Thanking Dr. Harding, my first Black teacher

Contributed by Cassandra Leader

How late is considered too late to say thank you? A month, six months, a year?

How about 15 years?

That's how long it has taken me to thank someone who has had a huge impact on my life. 

Dr. Harding was my high school teacher. He taught me English in Grades 9 and 10 at Lemoyne d'Iberville High School in Longueuil, a suburb of Montreal.

He was my first Black teacher and it's because of him I became a journalist. 

A sense of safety and inspiration

Dr. Harding is an immigrant from Guyana. The cultural similarities between him and my Caribbean parents made him feel like family. I felt safe in his class. Having a Black teacher elevated my confidence and it created high expectations for me.

But it wasn't just that he was Black. He was also a great teacher.

From Guyana, he brought with him an old-school style of teaching. Dr. Harding showed up to school every day wearing a three-piece suit: shirt, tie, vest, jacket, pants — pressed and matching. 

I have a vivid memory of his tall and lean physique moving between the desk aisles — almost dancing — to the rhythm of the class reciting Shylock's monologue in The Merchant of Venice. 

As for rules, he treated them with as much importance as his love for English literature. 

You must show respect to all of your fellow classmates.

You must always be on your best behaviour. 

You must not speak out of turn. 

You must be punctual —no excuses. 

He would often stand at the doorway before the start of class, greeting students with one hand on the doorknob. As soon as the bell rang, the door was closed. 

If you ever had the misfortune of being late, your punishment was missing the first five minutes of his class. Your time was served in the hallway. And your sentence was a stern lecture on the importance of being on time. 

'It made me feel like I mattered'

Despite the laws of his classroom, Dr. Harding was beloved by most students because he was tough but fair. He always encouraged us to do our best and pushed us to go outside of our comfort zones. 

Like the time I had just returned from a two-week school trip to Italy. I was the only person in my English class who went on the trip.

On my first day back to class, Dr. Harding called on me to stand in front of the classroom. I stood behind his podium (yes, he had a podium), and he had me do a 10-minute impromptu presentation of my trip.

I was 14, terribly shy and deathly afraid of public speaking. I wished the ground would open and swallow me up. But my pleading stare did not dissuade him. 

Dr. Harding prompted me with a few questions, then a flood of questions followed from the other students. Then something amazing happened. The more questions I answered the more comfortable I became. That gesture was huge. It made me feel like I mattered. 

Dr. Harding did that. 

During a parent-teacher conference he said I have the makings of a great writer. Wow! What a compliment. I wore this accolade like a badge of honour. 

He once suggested that I become a journalist. It was a casual conversation one day at the end of class. It wasn't anything I had ever considered before, even though my father was a journalist. 

My dad worked in news in his home country, Trinidad, but gave up his profession when he immigrated to North America. It became clear to him it would be difficult to convince a news editor to hire a Black man with a thick Caribbean accent.

A long-overdue thank you

So, when I finally became a journalist in 2007, I knew I needed to thank Dr. Harding. 

Why now? The global pandemic. While in isolation, what has occupied my mind the most is the things I've left undone. So, I made the call.

While the phone rang, so many thoughts ran through my head. Would he remember me? What do I say? How do I say it?

When he picked up the line, I recognized Dr. Harding's voice immediately.

He's 91 years old now, and his voice sounded somewhat aged, but he still has the same eloquence and Guayanese lilt he had 30 years ago. 

I thanked him for encouraging me, for believing in me, and for planting the seed of journalism in my head. I was pleased to tell him I became a journalist. 

Dr. Harding sounded so proud. I couldn't help smiling throughout our conversation.

I also got to ask him the one question that has been pressing my mind for over three decades. "Do you still wear your three-piece suits?"

"Yes, of course." he said with a chuckle. 

This story is part of a CBC project entitled Being Black in Canada, which highlights the stories and experiences of Black Canadians, from anti-Black racism to success stories Black communities can be proud of. You can read more stories here (cbc.ca/news/Canada/BeingBlackInCanada).

Originally aired in March, 2021