This is an invention, and any resemblance to individuals or places is unintentional, and/or does not reflect the opinions of the author.
Bonnie Scott
5/11/12
This is why I hated School
Get
up, stand up: stand up for your rights!
Get up, stand up: don't give up the fight!
Get up, stand up: don't give up the fight!
(“Get
Up, Stand Up” —Bob Marley)
It
began with that Charon’s craft, the overcrowded, decrepit bus conveying us to
our prison. As prisoners of the bus, sweltering in the sticky seats, we observed
in silent horror as we approached the School gates, young hands and noses
pressed to the windows forming clouds of moisture on the grimy surface. A
winding snake of downtrodden seniors stretched before our dismayed eyes. The
welcoming committee were garbed in blindingly white long sleaved button-up
shirts and long trousers—the same for males and females. Charon squeezed his
passengers out into the strange welcome. The kids were in a state of resigned
panic and dull confusion, until they looked into the seniors’ eyes and saw the inevitable
conclusion: the ridiculous get-up was the new uniform they had been demanding. It
was plain to see—especially from the pained faces of the seniors—that everyone
now longed for the return of the ugly, but permissible green and brown uniform.
I however, was still caught in a state of acute horror: I was all alone among
my peers, being the only senior to catch the bus with the juniors. I searched
the sea of horror-drawn masks for my best friend, and found only the anonymous
crush of young captives. The flow of passengers was ebbing, and I could delay
no longer. In a way, it was a relief to step out of the stifling air of the bus
that cooked us from the inside with every inhalation. I exited the bus, at the
end, and its jaws almost caught me as they closed in a skeletal grin.
On
the footpath, the embarrassed seniors’ eyes were dull with dismay and some wept
quietly. They stood in a faux-welcome, someone’s sick performance of “School
pride”, and I knew just whose it was: the Doc’s. That’s what we called her: the
head teacher. She surveyed the albino student snake with a disciplinarian’s enjoyment,
hair in a severe black crop and penetrating eyes taking in her handiwork. The
Doc stood there for a moment more, savouring the horrified expressions then
started spouting some rubbish about how we will be so pleased to see our
request for a new, more professional uniform has been obliged, and that we
should start wearing it immediately. She then stalked away through the tall gates,
no doubt to return to haunting the senior’s designated district, formally known
as “I Block”. At the exit of Her Ominence (yes, I did just make up that word), some
of the more tear-stained seniors tugged at their uniforms, muttering about how
all they needed to do now was dye them orange, and the effect would be
complete. The two groups of students began to meld and commiserate about their shared
fate. My peers seemed to be recovering from their initial horror, donning an
additional layer of resignation. This new defeat was an iron ball and chain
that made them drag their feet as they filed into the School grounds as the
warning bell rang. “Bring out your dead,” it said to me.
I
could not follow the group this time, aware of the wrath I would incur as
punishment for tardiness. Panic had again risen in my chest at the thought of
facing this new situation without my ally. A moment later, mingling with the
echo of the bell was the distinct sound of her van’s motor pulling into the car
park. She bounded up to me in a flurry of nervous energy, and a sliver of fear
slid away at the sight of her. Breathy greetings were chased hurriedly aside as
I relayed to her the ghastly new situation. She gave me a curt, grim nod of
solidarity and we sped into the grounds. I was exulting that the new uniforms
were “horrible, just horrible. Worse than the last-“ when sirens went off, too
loud and too close. Appearing among the flashes of red and blue lights was a
girl from our year. She was a stocky girl, with a serious face and humourless
grey eyes. She had always been a kind girl, until Doc had caught her for some
minor offence, taking her under her wing and had returned one of them. She read mechanically from the
printed sheet of paper in her hands.
“Classmate
44218, you are charged with crimes against the institution for your debasement
of the new uniform. You, and classmate 44351 here are also in violation of the
Uniform proclamation as of four minutes, thirty-two seconds ago that states all
students must wear Uniform 3.0, the white upgrade,” (upon which, she handed us
a set of the white atrocities each and ensured we donned them on the spot) “furthermore,
you are now…two hundred and thirty-…eight seconds late for class. You will
await your punishment at the final School bell.”
She
turned on her heel and marched toward our classroom with the knowledge that the
both of us would surely follow. My ally exchanged a fearful glance with me, wondering
what cruel and bizarre punishment awaited us once all the other students had
escaped for home.
“Keep
up!” our authoritative classmate barked, without turning to look at us at her
heels.
Along
our hurried march to the classroom, some of my fear turned to anger: anger at
this place that was supposed to be a place of learning, where young minds
collaborated to seek and education about all possibilities of things
imaginable. Where has the dream gone to die? The only things we saw here were
fear, obedience, punishment, and the unquestionable power of authority. This
totalitarian prison took the world’s most promising hopes for the future, young
minds, and turned them into cowardly, detestable vermin, which resorted to
scrapping and bullying amongst themselves to vent their frustration with the
dominance of an authority they could not rebel against. That was how the
authorities did it, the teaching and administration staff; they kept the
cohorts separated so the student body could not unite and rise against them, in
a unified whole. It made me want to shout “Look what you’ve done!” at the top
of my voice. It was a miracle when anything positive like friendship formed out
of this, like it had with me. If only we could unite! Maybe then our goals
might be achieved.
From
somewhere far off, I knew that with a little time, age would give us the power
to break the curse of suppression and enable us to forge our own identities. We
would become responsible for our own actions, when we left the totalitarian
School-state in our memories and our nightmares. No matter how much we think we
could do things better, if we could do it over again, we can be eternally
grateful that we don’t have to return because it’s over now.
