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| Credit: courtesy of vice.com |
[Forward: Both Lady
E. and ‘M’ have started a new school year. I was curious about Elena’s reaction
to her new 2nd grade class. So I peeked at her recent diary entry (forgive me for
sharing your thoughts with the world). I am in awe of your new Henry Rollins-esque
style: stark and brooding. Marina’s new diary was also in view, so I’ll share a
brief passage in the next blogpost.]
YOKOHAMA,
April XX. In
the suburbs. Bone-ass tired but I hauled myself into the schoolyard to face
down another year of instruction. Second grade now. Gnarly-looking dudes and
dudettes eyeball me as I enter the new classroom. I assert my presence by going
right to the front and glowering back at them all. Daring them. Assaulting them
right back with my stare.
Education
is a rattlesnake in a cage. You climb into this enclosed space and try to tame
your fear of the unknown, but the knowledge acquired when confronting uncertainties
is what fuels your forward momentum in this life. That's what first grade was for
me—I escaped the venom flung at me from the other kids in my old class—and it made
me stronger. I am vaulting my body and mind into this new space as part of my
life quest. Guess I've accumulated a lot of rage since I got here.
[Later]
I am discouraged by the behavior of my fellow students, who seem lured in by trivial things: Barbie dolls, purikuya pics, what’s for lunch.
For chrissake we’re in second grade! Let’s expand our horizons and get some
authentic life experience.
[Much
later] After a couple of days of this routine I feel at home in the miniature
prison. We all wear our school uniforms with a knowing smirk. I feel full of
steam about to burst the rivets constraining my childhood.
The
teacher tells me I have a high level of energy and an intense personality. I
refuse to answer. I just look at her, ambivalent, yet thankful for the
knowledge she imparts to me.
Sometimes
the monotony of it is a horror. I grind my teeth, pace back and forth in the
rear of the classroom, gearing up for the day’s classes. Lunging, lurching, regurgitating the words they feed me. I may alienate them with my crystal-clear
vision of where this training will take me. When they grab at me or titter when
I raise my hand, I care not. I will pull the trigger of my flamethrower of
intelligence. During the play period, when I hurtle across the monkey bars, my
speed and precision vaults me past them as I vector into a place they
cannot follow. My aggression is a metaphor for the impregnable emotional shield
I construct. I earned the handle “Crazy E” years ago on the street. When I
amble to school, cursing the fools walking the streets with me in their school-issued
ignorance and self-satisfaction, my fury is blunted by the knowledge that when
the shit comes down, I am ready. The full-throated howl spewing forth from my
young-girl’s frame shall sear the consciousness of any who dare come into my
area of operations. Just try, maggots!
And,
yeah, It was an excellent first week in second grade.
[*Smiley faces*]
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