Tomorrow, Lasallians celebrate the 100th birthday of Bro. Edward Galea, a teacher whose distinctive spirit is captured by the unusual nickname given him by successive generations of restive schoolboys.

Teachers’ nicknames often have a drop of defiance or malice. In my time (1971-82), one Prefect of Discipline was Il-Butcher. Ħaxixu (hashish man, a euphemism for someone who screws you over) was a chain-smoking Capuchin whose refereeing decisions were polemical.

Il-Welder was a priest whose sunglasses with dark green lenses were last in fashion before we were born. Dudu (worm) was a man who had overnight lost a lot of weight. J.R. (after J.R. Ewing, the fictional Texas oilman whose villainy dominated the TV series Dallas) was a new young teacher who, or so we decided, was trying too hard to impress us with his briefcase. Fido truly resembled a St Bernard.

How and when you uttered the nickname gave it meaning. Ħaxixu was yelled with exhilaration from the football stands; off the field, the Capuchin was deemed wise. Il-Butcher was whispered to warn of his approach during assembly (just like the POWs did in the TV series Colditz). Fido was best scrawled on the blackboard of an empty classroom.

Nicknames were often given and shared during the senior school assembly. As the teachers watched us, from their high-up perch, we watched back and commented. They surveilled and sized us up; we imagined we were cutting them down to size.

Bro. Edward’s nickname, Il-Flamingo, did not belong to the same repertoire. It was a fond tribute, not cruel criticism.

Almost every photograph of Bro. Edward, from when he entered service in 1946 as a teaching Brother at De La Salle College, shows him in his habit: standing or seated, he’s ramrod straight, tall, thin and with a stillness born of self-composure.

If he reminds you of a cassocked cleric in one of those classic black-and-white French movies, who addresses his wards as “my children”, embodying gravity and grace by gliding (not walking) smoothly across floors and streets, there’s a reason. Bro. Edward belongs to the last generation of Maltese brothers who had their formation in France (1939-46).

But once Bro. Edward entered a classroom, gravity and grace were embodied in an entirely original way.

Most teachers stood or sat at the front of the class, facing us from the seat of authority. Some left that post to walk down the aisles, between the desks: a police patrol to see where the giggling or whiff of peanut butter was coming from.

Bro. Edward sometimes sat but, most of all, he circled around the class and between the desks, to engage directly in conversation, level with our faces. He did that by gliding and swooping, in one smooth movement, looking first at one boy, then another, his voice gripping, his manner graceful.

Bro. Edward

This is how, as Brother Director, he addressed my class when I was four. It’s how he taught us religion when I was 10, circling and swooping, whether telling us about the peace talks then underway between Egypt and Israel or inviting us to debate if our parents owed us more pocket money because, he insisted, religion is a way of understanding our world, not the next.

Bro. Edward’s nickname, Il-Flamingo, was a fond tribute, not cruel criticism- Ranier Fsadni

The nickname’s meaning lies in how it’s used. I’ve never heard anyone relate a Bro. Edward story by referring to Il-Flamingo. It’s always the listener who breaks out in a smile and says, “Il-Flamingo!” It’s an exclamation of recognition, a tribute to the experience. A salute.

I use the past tense but Bro. Edward is still active, visiting the school daily. His former pupils span all the way from octogenarians to generation Z. I’d be surprised if the nickname has lasted but the manner – of personal attention and zeal – remains.

Bro. Edward is not the only extraordinary man to have served the Lasallian mission in Malta. In the Marvel universe of De La Salle brothers, there have been gifted administrators; fearless visionary builders; saintly men and scholars; hard workers who planted gardens or mixed concrete after a full day’s teaching; and teachers of infectious enthusiasm.

It’s to all these men that the six Lasallian schools owe their identity today. In this company, however, Bro. Edward embodies the spirit in a special way.

It’s partly a function of sheer longevity. His lifetime captures almost the entirety of the 121-year-old mission. He attended De La Salle College at its old site in Strada Buongiorno and was in the first cohort to attend school in its present site.

He bridges the period when Malta was part of the Francophone North African province and its post-war affiliation with the UK.

A family photo: Evelyn (first row), Arthur, Elizabeth (mother), Connie, Michael (father), Rosalia – later Mother Maria Galea of the Ursuline Sisters (second row) and Anthony (later Bro. Edward) and Gemma (third row).

He was an active teacher of the Lasallian programme for students attempting to enter the Drydocks (which ended in 1960) as well as the grammar school.

And he was three times director or headmaster, in three different decades: the 1960s, 1970s and 1990s. He is perhaps unique, among the Brothers, in having served for his entire life at De La Salle College.

No wonder for so many boys, in different walks of life, in different epochs, Bro. Edward features in fond memory.

But he didn’t just show up. As administrator, he was innovative. The international boarding school, the (co-ed) Sixth Form, the PTA and the extensive sports grounds all owe (or owed) something important to him. Bro. Alfred Spiteri, who could observe him from up close, paid tribute to his “quiet leadership”.

It was, and is, leadership of ethos, still circling the school, a guardian spirit, in the familiar habit, zealous and attentive. In being true to his character, in insisting on thought shared in conversation, he teaches the rest of us the value of being true to our own.