Gabrielle Gassin

It seems cliché to describe the classroom as a microcosm of the world. Like it’s been done before and those words are nothing new. But as I stroll around this science lab, I see that it is truly as depicted. No matter how many hundreds of these rooms I enter, the same traditional stereotypes mostly live on, ceasing to challenge the evolving nature of time. Flickers of moderations on these conventions are here and there illuminated, briefly lit before a gentle smothering overcomes them.

Some things have, however, changed. Students seem not to be any more afraid of the front row as of the back. The confident ones even approach it as though a challenge and with the same manner as they address the authority figure in the room. They shy away from no verbal challenge and answer provocations candidly. The following is a little piece on a select few archetypes that are ever-present in the classroom, as I’ve observed.

She enters the classroom attempting to manage a semi-smooth walk that displays her sense of self, that doesn’t betray the burden of the luggage she carries. In the true sense of the word, she dumps her belongings on the table. She comes from wealth, so the treatment of her stuff shall not depict such consideration for material things, despite their value. She thinks she’s a cool girl, but little does she know that the world will chew her up and spit her back out, denying her the entitlement she such “deserves” under the pretense that knowledge is not power. She’s been raised in a family where somebody else had to grind away for the flow of money to remain unceasing, and the sense of “working hard” sits somewhere in the peripheral vision of her parents, with no legacy remaining for herself and her siblings. She opens her technology and begins a deliberate and crucial discussion about some teenage concern that could certainly not hold more importance than working on the Periodic Table. Inserting  an earbud, she upends the fixed idea of a traditional classroom in one fell sweep. She converses with her company in a manner which portrays both her lack of interest and motivation for science, but conveys her fascination with having spelled her friends name incorrectly one time when she wrote it down. Her vanilla state of being perpetuates, and changes tempo only when she sucks another contender into her menial dialogue, her exasperation at the concept of sitting in a classroom looming over the middle part of her mouse brown hair.

There is another student based across from the last who seems to already understand that smart is cool. You might assume this girl will glide more fluidly into the outstretched and welcoming arms of the world; for her it will be a good place, though still she will apply herself as if it isn’t. She manages to conserve a balance which will pay dividends to her future; she converses with ease – both the boys and the girls she is surrounded by find her mellow and friendly. She remains “on-task” with her attention undivided…it’s purely The Science she is here for. She’s got straight teeth and blue eyes, and her self confidence allows for her to pull faces with no concern for her image. Other kids are attracted to her self possession but they do not yet know it; there’s just something that makes them want to be around her.

Behind and diagonally across from the real cool girl sits a student who won’t reach the peak of her poise until university or beyond. She overhears discussion on the Periodic Table and mumbles answers, the other kids not hearing her or choosing not to acknowledge her. Either way, she lacks the self-assuredness to give a correct response, or to challenge others that do not. She is swimming at the carnival today so did not have to come to class…she did, however, for The Science.

A step above the seriousness of our predetermined geeky girl is one for whom there is no other option outside of the labour of classwork. The repressing force of her parents edicts are like a perennial weight on her bony shoulders. Her concentration, her focus and attentiveness, though, go unobserved as she sits, neck beginning to ache from the sharp angle at which she holds her head. Her legs are crossed tightly, furtive glances at the ticking clock signifying her fathers insistence that she not waste a second. You’ll miss the scintillating dance in her almond eyes when she’s talking about Art, because of the tilt of her shiny black hair over a thick, tired textbook. bit wordy?

This piece of writing is not meant to be provocative. It’s not meant to get you, The Reader, thinking about the deeper, moral “meaning” behind the words. It might resonate with you if you are a teacher, and you “know” these students. You might be a teacher, and you’ve never met any such students. Maybe you are one of those students. Maybe you’ve been a combination of each of them. You might like the portrayals, or you might not. This is just a piece of descriptive writing that showcases my observations during one school lesson last week.

THE END.

It’s a Monday afternoon, and I’ve decided I deserve a treat. How friendly of me. Well done, self.

This “treat” is going to come in the form of a renewal of my toenail shellac. I walk purposefully through the mall and stand, paradoxical to my walk over, awkwardly in the shop entrance.
“Kai help yooh!” The lady says at me.
“Oh, I’d like my toes shellacked please.”
“Have seat.” She flicks her head in the direction of five wheelie chairs and four massage chairs. Perplexed, I wonder where she actually wants me to go. I take a seat three chairs away from the head-flicker.
“Choose colour.” I am dealt two plastic containers with a million colours on painted plastic nails. After much deliberation, (would I dare to have blue again?) I have decided on a turquoise; number 101. The usual routine transpires…envelope the nails in acetone saturated cotton buds and aluminium foil those bad boys until the shellac is curling off. After five minutes, my lady comes over and proceeds to unwrap and grind my previous polish away with a machine that I feel, if I make any sudden movements, will take the skin off my foot. By this stage, she has obviously examined my toes and decided that I need a pedicure.
“You want pedicure?” I am too afraid to say no.
“Um…yes. Yes I do need a pedicure, actually.” So easily persuaded, I amble over to the aforementioned massage chairs. Naturally, I sit down. I get comfortable, and then have to relocate; my chair is broken. Repositioning complete, I settle in for the pedicure. At this time, I whip out my laptop with the very responsible aim at getting some reports written (“do all the things!”). Unfortunately, I am appropriately pre-occupied by the Disney Classics piano soundtrack playing, and continually catch myself smiling obtusely as my back is pummelled by the chair. Inherently, I wonder if the assault this chair is hurling is going to cause the loss of skin and/or the entire foot in front of me. It doesn’t. I survive.

I sit, quietly. I ponder on the likeliness of my lady enjoying her job. It seems always to feel, like in fact; it is unmistakeably rude that I have come here. I don’t just mean me, personally. I think the ladies that work in these nail shops, hate us all. The only communication exchanged between us is through the selection of polish colour, the ankle-tap that occurs each time she needs the other foot, and the thank you that I have no doubt, she sees as blithe and insincere. I wonder what she is thinking, as a corporately dressed, alleged professional sits in front of her, her supposedly judging gaze on the woman who is gainfully addressing the cuticles and callouses of her feet. I can confidently say I speak on behalf of nail-shop clientele about tending to feel especially categorised when the language barrier takes hold. A quick exchange of something foreign (to me) between the women forces The Ego to make hostile assumptions…what could they possibly be saying about me?

Of course, they probably aren’t talking about me at all. And really, it’s characteristic of me (all of us, really) to believe that I’ve made a big enough impression on these people that they’d have to have a discussion about me. There goes The Ego, again.

Recently, I have struck up a bond with my very local salon. I was impressed, when upon sitting down to have the toes re-done, the owner wanted to do my hands for free. She struck up a conversation and was extremely pleasant to chat with. Since then, I am loyal to her services. No more free cosmetic treatments, but I leave each time feeling like it was. It’s a wonder what a good attitude and a smile can do.

And so finally, the nature of time has exposed itself directly unto me. And here I was, thinking I was one of those lucky young women who would defy it; one who would sidle through unscathed, unaffected by the hideous truth that time changes everything. This is not a realisation of the alterations in my psyche, though it truly is a beast that devours change and thrives on it. In a far better way than what the body does. The mind grows with time, it adopts and adjusts and allows for external happenings to influence it. Without growth and change, it would trap us. If humans did not embrace change, we would not be here today, we would have suffocated under the reluctance to expand the mind and thus the earth. A mind that rejects change is not one that is fit for a world that is developing at such an expeditious pace.

But the vehicle within which we transport ourselves undergoes a far less meaningful, far more unsightly change itself. Actually, let me rephrase. It most certainly is meaningful change. When one has long espoused pride, and established a sense of self-identity based on the way her body looks and functions, it can provide a source of amazement to realise that no longer is it the body it once was. I mean this in the least egoistic, narcissistic way possible (is that possible? The mere expression of this concept implies my ego has taken control; though that is another notion all together).

It was a slap in the face for me to realise on Monday night that after two to three months of wondering why my healthy eating and regular exercise routine, that has always been one of my strongest suits – “you can eat whatever you like and still have a body like that!” {jealousy disguised as a compliment; obvious to the naked ear} no longer seemed to be working. Was it my recent adjustment to no longer eating mammals? {It can’t have been, that was a year ago} So my brain took hold of this perpetual question *what is happening to me, I haven’t even given birth to any babies yet* when on Monday night the answer arrived during shower time. Shower time is a sensational time for thoughts to take form, I think it’s because we step inside a one by one rectangle and everything that keeps us contrived and cluttered throughout the day ceases for a few minutes, as hot water cascades the ripped soft lines of our bodies. It’s no wonder the concept of “short showers” is often ignored.

This realisation was that, like many before me and more to come, time affects the human body just like it does to anything else that is not manufactured by a machine. The vital, superbly-functioning organs begin to slow, and the body begins to react accordingly. It’s a funny feeling, to have to acknowledge that something beyond your control is taking place. At the same thing, it’s empowering to accept that change can actually occur. It’s empowering because it has to come from me, though. Taking control is the next step in making adjustments… enforced change. And that is better than having a saggy butt.

I woke up this morning at 4:15 hyperventilating in sadness. I grabbed my notebook and scribbled down the images in my mind that had caused me so much angst, even in my unconscious state. It has only been altered slightly in terms of syntax.

…And with the realisation of what had transpired between the Russians and the Americans – a deal gone sour and the loss of fortune and a way of life, in slow motion the lives of the people present diminished in front of her eyes. And it was something that happened quickly – one minute she was at the help desk asking for someone who spoke English to assist her brother with booking a room for the night, the next she was watching from the peaceful position of a train window, overlooking the bridge and the river, and all that happened down below.

The men from both sides climbed down the stairs and merged at the dock. The detectives traced their every move – one step in front yet physically one step behind. As the snow began to billow furiously and the wind began its winter course, the train jerked forward unexpectedly, those who remained lurched to grab something to steady their bodies; they truly needed it now. Through the front window the wind and snow altered her perception of everything, but it wasn’t too late – the snow hadn’t yet fallen enough to submerge the figure of a little white dog trotting happily, unprepared for the fate about to befall her. The girl screamed from the depths of her very soul as the little dog was left behind – the train pulling away unknowingly from all that connected her to what was once a beautiful life.