More Than Education

School project, but i like it nonetheless.

 Beginnings

 

Education is automatic. Schoolteachers drill the rules of society into our heads and explain ‘minimum standards’, but even without these lessons we would still learn. It’s a part of growing. Maturity comes over time, at different rates, and in different amounts, but one thing I’ve learned is that you can’t force it. Like education, it’s automatic, and no matter what you do, you will always be acting your age. We call some people immature, some premature – but those are just words attached to opinions. Maturity – real, genuine, soul-deep maturity – is an absolute, an indisputable fact. No matter how old you are, there are always more ways to grow.

 

 

Kindergarten

 

He was my best friend. The one who would play with dolls when I asked him to, the one with whom I read my first chapter books. He was quiet and introverted back then, internal and shy. He talked funny – sucked in his breath after every line, cleared his throat like an old man. To a certain extent, I was the one with the bubbly, overflowing little-girl energy, but even I hardly stood up for myself. But then again, we were six.

            The substitute teacher was made of iron, sawdust, and ice. We behaved as children will, energetic and tireless, yet submissive. The rituals of story time, play time, snack time, and naptime progressed as usual, us moving methodically and patiently, not sure why were there or what was ahead, yet curious to find out.

            Circle time. Almost three, almost time to meet parents and share art projects with apathetic siblings. “Tomorrow you’ll be studying the jungle,” she said to us, her voice monotone and lifeless. “Can anyone tell me what kinds of animals live in the jungle?”

            My best friend raised his hand. Taking a deep breath, he spoke, pausing every line to suck in air and send it whooshing out again. “Jaguars.” (breathe). “They live” (breathe) “on the ground floor” (breathe) “but sometimes they climb trees.”

            The sub’s eyes narrowed. Her eyebrows knitted like permafrost crackling over grass. “Speak clearly.”

            Louder, he spoke again. “Jaguars” (breathe) “live on the” (breathe) “ground –“

            “Talk normally!” She hissed at him.

            A child as young as I does not know what ‘fairness’ means. I wasn’t aware that the teacher was being unjust. I just knew that there was nothing the matter with the way he talked, nothing at all. Everyone is either normal or scary to a six-year-old.

            For a moment, though, I transcended those expectations, and suddenly the black-and-white options that had been set before me didn’t matter. My fists balled up, my eyes narrowed in a childish fit of rage. It was the first time I remember feeling really angry, and I let the feeling consume me.

            I spoke quietly at first. “That’s just the way he talks, that’s normal.”

            Her frigid eyes turned to me. “I wasn’t talking to you.”

            “But he can’t change, he’s just like that!”

            I was yelling now. “Sit down!” She screamed, for I was on my feet and in her face. The classroom was a tangle of noise, my tinkerbell voice merging with the teacher’s angry shouts and my friend’s sobs.

            It took three recess monitors to get the class back in order. The sub stormed out, angry that a child had dared to defy her. Later, when my mother asked me how my day went, I paused before answering. “Fun,” I said. But the word didn’t feel right. My vocabulary was too small.

 

Sometimes it takes a step out of the ordinary to discover there are shades of grey.

 

 

Third Grade

 

“We’re going to Australia today,” she said. “I have everyone’s ‘plane tickets’ right here.”

Everyone but me heard the quotation marks around ‘plane tickets’ as our teacher passed out flimsy pieces of paper, typed out neatly by an adult’s adept hand. Smirks were shared with neighbors and excited whispering filled the room at the prospect of our simulation. As a third grader – and the oldest in my class – I should have been the wise one. But instead, my heart jerked painfully as I realized that I hadn’t packed.

We were studying the coral reef, and we were “going to Australia” to live in an underwater research center. Students gathered in groups, herded towards the door by the teachers. Hanging back, I wondered if I should call my mom to say goodbye.

Unlike many kids my age, I had traveled enough in my life to believe that going to Australia was possible. I remembered vacations to Mexico and Canada and Hawaii, and recalled the year I spent living in Holland. Australia wasn’t that far – I knew how small the world could be if you just stepped onto a plane and squeezed your eyes shut.

I was getting excited. I joined the line at the door, trying to remember my way around the airport and reflecting on the research we would be doing once we arrived. I had always wanted to see the Great Barrier Reef, and now I was finally getting a chance to.

Pushing out the door, into the hallway, lining up against the lockers. A teacher stayed outside with us, grinning hugely, while the other went back to the class. We spent 10 minutes in that hallway, talking about the reef and what we hoped to discover.

We were clearly waiting for our ride to arrive from the airport. That’s why it was taking so long. By now, I was longing for this experience of a lifetime, thrilled at the prospect of doing something out of the ordinary. Something interesting. Something different.

The door creaked open again. Our teacher poked her head out of the classroom. “Ok, we’re here!” Students pushed into the class, and, confused, I followed. Was something wrong?

But no. Instead of a plane ride, that day I got to look forward to yet another game of pretend. The class was beautifully decorated with sea creatures and research stations, but no actual ocean surrounded us.

I looked at the plane ticket in my hand. Worthless. Just a fake. I felt like crying.

 

A game of pretend can never be the same as the real thing.

 

 

Fifth Grade

 

            At eleven, I was already finding my niche.

            Jack, the substitute teacher, had read us Hamlet instead of reviewing the civil war. We had drawn pictures, talked about iambic pentameter, and were now marveling at how an actor could memorize that many lines.

            Then one of us brought it up. “We should do the play!! You know, like put it on an’ have an audience an’ everything.”

            Ever supportive, Jack nodded his agreement and suggested we adapt the Shakespeare version into one of our own. He didn’t actually think it would happen.

            Three weeks later, we had a 37-page script, and The Tragedy of Hamlet was now a comedy. The ancient language became the dialect of elementary kids, and the characters became clichéd stereotypes, but we didn’t care. We were holding after-school rehearsals, finding costumes, and learning how to sword fight. All on our own.

            The independence felt so refreshing, I hoped it would never end. I had never felt so in-charge, so responsible and reliable and so much like a leader. I knew how revolutionaries must feel – like they were defying the norm, breaking out of a box. We made a classic story into our own, and broke out of our confining boxes all at once.

            After four months, our final product was ready. Feeling important, we sent invitations to other classes, asking them to come see our play. When the day arrived, the stage fright could not have measured up to the sense of accomplishment.

            Our theater was the classroom; our backstage was behind a few dividers. Our set consisted of a few pieces of cloth and a table, and the costumes had been borrowed from the middle school drama class. The script was cheesy and the acting was questionable, and yet nothing could dampen our sense of accomplishment. Look at what we did. Look at how much we worked and how independent we are.

            High fives were exchanged after curtain call, pizza was ordered, and the rest of the school day descended into vaguely organized chaos. We had managed to score a party for our whole class just by putting on a play. The glow of our undertaking stayed with us for the rest of the year, and we found we had matured because of it.

 

No matter what the end point looks like, the way you arrive can change you for good.

 

 

Seventh Grade

 

            The sun warmed the back of my neck as I leaned over my copy of Romeo and Juliet. It was spring, the birds were weaving their melodies into a staccato rhythm of possibility, and I was outside with my friends, dramatizing a classic.

            “I getta be Juliet! Pleeeaase???”

            “Fine, fine. As long as I get Romeo this time.”

            “‘Kay, ready? ‘O Romeo, Romeo! Wherefore art thou Romeo?’”

            “Can we skip this scene? It makes me uncomfortable.”

            “Oh, shut up. This is a classic!”

            Noises filtering from an open window interrupted our conversation. It seemed that seventh period Language Arts was packing up. Shooting glances at each other, we scooped up our copies of the play and swept back inside.

            School was almost over for the year, but I didn’t know if I could take much more of this. Every day in Language Arts, an apathetic teacher would pop in a 10-minute movie about Animal Farm or Our Town, after which chaos would descend and the class would go wild with boredom. The occasional essay we wrote was returned to us with no comments whatsoever, no hints on how to improve or better ourselves. Unable to face the idea of an eventless, education-less year, my friends and I had taken to sneaking out of class and studying the works of Shakespeare.

            Back in the class, I shot the teacher a cool look. I was angry that she had made my favorite subject so unbearably mind dulling, and I hoped next year would be better.

            I was twelve, and yet I still felt eleven. I hadn’t noticed the changes that were occurring – the way I was developing opinions of my own and trying to influence my own fate. It was part of maturing, that I knew, but if this was maturity … I wanted to stay in elementary school forever. I was bored and scared that I was losing my skills as a writer and reader.

            Walking from a class I protested and despised into a world where individuality and opinion were valued, I felt useless and annoyed. What more can I do?

 

Maybe defying authority can educate you more than following the rules.

 

 

 

Eighth Grade

 

The music crackled from the CD player, sounding canned and fake, and yet it was so invigorating that my heart began pounding loudly enough to shorten my breath. Crouched behind a plastic folding chair, I listened intently to the chords and timed my next pounce.

There it was. The jazz piano had begun. It was my entrance.

Elementary kids froze all over the stage as I rocked back on my heels and sprung up from my hiding place.

“Ha! How they flatter themselves … I never show much interest in this group …” I sang, moving across the stage as sinuously as I could manage. I wasn’t a great singer, but at that moment I didn’t care. In my mind’s eye I could picture the spotlight following my every move, the sequins on my costume casting diamonds on the red curtain …

This year, I felt on top of the world. Not only was I an eighth grader (and subsequently entitled to pull rank over the other students to get what I wanted), I had also been cast as the villain in the school musical. Playing ‘The Cat’ was the most fun I’d ever had onstage – she was a fantastic character, and I was so lucky to have this opportunity.

My solo ended, and I raced back to my hiding spot with a feeling of triumph. This year, for the first time, I would have my own dressing room and a cordless mike. I had never felt so accomplished and mature.

Later, as I was being fitted for my costume, I smugly reflected on how much I had done to get here. Eight years at the same school had been exhausting, and now I was finally at the top of it all. There was nowhere to go but forward, upward, and outward.

The final performance of our musical, Honk!, involved a dropped line, a costume malfunction, and the wildest cast party I had ever been to in my 13 years. Sipping root beer with stage makeup running into my eyes, I forgot all about my so-so voice and the few problems with the performance. Fourth graders hounded me, begging for an autograph. I sloppily signed their posters and gave them each a cool smile, already longing for the next day’s impending fame.

 

I had earned my bragging rights. 

 

Ninth Grade

 

The theater was smaller than I had remembered from my previous performances. In fact, it looked too small. Too intimate. I had a hunch that every move I made on that stage in the year to come would be noticed and critiqued.

It was the first day of freshman year, and the first day of my most anticipated class: Play Production. Getting into the class had been a miracle, and now that I was here, I felt much less confident. Seniors sprawled in the front rows, sniggering and cracking dirty jokes. A few other groups of older kids were dispersed throughout the rows, everyone deep in conversation. I was by far the youngest, and by far the most alone.

I had been waiting for this day for months, and now that it had arrived, I was more nervous than I had been at the actual audition. Coming here, I had standards to live up to, old expectations to fill. Not to mention that, today, I would have to completely bare myself to people I didn’t know at all. How was I going to improvise with these upperclassmen? There was no way I was ready for this.

I felt so different from the confident eighth grader I had been months before. This was a new world full of fresh responsibilities, and I knew my children’s theater education wouldn’t cut it in this intensive class. I felt raw and completely open, and class hadn’t even started.

Frozen to my seat, I watched the rest of the class file in. They looked poised, aloof, talented – even the one other freshman looked more self-assured than I felt. The anxiety of the whole year seemed to pile up right then – suddenly I saw that, no matter how hard I tried, I would always have to work a little bit harder. I, who had never felt challenged enough. I, who had always considered myself a little better, a little more mature than my classmates.

The teacher stepped onto the stage, all terrifying confidence and remote hilarity.

 

It’s gonna be a tough ride.

        

 

 

Tenth Grade

 

            “So how was History?”

            “Fantastic! We had this great discussion about whether racism or slavery came first … we spent the whole class time debating.”

            “Yeah, we talked about that last time! What did you say?”

            So began another courtyard dialogue, all eight-or-so of us inputting opinions. This was often how lunchtime progressed – in-depth debates, rants, sharing of passionate opinions. We were IB kids, but more importantly, we were teenagers finding ourselves. Gone were the days of gossiping idly about the latest scandal, or sharing fashion tips and comforting lovesick ‘friends’ whom we secretly despised. My current friends and I were closer than ever now, after only a year of knowing one another, and we spent every waking moment possible in each other’s company. I knew why we were so close: no longer did we only discuss the superficial details of someone’s hairstyle. Instead, we knew each other so deeply and completely that we felt like family.

            I was maturing, and I knew it. Instead of scaring me like it used to, I felt empowered and freer than ever. I was developing (or denying) the core beliefs that I had been raised on and making them my own, and all around me I could see my friends were doing the same.

            But there were more expectations now, more standards, more pressure to make my opinions heard. I knew how crucial discussion was to my growth, but sometimes no one realized that growth also meant listening, gathering new viewpoints, and observing. There was so much stress to be immediately opinionated, and sometimes I just wanted out of this mess called high school.

            “ … so that’s what I think. What about you?”

            “I’m not really sure yet. I need to think about it. Right now I can see it both ways.”

            “That’s ok. That’s great. Take your time.”

           

I smiled at them. They understood.

 

 

Not Quite There, But Moving Fast

 

This city smells different from the others. The buttery, fragrant, smoky scent of Paris had replaced the gasoline/coffee aroma of London the second I had stepped off my plane. That had been last night, and now my sights are set on scouring the capital of France.

I jog down the sidewalk, taking in the scenery and absorbing the language. Je t’aime, Paris. I’m already anticipating tomorrow’s train to Munich.

I’m young, and the rest of my life stretches before me: the rest of college, a steady day job, nightly auditions. It all looks so good from where I’m standing now.

 

gh

 

            My energized footsteps echo along the hallway. Shoulders up, chin up, smile. First impressions are the most important ones in this business, so despite my pounding heart, I make myself seem confident and ready for anything. I’m the best. I’ll make you tons of money. Hire me.

            I run through the monologue in my head, hastily sounding out tricky syllables as the door grows nearer. I’ll rip apart anything you throw at me. Watch me.

            The stage is empty except for a chair and a spotlight. I’m used to both. The stage manager takes my résumé, narrowing her eyes at my flashy, self-assured smile. I step onto the stage, take a deep breath. Body language. Remember: intention, all the time.

            Closing my eyes for a moment, I begin.

           

"I've come so far since then."

Author's Note

A lot of this is fabricated, because that's what us fiction writers do when asked to write true stories about our lives.