This is the last chapter of the story. I’m going to say what a lot of people who tell stories say.

“I wish you could have been there.” Which is a cliché, I know, but it’s true. What happened on Friday’s assembly humbled me, impressed me, moved me more than I can describe in words.

What went down was this.

Assembly usually started with an address by the Headmaster, followed by an address by the Deputy Head (a sour man called Hein de Vos), some announcements, sometimes some form of presentation, and then usually a word or two from the Head Girl.

After the announcements, Mr Mitchell (who to this day I think is creepy looking, and I’m not alone) was warbling on about marathon runners, and how they showed endurance and determination. He was encouraging athletes to join a Cape to Coast run.

He was about halfway through his droning when Yola from my Matric drama class walked onto stage. He is chilled, thick set, and is the Vice Captain of the first rugby team. He was wearing a skirt.

Mr Mitchell paused from his presentation and gaped at Yola, who walked to the front of the stage. Yola stood there proud as a king, gazing at the audience with the utmost confidence.

People giggled. Yola did not flinch.

“Uhm,” said Mr Mitchell feebly, returning to his speech. “Uhm, yes, so all those athletes willing to participate are to meet in room 31–”

Again a mass intake of breath from the school interrupted him. Josie had walked onto the stage. She too was in my Matric drama class. She had dark red hair pulled into a ponytail and a mischievous smile. She was wearing a boy’s uniform – shorts, the jersey, the long socks, the boys’ shoes.

I looked around the hall. The students were spellbound. Meg, the dance teacher sat next to me. I looked at her. The expression on her face was a mix of alarm and awe.

More students started to file onto the stage. All of my Grade 12s emerged like a troupe of actors. Short, quizzical Josh, wearing the girls’ pinafore summer dress. Caroline, looking dapper in the boys’ shorts. Each student wore the opposite gender’s uniform.

They arranged themselves at the front of the stage. They looked spectacular! On all their faces was a look of pride and fierceness – the fierceness of the young.

On the upper balcony, Mrs Mitchell, Mr Hood’s nasty henchwoman, shot up in her chair.

“Stop!” she ordered, like a general. “Close the curtain.”

My group of Matrics looked up at her. They shimmered with power.

“No,” came a voice from the wings.

Naledi, my Naledi, walked onto stage. She looked terrific in the boys’ shorts, as she was tall. Her boys’ uniform looked tailored on her somehow. She looked fashionable in fact, and I felt a shiver of joy.

“Mr Hood, Mr de Vos, staff, teachers and students,” she said. “What is underneath my clothes is none of your business.”

You could have heard a pin drop. Over a thousand students, hanging on her every word.

“Yes,” she said, nodding at the audience. “We are lucky. Most of us are in the right body. A girl is a girl. A boy is a boy.”

“This,” said Yola, “is a luxury we take for granted.”

The students listened and followed as if this was the most interesting film they’d ever seen. Josie continued with the script.

“I’m lucky. I’m a girl, and I’m in a girl’s body. Yes, I worry about my weight, and I get pimples, and sometimes I wish I was prettier, but the fact is: I was born into the right body to suit my soul.”

Next Josh spoke.

“Not everyone experiences this. Trans people are those who experience their body as the wrong sex. It causes them enormous mental stress in a world where gender is very inflexible. Trans people are teased, they are hurt, often they are even killed. People call them unnatural, an abomination, and worse.”

Yola took over.

“Trans people show us that gender is not a binary. There’s more to the world than just men and women. There are people in between, and even more genders than that. Also, you do not get to tell a person what gender they are – only that person can tell you.”

Naledi spoke the final words.

“Imagine this. Imagine being scared to leave your house. Imagine feeling that at any time, someone could choose to embarrass you, humiliate you, hurt you. Imagine being told that you’re deluded, making things up, looking for attention, a freak; just for wanting to be yourself. Someone at this school is experiencing that. I am Robert. But I am also Rebecca. I am Robert and Rebecca.”

Robert was obviously Robert’s name. Rebecca was what she was called when she was presenting as female.

“I am Robert and Rebecca,” repeated Yola.

“I am Robert and Rebecca,” said Josie.

“I am Robert and Rebecca, said Caroline.

“I am Robert and Rebecca,” they said as a chorus, raising their fists in the air.

The room vibrated with the echo of their war cry. There was a deep and voluminous silence. Suddenly I heard clapping. I then realised it was coming from my right. It was Meg, dear Meg, the dance teacher. Two rivers of tears ran down her pretty face. She was crying. She clapped, clapped, clapped.

Students started to clap. So did I. I stood by Meg and I felt what she felt. Solidarity. When people agree, come together to do the right thing, the fair thing, the kind thing; it is a very special feeling. It’s emotional.

Robert ran onto stage. He hugged Naledi. I thought they wouldn’t stop. They rocked back and forth in their hug as if they were a mother and son reunited after many, many years. I couldn’t help it. I cried too.

Do you know what tolerance is? It’s love. When you say to someone, “You know what? You’re different from me, but I believe in you, I treasure you, I accept you …” That’s love. And that is what the school body was pumping out right now.

Maybe the vile Mrs Mitchell and the psycho Mr Hood were not feeling love. I don’t care what they were feeling. They could have jumped in the lake for all I cared. This wasn’t about them anyway. It was about justice. It was about fairness. It was about a community coming together to understand something of great human importance. How not to hate. How to overcome your prejudice.

How to love.

I didn’t end up going to the Matric Dance. I couldn’t in fact, because by the time it happened my contract had come to an end. I would certainly miss my Matrics, my strong, warrior Matrics, but it was time to move on.

I did get a text the night of the dance though. It was a selfie from Naledi. She posted it on the class group WhatsApp, which I still belonged to. The pic was of her and Robert. She in a stunning tailored suit that fit her like a glove, and Robert, or Rebecca I should say, was standing next to her.

The caption said, “Date night with the prettiest girl in Grade 12.”

I smiled.

It was one of the most inspiring images I have ever seen, I think. Rebecca looked glam, her long hair falling in elegant waves, legs for days, make up ‘on fleek’ as my students tell me. The picture gave me a shiver of pure joy.

Below the picture, Naledi then texted me.

“Thank you, Miss Comrie, for making this happen.”

I knew immediately what my response was. I felt a glow of warmth as I texted back.

“I didn’t make this happen,” I wrote. “You did.”

***

Tell us: What would you say is the overall message of this story? How did you feel when the Grade 12’s interrupted assembly? Was the action justified?