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South Central High, SCH, Schithole of extraordinary measure with pink walls glass nineteen-sixties shoe scuff nail polish finger print spiderweb cracked where Danny couldn't wait doors, three doors gushing angry empty post-pubescents, pre-pubescents angry, sad tired deep yawns teenagers, standing gawking silent contemplation, desperate to get in, desperate to be anywhere else. Thick tile (blue for boys in bathrooms and locker rooms; pink for little ladies in bathrooms and hallways; must we all be little ladies? no boys allowed in the open halls?) cracked aged caulking gone yellow and grey (grey sheets slumped on a clothesline in the dusk), scratched black by god knows what. Speckled linoleum with sneaker stains and gum stains and puke stains and blood? hair?
Answer this riddle: what flies when hormones rise and testosterone cries and gossip and cruelty beat on the masses, beat slaughter war drums deep in the chest, clobber the weak—Darwin says survival of the fittest means crushing the weak, the ones who don't fit, the ones who aren't apple-pie-american-dream golden boys and girls, listening attentive or fighting the battlefields of football and soccer and lacrosse. Did you know lacrosse was a method of war? Sending our children to laugh pretend battles—fight for your scholarship, do war on the men women children painted a different color.
Schithole eats you up and shits you out whole.
1
Mr. Metzger calls role (roles. rote. infinite tedium). Jessica sits, long brown hair in twisted clumps braided, dangling swish right in front of me. It's not her seat. It's never her seat. It's a game: Mr. Metzger calls names, students echo names from different places every day; add variety and behind-the-back laughter. Mr. Metzger doesn't complain, doesn't sigh or roll eyes (grown-up angry teacher posturing like he never minds, never letting on that he knows the joke and doesn't care). Today: Jessica answers role call from the front row window seat, sunshine on her shoulders, gold twists in her braid. Her dimples echo in her name. Mr. Metzger checks off names, calls role(s). Today: Daryl in back third row left seventh seat, Lizzie in the center four by four, Ryan deep in the second row, Jason in seat one by one in the front row smirk smiling. Today: charting infinity.
Jess twitches, twirls her hair, twists the ends, tilts her head doesn't listen (maybe listens?) doesn't care, doesn't know. Heat shimmers, swoops across her turquoise spaghetti strap top, tight jeans, fuchsia thong strings (like wire and lace) poking delicate small between shirt and jeans (see Ryan squirm). Mr. Metzger pokes, swishes, conducts graphs in chalk, ancient chalk, old school chalk, hipster chalk, swishes one line, two line, half a cross and a curve, one quarter of a circle, broken curve and
“the slope continues to infinity. Got it? This is on the test people, so pay attention.”
Ryan smirks, Jess shuffles, Jason scribbles fast furious long deep slicing notes.
“This is the basics. You learned this stuff years ago, I know. But guess what, kids? This is on the test. You want to pass, you want to graduate, you gotta pass the test.
“So let's pay attention, okay folks?”
Mr. Metzger sighs—not resignation, never really resignation, though he plays at it well.
“From the top....”
2
Mrs. James Wilcox brings the English tongue to the heathen barbarian masses, babbling low-brow-no-brow, brainless jingo slang. Mrs. James Wilcox bears the holy word of Blake, the holy book of Songs (psalms) of Innocence and Experience. Mrs. James Wilcox orates
and, lo, laughter, behind the hand giggles at such soulful oration to such sinful adolescent post-pubescents. Mrs. James Wilcox moves on.
Cries a black-souled-white-English child
“For real?”
Cries reality yes, child. Cries Mrs. James Wilcox
“Emily. You should learn to raise your hand.”
Cries Emily
“That's bullshit.”
Cries Mrs. James Wilcox's raised brow, are you talking about my rules, or our all hallowed savior William Blake?, either one deadly.
“I mean, the poem,” blushes Emily. “I mean, 'White as an angel is the English child'? Seriously?”
And all the black-souled-white children nod and hum and silent hide their inside knowledge that yes, they are angels, yes—because they are not bereaved of light.
“'Seriously'?” asks Mrs. James Wilcox and breathes deep resignation, deep seated exasperation. “Perhaps someone else can expand on this?
“Jack?”
I think: Black children have white souls, prays ever beloved William Blake, black children can be like us: good, glowing, angel white immortal beings and maybe one day share in the tent of God. I say: shoulder shrug.
Deep exasperated all knowing sighs, coupled with a got-ya twinkle.
“Maybe if you put some effort into it, Jack, you wouldn't be failing my class.”
Laughs the white-souled-black child dancing with Buddha in my chest a drawled “Sure.”
“Oh, the enthusiasm.
“See me after class.”
3
Jack. What are you doing when I'm talking? Are you even listening to what's going on around you? If you don't put some effort in to this class, I will fail you. And you will not graduate. Do you hear me? Do you understand? (shape up child, or the dark will eat you)
South Central High, SCH, Schithole of extraordinary measure with pink walls glass nineteen-sixties shoe scuff nail polish finger print spiderweb cracked where Danny couldn't wait doors, three doors gushing angry empty post-pubescents, pre-pubescents angry, sad tired deep yawns teenagers, standing gawking silent contemplation, desperate to get in, desperate to be anywhere else. Thick tile (blue for boys in bathrooms and locker rooms; pink for little ladies in bathrooms and hallways; must we all be little ladies? no boys allowed in the open halls?) cracked aged caulking gone yellow and grey (grey sheets slumped on a clothesline in the dusk), scratched black by god knows what. Speckled linoleum with sneaker stains and gum stains and puke stains and blood? hair?
Answer this riddle: what flies when hormones rise and testosterone cries and gossip and cruelty beat on the masses, beat slaughter war drums deep in the chest, clobber the weak—Darwin says survival of the fittest means crushing the weak, the ones who don't fit, the ones who aren't apple-pie-american-dream golden boys and girls, listening attentive or fighting the battlefields of football and soccer and lacrosse. Did you know lacrosse was a method of war? Sending our children to laugh pretend battles—fight for your scholarship, do war on the men women children painted a different color.
Schithole eats you up and shits you out whole.
1
Mr. Metzger calls role (roles. rote. infinite tedium). Jessica sits, long brown hair in twisted clumps braided, dangling swish right in front of me. It's not her seat. It's never her seat. It's a game: Mr. Metzger calls names, students echo names from different places every day; add variety and behind-the-back laughter. Mr. Metzger doesn't complain, doesn't sigh or roll eyes (grown-up angry teacher posturing like he never minds, never letting on that he knows the joke and doesn't care). Today: Jessica answers role call from the front row window seat, sunshine on her shoulders, gold twists in her braid. Her dimples echo in her name. Mr. Metzger checks off names, calls role(s). Today: Daryl in back third row left seventh seat, Lizzie in the center four by four, Ryan deep in the second row, Jason in seat one by one in the front row smirk smiling. Today: charting infinity.
Jess twitches, twirls her hair, twists the ends, tilts her head doesn't listen (maybe listens?) doesn't care, doesn't know. Heat shimmers, swoops across her turquoise spaghetti strap top, tight jeans, fuchsia thong strings (like wire and lace) poking delicate small between shirt and jeans (see Ryan squirm). Mr. Metzger pokes, swishes, conducts graphs in chalk, ancient chalk, old school chalk, hipster chalk, swishes one line, two line, half a cross and a curve, one quarter of a circle, broken curve and
“the slope continues to infinity. Got it? This is on the test people, so pay attention.”
Ryan smirks, Jess shuffles, Jason scribbles fast furious long deep slicing notes.
“This is the basics. You learned this stuff years ago, I know. But guess what, kids? This is on the test. You want to pass, you want to graduate, you gotta pass the test.
“So let's pay attention, okay folks?”
Mr. Metzger sighs—not resignation, never really resignation, though he plays at it well.
“From the top....”
2
Mrs. James Wilcox brings the English tongue to the heathen barbarian masses, babbling low-brow-no-brow, brainless jingo slang. Mrs. James Wilcox bears the holy word of Blake, the holy book of Songs (psalms) of Innocence and Experience. Mrs. James Wilcox orates
Piping down the valleys wild
Piping songs of pleasant glee
On a cloud I saw a child,
And he laughing said to me,
and, lo, laughter, behind the hand giggles at such soulful oration to such sinful adolescent post-pubescents. Mrs. James Wilcox moves on.
My mother bore me in the southern wild,
And I am black, but O! my soul is white;
White as an angel is the English child,
But I am black as if bereav'd of light,
Cries a black-souled-white-English child
“For real?”
Cries reality yes, child. Cries Mrs. James Wilcox
“Emily. You should learn to raise your hand.”
Cries Emily
“That's bullshit.”
Cries Mrs. James Wilcox's raised brow, are you talking about my rules, or our all hallowed savior William Blake?, either one deadly.
“I mean, the poem,” blushes Emily. “I mean, 'White as an angel is the English child'? Seriously?”
And all the black-souled-white children nod and hum and silent hide their inside knowledge that yes, they are angels, yes—because they are not bereaved of light.
“'Seriously'?” asks Mrs. James Wilcox and breathes deep resignation, deep seated exasperation. “Perhaps someone else can expand on this?
“Jack?”
I think: Black children have white souls, prays ever beloved William Blake, black children can be like us: good, glowing, angel white immortal beings and maybe one day share in the tent of God. I say: shoulder shrug.
Deep exasperated all knowing sighs, coupled with a got-ya twinkle.
“Maybe if you put some effort into it, Jack, you wouldn't be failing my class.”
Laughs the white-souled-black child dancing with Buddha in my chest a drawled “Sure.”
“Oh, the enthusiasm.
“See me after class.”
3
Jack. What are you doing when I'm talking? Are you even listening to what's going on around you? If you don't put some effort in to this class, I will fail you. And you will not graduate. Do you hear me? Do you understand? (shape up child, or the dark will eat you)
© 2013 - 2024 anapests-and-ink
Comments13
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Read it, and, now, thoughts:
(blue for boys in bathrooms and locker rooms; pink for little ladies in bathrooms and hallways; must we all be little ladies? no boys allowed in the open halls?)
What a great line
Answer this riddle: what flies when hormones rise and testosterone cries and gossip and cruelty beat on the masses, beat slaughter war drums deep in the chest, clobber the weak—
Jesus Christ this went all Lord of the Flies on me. Evocative, though.
Sending our children to laugh pretend battles—fight for your scholarship, do war on the men women children painted a different color.
I was discussing with some Spaniards and one Italian the other day about how competitive American culture has become (or always was?). Maybe I should just have read them this.
And all the black-souled-white children nod and hum and silent hide their inside knowledge that yes, they are angels, yes—because they are not bereaved of light.
WELL, then. There it is. Well said.
Love the last line as well.
Ok so the first part with all the sensory words was hard to follow (but again we shall remember how much my little brain struggles with stream of consciousness so this is not necessarily the writing at fault). After the sensory part describing the school the characters become clear, Jack especially, and I followed it really well. I'm already very attached to Jack.
(blue for boys in bathrooms and locker rooms; pink for little ladies in bathrooms and hallways; must we all be little ladies? no boys allowed in the open halls?)
What a great line
Answer this riddle: what flies when hormones rise and testosterone cries and gossip and cruelty beat on the masses, beat slaughter war drums deep in the chest, clobber the weak—
Jesus Christ this went all Lord of the Flies on me. Evocative, though.
Sending our children to laugh pretend battles—fight for your scholarship, do war on the men women children painted a different color.
I was discussing with some Spaniards and one Italian the other day about how competitive American culture has become (or always was?). Maybe I should just have read them this.
And all the black-souled-white children nod and hum and silent hide their inside knowledge that yes, they are angels, yes—because they are not bereaved of light.
WELL, then. There it is. Well said.
Love the last line as well.
Ok so the first part with all the sensory words was hard to follow (but again we shall remember how much my little brain struggles with stream of consciousness so this is not necessarily the writing at fault). After the sensory part describing the school the characters become clear, Jack especially, and I followed it really well. I'm already very attached to Jack.