By Paul Leavoy
All the monkeys aren’t in the zoo. Some spend most of their lives teaching intellectually gifted children. Some hide out in bars, hosting karaoke nights and encouraging shy souls to set their spirits free on stage. Some teach the elderly mental aerobics.
Or perhaps some do nothing of the sort, but one does it all.
Carman Summers might be reluctant to call himself a monkey, an affectionate term that he uses to describe past students.
But he remains as vivacious and ebullient a character as the perceptive and passionate students he ascribes the name to.
“Carman Summers is a man who tries to live every moment of his life in an unselfish, lively manner,” says Paul Jacobs, a tenant in Summers’ house.
The term “monkey” is central to his recently published book, All the Monkeys Aren’t in the Zoo.
The monkeys are the gifted students that Summers taught throughout his career in Centretown and area schools.
The students are called “monkeys” for their habit of entangling Summers in a slew of antics and escapades.
The episodes form the basis of his book, which relies on a relaxed, conversational storytelling style to relay the mischievous accounts of his students who display both brilliance and silliness.
“I didn’t concentrate very much on style,” Summers says of his book. “It was a very spontaneous thing.”
On this autumn evening, Summers sits contentedly back in his sofa, one of a few in his cozy third-storey bedroom-loft.
A classic three-panel Oriental divider separates the bedroom from the living room which is graced by an eclectic mix of tokens, statuettes and carved artifacts strewn about the tables and shelves.
The book’s spontaneous composition perfectly suits the erratic nature of his students, as well.
In one instance, a child orders a sports trophy that he considered his due after being excluded from the school’s list of trophy winners. In another, a student hides and plays dead in a clothing trunk, purely to elicit a reaction from Summers.
But his students weren’t
exclusively pranksters; they were incredibly mentally astute individuals. To preside over such a body of students for so long a time was an incredibly demanding yet rewarding task, says Summers.
“Everything was on a horizontal plane,” says Summers, indicating that he was as challenged by his students as they were by him.
He cites an instance where he delivered one of his usual brainteasers to the class.
The riddle goes like this: “As I was going to St. Ives, I met a man with seven wives. Seven wives had seven sacs. Seven sacs had seven cats. Seven cats had seven kits,” and on it goes, culminating in the question “How many went to St. Ives?”
A clever student raised his hand promptly to deliver a calculated answer, and Summers, reluctantly, told him he was wrong, because the answer relied on the fact that the speaker only ‘met’ these individuals on his way to St. Ives.
The child countered quickly, citing, to Summers’ bewilderment, an Oxford English Dictionary sub definition of the word ‘meet,’ which can mean ‘to overcome.’ The child was nine.
Literary and poetic pursuits were also an integral part of Summers’ teaching.
He would introduce the 10- to 13-year-olds to sources as diverse and complicated as psychologist Carl Jung and poet Robert Frost.
“To transform a 13-year-old athlete into a poetry enthusiast requires a very unique talent,” remarks former student John Booth in one of the closing chapters of the book.
Instead of asking for a simple analysis of a poem as an assignment, Summers might call upon his students to make a presentation on how harmonica music would better suit a Frost poem while a full orchestra would be required for an Elizabeth Barrett Browning poem. He always found the results of such assignments both creative and informative.
“I think that’s very important to teaching,” Summers says, “when we’re all learning.”
He finds himself learning in new environments today. Although recently retired from teaching, he still instructs a mental aerobics course to elderly people on a weekly basis.
In the mental aerobics courses, Summers engages participants and himself in stories, riddles, games and other activities of group interaction. He might even be inclined to bring his group out for a night of karaoke.
Karaoke has been a love of Summers for the past eight years. He had always wanted to explore singing, but found himself reluctant.
It wasn’t until a night in the right environment with a Portuguese friend who “couldn’t sing a note,” and perhaps one drink too many for the both of them, that he finally let loose and ignited a passion that would become central to his life.
“He takes his singing very seriously,” says Jacobs.
In fact, the centrepiece of his loft, if not the most outstanding feature, is the stout karaoke machine that sits beside his television.
And there’s no question — if you’re a guest of Summers, you’ll find yourself in front of the microphone by the end of the night.
His foray into karaoke initially involved a regular hosting spot at the Somerset Pub, but he has now become something of a freelancer, offering his services to a variety of Centretown pubs and bars.
When he hosts, he introduces himself to anyone who enters the bar to make newcomers feel as comfortable as possible.
He says a welcome environment makes easier the difficult task of getting people to sing for the first time.
“I just love people,” Summers says. “I love to see people having fun and enjoying themselves.”
His singing has come in handy more than once.
Recently, while on a trip to Venezuela, he encountered a painter on the street painting the lush townscapes and coastal images that now adorn the walls of his loft.
The painter, who sang himself, was very keen on hearing Summers sing. He was reluctant, but the painter cajoled him on with promises of a “special deal” for the pieces.
Next thing he knew, Summers found himself belting out an a cappella rendition of the only song that could come to his head in full, Celine Dion’s “The Power of Love,” beneath the blistering Venezuelan sun.
He sufficiently pleased the painter and received a generous deal on the paintings.