Sitting underneath this lifeless trunk of termites, I listen to the voices around me ridicule. Whether or not they ridicule each other or myself is a different story. The sound of sneakers skimming the sidewalk as students drag their feet. The front of this suburban high school is so average; even after hours, when the kids sit in front of the doors waiting for the afternoon bus to carry them home from detention or extracurricular, the school still seemed average. Thank God I wasn’t too sickly average. I, unlike the other students, maintain much independency and seclusion that keeps me from fitting in.
Seventeen years of life, twelve years of education and three years of living hell. I can now see why our educators are so eager to watch us graduate. They don’t really care about our futures, our successes or even our grades in their classes. They just want us out. Once we’re out, that’s one more year they are closer to retirement - closer to the end of this imprisonment. I have never really had such a mentality for my teachers and mentors until I entered the high school here. And boy, did it have an effect on my personality. I suddenly have a sinking feeling, getting deeper and deeper, that everyone is aiming to get me out of their way.
Everyday, my peers have a new way of impressing me. Generally, I am amazed by the exponential decrease in their IQ. Today, I try to put on my “That’s-Okay-I-Don’t-Mind” face when one of those morons hit me with an empty Wendy’s cup. I have yet to decide what first triggered my inconsolable attitude. Was it the poor quality of bass systems that just drove by or the increasing use of the "f-word?" Then again, it’s probably caused by the freshmen to my left jumping up and down while drinking milk from a gallon-sized carton. Stupidity at its best. There is also a chance that the two seniors smoking their illegal substances two feet from the school property line, haphazardly dropping lines about what they will do to each other’s mother, might be the problem. Hate is such a strong word, and I don’t use it often - I hate this school.
So, as I sit here, gaping at the building’s finest, I watch one teacher waddle towards his car. He’s rather short and the tie that he wears is much too thin for his body figure. Although, the type of swagger he has compared to some of my peers is much more professional, he still appears to be some sort of duck. His personality is more fake than the “leather” on his shoes and the “chrome” on his car’s rims. Listen to him tell his students, “When you graduate, I expect to see you all doing big things,” and “You start in this classroom now, but you guys will be finishing in the nation’s top colleges.” Excuse me if I sneeze, I am allergic to such mendacity.
Scribbling down some more in my notepad, I hear over all of the clamor, clipping and clopping of heels across the pavement. Her last name, generally used without a title, is said now in a variety of pitches. Boys with very deep voices, girls with high voices, and those in the middle are greeting her. I watch as some scramble up to her and say hello in an attempt to start a conversation. Without knowing her, one would think she has four kilo of reefer in her pocket, the way she attracts all of these students. There is, however, something magnificent about her, that makes the putrid atmosphere a little bit brighter. Here I go, dusting my pants of any loose dirt, standing up from my cozy seat. Here I go, breaking down my individuality and blending in with everyone else. Here I go, walking towards this teacher, just like everyone else does.
Seventeen years of life, twelve years of education and three years of living hell. I can now see that my life has been hell until I spoke to her. She really does care about my future, my successes, and passing her class. Either that, or she pretends so well that I could swear it’s true. Once I’m out, I’ll have no one as close to me as she. I have never really had such a mentality for my teachers and mentors until I entered her classroom. And I can see she is popular, but she probably doesn’t understand the meaning she has to me personally. I suddenly have a lifting feeling getting deeper and deeper, that this teacher is like the best friend, the role model, and the mother I was destined to have.
She stands like a goddess, a posture like I’ve never seen, and the smile on her face illuminates more than any ray of sunlight could. As I walk toward her, my mind races, hoping I look alright and say everything correctly. My hands shake as I try to put on the “I-Am-Comfortable” face, but really I know that I’m feeling like such a criminal. What a horrible person I am, to be talking to her as if I deserve to, when it is clear that I just want her attention and care. I have yet to decide what first triggered my anxious attitude. Was it the height of the pedestal I gave her to sit on, or the beauty that she walks with? Then again, it’s probably caused by way that she tells me stories, without all of the details, to keep me up at night, pondering what exactly she left out and why. There is also a chance that those minutes of time that I spend with her, the ones that I wouldn’t trade for anything on this planet, might be the problem. Love is a strong word and I don’t use it often- I love her.