislation, which will benefit the people of St. Maarten without trampling on the thoughts and vision of the party I once wholeheartedly supported.”

  Richardson also said that Members of Parliament “need to step up and raise the bar by presenting legislation that will make the people of St. Maarten feel safe and secure once again.”

  MP Frans Richardson, who preyed on the youngest member of Parliament then? Who convinced the youngest MP to jump ship? Did you tell him like you told MP Brownbill that by him doing this, it is the beginning of the end of his political career?

#needIsaymore

Marinka Gumbs

Democratic Party (President)

Dear Editor,
More and more I am hearing investors in Sint Maarten described as being greedy and exploitative. Yesterday a posting on Facebook did this without nuance.
Whilst in the early years investors in Sint Maarten were welcomed uncritically in many cases, the pendulum seems to have swung to the other extreme and criticism is generalized and overreaching particularly for investors without family ties to Sint Maarten.
The early uncritical reception was inappropriate. The more recent overcritical reception with much prejudice is also inappropriate. At this time in history investors are particularly essential for Country Sint Maarten. The Ministry of TEATT [Tourism, Economic Affairs, Transportation and Telecommunication – Ed.] concluded in 2016 that foreign direct investment was critical to break the country out of the low growth rate it was experiencing. If that was true then, the after-Irma situation will be required much more.
The reception to foreign investment should always have been critical to the level that the investment must provide value, particularly long-term value, to the country and should not be critical in respect of the investors’ heritage. This value of the investment should flow to the community as a whole rather than particular individuals. It should meet strategic needs and incorporate all risks whilst still being competitive to available capital investment.
Describing investors as “greedy” is not productive. There should not be a shadow of doubt that investors are only investing because they wish a return on their investment. The story of “I am investing because I fell in love with your island” is not real. The limitations on how the investors manage their investment should be contained in effective legislation. It is unproductive to have their economic behaviour regulated by talk on the street.
One hopes that one day the need for foreign investment will reduce. This will happen when the savings rate of Sint Maarteners goes up and this savings is invested in the sometimes risky core industries that keep the country at optimum economic activity. That will require creative financial participation models that are supported by legislation.
In the meantime, it makes sense to avoid peppering social media with phrases that include “greedy investors.” Instead we must assume that investors seek a fair return and if they attempt to misuses their situation, then measured legislation with measured enforcement ensures that healthy balance between the country and the foreign investor.

Robbie Ferron

Dear Editor,

Here, closer, are the Methodist Chapel, and its alley: Chapel-Alley. Folks are all dressed up. It’s Sunday, noontime, or there about, and the service is most likely over now. I would venture that Pastor Gibbs’ sermon is still resonating in the minds of some of the faithful, but that most others are thinking of getting back home to a good Sunday meal and some rest. Nothing much has changed there over all these years: other faces worshipping, praising, singing, and another pastor sermoning. But the old chapel is still there standing.

  On the other side of Chapel-Alley is that “Boy School” by the sea where they taught us to be civic-minded, to read, write, count, and reason – all of that in French; as well as to love and honour the French language and the Republic. That was no easy task for our teachers who hailed from Guadeloupe, with little or no proficiency in our English, or in any other English, for that matter.

  Those were no easy teaching-learning objectives for our teachers and for us. But despite the difficulties we faced, and in spite of handicaps, ours and those of our teachers, for most of us, what we learned in that school by the sea may have made all the difference.

  Sometimes, on the Water Front, I see Monsieur Jean limping along the Bayside, stopping to chat with acquaintances. He is so good-humoured, so friendly, despite that handicap that causes him to limp so severely.

  I was not his student, and so I cannot speak to his teaching in the classroom, but he was one of my teachers nonetheless, for I learned a lot by observing the way he related to everyone, and by chatting with him. He was so generous with his time, so down to earth! I found him mentioned online where a retiring teacher refers to him in the context of a brief and recent (2017) retirement interview.

  When I think of Monsieur Jean, I see a figure walking ahead of me on the Bayside. He is jouncing; the back of his head is bouncing up and down like a fishing float, a bobber in troubled water. But that image is always contrasted with a more powerful mental representation of a man in whose company most folks were the ones who felt lacking, wanting.

  They would forego his obvious physical handicap, rather, they would forget it completely, or be embarrassed to inquire about it. To this very day, I couldn’t say what had caused Monsieur Jean to limp so severely. It is most fitting that, in Saint Martin, there is a school named after Monsieur Jean Anselme.

  Sometimes while on the Water Front having coffee, looking down towards the cemetery, I see him in the distance coming up the Bayside from where he resides. There is no way of mistaking him for anyone else – long strides, fairly tall, handsome and dashingly svelte. (The younger President Obama reminded me of him, though his facial features were sharper, and his complexion lighter than the President’s.) He is neatly dressed, as always, in a well-pressed long sleeve shirt, pleated trousers, and shoes that are mirrors in the morning sun.

  As he passes, I think he notices me looking at him, for he smiles and nods politely. But he never replies to my “Bonjour, Monsieur!” It is as if he sees me, but cannot hear me. Strange indeed! He doesn’t appear to be bothered by the change of scenery here, on the Bayside; he never stops; never tarries. He is, most likely, hurrying to prepare for his classes. But I have some news for him: his classroom is no longer there, and neither are his students. Like the old Sandy Ground, he is no longer here, no longer anywhere, except in my mind, and maybe, in the thoughts of a few other old-timers still around.

  Monsieur Henri Ligarius, our teacher, my master, my hero and exemplar, was as fastidious, as meticulous in his appearance as he was at the “tableau noir,” the blackboard in his classroom – no matter the subject that he was teaching us. And he mastered all of them: French, history, math, geography; civic and moral instruction (Instruction civique et morale); I may have forgotten one or two others. English wasn’t taught in those “good old days,” it wasn’t a subject matter back then, moreover, it was considered subversive: seemingly, as an impediment, a hindrance to other more crucial, more fundamentally political objectives.

  My teacher got to school early before class, and he often remained there late in the afternoon to prepare his lessons, our lessons. We would enter a classroom where the board was covered in chalk by an elegant multi-colored script, the most beautiful chalk script one can imagine. When teaching us grammar, sentence structure, and composition, the blackboard was a Christmas tree: verbs and subjects, and complements, each one had its color.

  As I recall, it was our failure to grasp the rules of agreement of past participles, and to apply them, as well as to respond rapidly to his queries on the multiplication table, and on other assignments he had given us that led to most of the whippings. That is when we were made to eat from the loaf, from “le pain des paresseux,” the bread of the lazy: a leather belt he took to us, but never harshly, never brutishly, as I recall.

  All of this must be placed in its proper context: those were the “good old days” when a schoolboy would never ever think of being aggressive towards his teacher. Rather, we hoped, prayed that the news of our strapping didn’t get home, for fear of a real “cut ass” from our parents. Those were “the good old days” – for teachers!

Gérard M. Hunt