"Soap and education are not as sudden as a massacre, but they are more deadly in the long run." – Mark Twain

A rare smile had grown on my face. A self-satisfied, beaming, ear-to-ear grin that didn't need to be shared. Initially I had been ecstatic when I had tallied the results of the chapter science test. The first test paper corrected had a bright red 100 percent on it, in the right top corner near the student's name, Va'a ole po (Boat with a Hole.) Apparently he had studied for a change, perhaps the science lessons had sunk in. Maybe — just maybe — this ol' Peace Corps teacher was making a difference in the third world. The second paper too had a bright red 100 percent, near the owner's name – Kai'ilo (I Don't Know).

Now that made me shake my head. Kai'ilo had been aptly named. The coconut wireless (rumor mill) at Marist Brothers School regarding Kai'ilo's name forked into three branches of thought. One theory claimed Kai'ilo had been named I Don't Know because his mother wasn't aware of her pregnancy. Not an unthinkable nor uncommon occurrence among a people who averaged 280 pounds by age 21. The second theory claimed the mother hadn't a clue who the father was and named the child accordingly. But those of us who taught Kai'ilo knew his name merely prophesized a warning. Kai'ilo didn't and wouldn't ever know diddly-squat, not in Samoan, not in English, not in any language known to mankind and most assuredly not about science.

And that marked the end of my short-lived smile. A smile slowly converted to suspicion and the suspicion grew to confirmed doubt and the doubt festered to stewing anger.

Fifty-four shoeless village boys, boys who could kill a wild pig with a well-thrown rock, boys who could read the white sands under the waves and spear hiding octopi, boys who could husk a coconut, crack it in half and then squeeze the meat into a thick creamy milk, boys who could barely read in English. Each and every one of these boys had passed the test with room to spare. My entire second period class, my lowest-of-the-low class, had aced or got 100 percent on their tests. Such infinitesimally unlikely odds did not even turn up in Las Vegas. On Upolu Island, in the Samoan archipelago, in my fifth-grade science class, quite simply, such odds equaled the impossible.

I simmered all night like a New England chowder set on a low flame, bubbling, gurgling and spitting. And just like that New England chowder, when the sun's rays hit equatorial Samoa that next morning, I, too, was cooked. Usually I luxuriated in the two-mile beach-front walk to school. However on that morn my optic nerves took in, but didn't notice, the schools of finger-sized silver fish which leaped out of the water avoiding predators below. I smelled but didn't appreciate the thick smoky wood fires of morning meals wafting between land and sea. And the noises of the waking city of Apia passed through my dull, unresponsive eardrums.

My teeth, clenched together, only set the tone for my rapid walk to school. Heads are going to roll. How dare they? What do they think?

Turning into the dusty road marking the short entrance to my school, I made a beeline to my small science lab. I clicked the correct set of numbers into my combination lock, opened the door, threw my pack onto the ancient wooden swivel chair and grabbed my grade book. Ahhhhhhhh, I screamed internally. You gave up a devoted girlfriend, family, and friends for THIS!

I took the 24 steps to the second floor two at a time. My class waited upstairs in the more spacious official classroom and, as expected and required, they stood when I entered.

"Good morning, teacher Paul," they sang at me.

"You may sit," I replied as required, but added, "In fact, YOU BETTER SIT!"

They sat. I didn't let their hearts beat three times.

I threw my grade book on the floor. Their eyes widened. If any had been squirming, all movement stopped. Silence ruled. I yelled, "HOW DID EVERYONE IN THIS CLASS GET 100 PERCENT ON THE TEST?"

I meant it as an outrage. As a fact, as a universal blight, as a personal affront, as an injustice, as A WRONG! I hadn't meant it as a question to be answered. But the literal usually triumphed over the symbolic in my class.

Hands shot up in the air. They have an answer? How dare they! I'll kill one of them! Oh, this will be good!

I pointed at a boy named Santa. "YES?" The yes meant "you may answer now." I took in a breath.

But they answered in unison, "We cheated, Sir."

"WHAT?" Fury rose in me. I repeated their answer, "WE CHEATED SIR!" Numbness set in. Do they think I'm stupid? I repeated it again in my brain, WE CHEATED SIR! I couldn't get a handle on it.

A shadow entered the doorway. Dickie, my light-hearted Samoan teacher friend, leaned with one leg planted on the floor, the other set against the frame like a stork on one leg.

"Sounds to me like it is time for Mr. Guava," he said.

I sucked in a long breath and let my head fall to my chin. We had had this discussion before. Corporal punishment ruled throughout the land. Grumblings had come to my ears (via friend Dickie) that seasoned Samoan teachers felt my students got away with murder. The Peace Corps teacher didn't hit students. Over many a beer Dickie and I had argued the point.

In his hand, he nurtured a three-foot-long, half-inch thick stick. A stick cut from the school's very own guava tree. A stick cut by the student who first felt its sharp bite. A student Dickie and I both shared — a boy named Kai'ilo.

Dickie patted his opened left hand with the end of Mr. Guava and smirked. I envied his straight white teeth. "Yes, teacher Paul," Dickie said with a sweet nearly whispered voice, "the boys have been cheeky, have they not? And now is the time to pay." Dickie stood to his full height and bellowed, "KAI'ILO!"

Kai'ilo snapped to a standing position behind his desk, arms at his side, back straight, eyes peering forward, fear obvious.

"Yes, sir."

"Come here!" Then friend Dickie turned to me. "I will show you the Samoan way and you will finish this matter with your class."

Kai'ilo ran to the front of the class. He stood with his back to me and at arm's length before Dickie.

"How many do you want?" demanded Dickie.

"Three, sir," Kai'ilo meekly replied.

Three, I thought. Three? Why three?

And as if Dickie could read my thoughts he said, "I think it is Kai'ilo's favorite number. But I suspect it is as high as he can count. BEND!" Dickie roared.

Kai'ilo bent and touched his toes. His ass hung in the air waiting, but not for long. Dickie turned sideways and let lose with a whack and another and another. Three well-placed, full-force hits. Kai'ilo sobbed, sniffled, and tears plinked on the floor but he remained in position.


Kai'ilo stood, tears continuing to flow. He quickly rubbed his ass, snapping to attention at the same time. "Thank you, Sir," Kai'ilo said.

Dickie passed Mr. Guava to me. "You have 53 students waiting. I'll see you at lunch."

He left, and the room's quiet and fear didn't outweigh the stupidity, rashness or anger in my young soul. By name I called each student to the front of the class and repeated Dickie's lesson.

"How many do you want?" I asked.

"Bend," I commanded.

"Stand," I said, as I beat the anger out of me.

"Thank you," they cried and by the 20th student, I too cried.

You started this and now you have to finish it.

Those who had been hit sat at their desks, heads down sobbing, rubbing, crying. Others waited until I called them. Outside, below in the school's courtyard, mothers collected in groups. Grim determination sat on their faces. I felt shamed, wretched, and my stomach churned. Trapped like a rat. Those mothers will kill you when you are done. Any one of them weighs more than you.

The 49th victim came forward, then the 50th and I finished with the 53rd.

"Class dismissed."

They ran out of class and poured down the stairs. I followed them and waited at the doorway. We'll see. Will the mothers come up the stairs or will they wait until I go down? But I had two surprises.

Dickie, who had lurked outside the class the entire time, smiled, patted me on the back and pointed down to the ground level where the parents collected their children.

"Are they mad?" I asked.

"Are you crazy? Watch."

"Huh?" I replied.

A great commotion began below. Samoan parents grabbed their children by the ear, the scruff of the neck, the head, and a battle broke out. What Dickie and I had started the parents finished. Children were kicked, hit, pummeled, bashed, beaten and pulled by the hair.

Dickie nearly glowed with propriety. "It is the Samoan way."

We leaned over the rusty iron rail observing what we had brought upon our wards. Mothers' arms raised and continued to beat down on the students' heads, backs, and arms; legs, thick Polynesian mother legs, continued to kick.

"I don't think they will cheat again," Dickie said.

"It's a goddamn fricken massacre."

And Dickie was correct. My students did not cheat again, and sadly enough, my status among the older Samoan teachers went up a notch. But I never hit my students again. Many are the regrets that I have, but beating 53 Samoan boys with a branch of a Catholic guava tree three times each ranks very high on my list of personal sins.

Dickie taught me much about Samoa. Even more about myself.

Monterey County resident Paul Karrer teaches fifth grade in Castroville.

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