The title would have irked your curiosity or arched your skeptical eyebrow. Or both.
I'm not a pompous, air headed, fashionista, do-my-nails-match-my-eyes cheerleader nor am I a prehistoric, thick skulled, drooling, guffawing Jock.
I'm a... I'm a... Well, I'm ME. That's it.
(I'll be blogging soon about the status quo)
I don't go complaining about the lack of pink in the hallways, the crunched up lockers or even the population of nerds, dweebs and geeks. (Jocks have probably never evolved after the cavemen stage and still find unexplainable delight in picking on small fry.)
I don't whine in a fake French accent and I definitely don't keep fingering a curl of dumb blond whilst saying in a snotty voice- "This School Sucks."
Then WHY the blasphemous title, you ask?
Well, apart from the 'comic incident' and the face that the CBSE system is warped and the mentality of our teachers is twisted, today's outrageous display puts the cherry on the top.
Monday Assemblies is a Code Word. If Susan Fletcher or Artemis Fowl does happen to stumble upon this encrypted word, they'd probably decipher:
Death By Boredom
As usual, the toneless comperes droned on, brainwashing us to be better, greater individuals(to no avail).
The usual stupor wafted through the silent nearly brain dead audience, drugging them into a listless short-lived coma.
These weekly gatherings are usually concluded by a meaningless, incomprehensible speech by our Principal whose 'wise'(read:Cheap magazine ripped words) words echoed through the unresponsive auditorium.
Today, however, he did things a little differently.
No, he did strew out some pointless garbage at the end, so no need to keep your hopes up.
After the awarding of athletic achievements, he shuffled to the microphone and in his gruff, nerve wrecking, lazy voice, he said:
"I would like to call upon two girls to the stage and I would like to award them. Though I have no cups or certificates, they still need the recognition."
At this point, he raised a languid hand and gestured to two unfortunate girls in the row across from ours.
They spilled out of line and made their way,self-consciously to the centre of the stage. There, they stood, blushing in the light of hundreds of eyes watching them intently.
He continued, speaking through clenched teeth as always and through his beard:
"I would like to contribute some fils from my salary to these two girls. How generous of me. I would like to donate some money."
He paused and then grinned, cheap and cruel, his yellow teeth barred in self-appreciation.
"To purchase, for them, a pair of socks."
If the girls on stage were pink with embarrassment, I was brick red with fury and disgust.
Angry little hisses broke out through the auditorium.
We were appalled.
There he was, basking in self-content, clearly believing that he had said something 'amusing, hilarious, drop-dead-funny.'
Sick. That's the only word that swirled around my head. Sick.
Is this how the very idea of school has been distorted? Has school become a place, not where we learn, but where we are criticised for our tiny faults and slip-ups? Does it now preach sarcasm and spite instead of understanding and correcting?
Needless to say, not only were the girls thoroughly humiliated at their 'sock-less' attire, (Our uniform is complete with a pair of navy blue long, not ankle, socks.) we seemed to despise the Principal even more, if that's possible.
If it had been a movie, I would have spit ferociously on the ground with an ugly expression on and I would have rubbed my combat boot hard against the floor with the sole, shaking my fist and yelling a few carefully picked swear words. But Alas, it was not.
Ahh..well.
*Twirls six-barrel-gun on index finger and jabs it back into its artificial leather hilt on my belt with its burnished, glinting buckle. Doffs cowboy head gear in spectacular Old Wild West fashion. Tennessee accent against a growing sunset, perched upon a magnificent chestnut brown horse with a silky, glittering mane:
"There will be another day, my friend." *
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