Fight or Flight
The Education System
My job isn’t really much of a job, but I guess you could call me a full time student. Except full time means 5, 8 hour days a week and I’m only there for 6 hours a day, but who really cares about the details? My job, high school, is what most adults look back to as the greatest time in their life. My job, high school, should be easy, but I guess there’s just something wrong with me.
Walking around the halls with my friends, I don’t know how everyone just magically does everything. I’m not taking AP classes, or any other real track to success, but even the leisurely stroll I’m taking through my class load seems like it’s too fast.
“Andrew, dude, are you okay?” My friend Tank asks, apparently he was trying to talk to me or something.
“Yea, sorry.” I say, pulling a headphone out of my ear. The headphones are the noise reduction kind, the ones that are essentially just ear plugs with speakers. They’re an excuse for times like these, except I can just pretend I didn’t hear and zone out until somebody actually cares enough to tap me on the shoulder or something. With these bad boys, I can make myself as much of an asocial reject as I want, all under the guise of a music lover, something I coincidently am,
“So, how bad was chem.?” Tank asks for what might possibly be the second time. I already had it today, and he’s about to.
“You know, same as usual, pop quiz and an hour and a half of notes.” I say. I didn’t technically lie, but I didn’t tell him how bad it really was, or how I freaked out during the quiz and almost threw up, how I got 10 out of 40 and only because the person grading my paper felt bad and didn’t mark some stuff wrong. Technically, I didn’t lie, because that kind of stuff happens pretty much every time I go to chemistry.
“Gayyyyyy!” He says, dropping his backpack to thr ground. Tank is one of those kids with a dad that really wants to relive all of his old sports dreams through his son. His dad wanted a big burly lineman, which is probably why he named his kid Tank… What he got was a gangly 2nd string wide receiver. To be honest, I don’t even know if Tank likes football, but he’s on varsity.
“Yeah, it’s a huge drag.” I say, just trying to fill silence.
“That’s not what your mom said last night bro!” My friend Kylse yells, because that what he does, a constant stream of your mom jokes 2 years after they stopping being funny. Kyle isn’t my favorite.
“yea, she was more like ‘Kyle, is it in yet?”’ My friend Jackson says and laughs. Jackson’s the funny one, and the smart one, and the athletic one, and the popular one, and the closest thing I have to a best friend. I’m kind of like the bottom feeding leech hanging on his arm, like I use all his extra charisma, and whatever it is that makes him fit in so well, and I use it so I can survive without looking like a complete loner. Between him and the headphones, I almost pass as normal to the average uninterested onlooker, almost. It’s just the little things that give me away, like how I hardly hang out with anyone outside of school, or how my friends are joking around and I’m absentmindedly staring at the wall.
“So what if you got with my mom Kyle? I mean I had your sister a few times!” Jackson says, the lowest of all low blows.
“Ohhh!” I’m paying just enough attention to coo in. Being as all around gifted and charming as Jackson is, he gets around, including a one night stand with Kyle’s older sister. Being called out, Kyle has two choices: Step up, but back down. He concedes to Jackson the way I probably would. Jackson has a better comeback to give to pretty much anything either of us could ever say.
The bell rings, telling us to leave. As I start to walk to my next class I can feel my heart beat faster and faster. Not because I have any reason for it to, or like I’m nervus about history next, but because I’m just that kind of person. I don’t worry about anything actually threatening, or anything that matters, I just worry. It’s like my body has two modes: worry and off. I don’t mean off like sleep, I mean like what happened during my chemistry quiz. I mean my brain freaks out, and freaks out, and freaks the fuck out, until it just shuts off. That’s when I just lay my head on the desk and hope someone’s sneaking up on me with a hatchet.
My brain does that a lot, y’know, just shuts off. Usually in school, so from experience, I can say definitively that learning is bad for you.
Or not even so much learning that’s bad for you, I don’t mind forcing pointless information into my head, it’s the whole proving I learned something thing that gets to me. Homework, quiz’s, tests, competencies, proficiencies, minimum graduation requirements, minimum college acceptance requirements; pretty much anything that has me prove something or step up to some sort of challenge. It just makes my brain buss and my heart race. Makes my palms swear and my hands cramp up.
I make it to class and sit down before the bell rings.
My teacher, Dr. Goode, he’s not a fan of formalities or greetings. I don’t even see how you can be a Dr. in history, but he got his doctorate and insists on the respect that title supposedly deserves. It all seems a little pretentious to me, but then I guess I’m pretty biased. His first words are,
“Open your textbooks to chapter 16.” There are no hello’s or jokes or any hint at a pleasantry, he just dives into the lecture.
“Yo, did you do the homework?” My sort-of-friend Alex asks, “Cuz I need to copy.” Because that’s what Alex does, copies, and sits there singing annoying ass songs, but mostly he just copies.
“Do I ever do it?” I say, barely listening to the teacher drone on with his lecture.
“The roaring 20’s had a distinctive effect on modern culture…”
“I don’t know, do you?” Alex asks.
“Yeah, sure. I did it in English.” I say and hand him the lazily labeled map we’d been assigned.
“Thanks, I owe you.”
“Yea, yea, just don’t let him see you copying.” I say dully and put my head down onto my folded arms.
“This is going to be on the test.” Mr. Dr. Goode says about some stupid Jazz guy from the 20’s. Yeah, everything’s on the test, I get it. He drones on.
I can feel my head shutting off as soon as I actually think about the test. It goes from 200 MPH and the engine running 6 grand down to 150, down to 75, down to 20, down to a pathetic sputtering idle. If my brain is an engine I must be treating it like shit.
But, I mean, you can’t really blame me for the lack of attention. It’s like trying to explain quantum physics to a 4 year old… Just don’t do it. Put on Power Rangers and leave me alone. I mean, I really don’t give a shit. If my life depended on giving a shit to this class, I would still flush. How does me reciting the presidents in order or memorizing a bunch of stupid amendments make me any bit better as a person? It’s not like I’ve dreamt of being a historian since I was 7, I used to want to be a cop because I saw it on TV, a spaghetti maker; like not even a chef, I would literally tell people “I want to be a spaghetti maker!” My teacher didn’t realize what she was getting herself into when she said to do what you love.
The lights turn off, catching my attention enough to make me look up.
“We are going to watch a video depicting the 20’s and the lead into The Great Depression. You will be responsible for 20 facts.” Mr. Dr. Goode says as he presses play on the antiquated VCR.
Thank god, easy points. My grade could really use some cushion.
Walking around the halls with my friends, I don’t know how everyone just magically does everything. I’m not taking AP classes, or any other real track to success, but even the leisurely stroll I’m taking through my class load seems like it’s too fast.
“Andrew, dude, are you okay?” My friend Tank asks, apparently he was trying to talk to me or something.
“Yea, sorry.” I say, pulling a headphone out of my ear. The headphones are the noise reduction kind, the ones that are essentially just ear plugs with speakers. They’re an excuse for times like these, except I can just pretend I didn’t hear and zone out until somebody actually cares enough to tap me on the shoulder or something. With these bad boys, I can make myself as much of an asocial reject as I want, all under the guise of a music lover, something I coincidently am,
“So, how bad was chem.?” Tank asks for what might possibly be the second time. I already had it today, and he’s about to.
“You know, same as usual, pop quiz and an hour and a half of notes.” I say. I didn’t technically lie, but I didn’t tell him how bad it really was, or how I freaked out during the quiz and almost threw up, how I got 10 out of 40 and only because the person grading my paper felt bad and didn’t mark some stuff wrong. Technically, I didn’t lie, because that kind of stuff happens pretty much every time I go to chemistry.
“Gayyyyyy!” He says, dropping his backpack to thr ground. Tank is one of those kids with a dad that really wants to relive all of his old sports dreams through his son. His dad wanted a big burly lineman, which is probably why he named his kid Tank… What he got was a gangly 2nd string wide receiver. To be honest, I don’t even know if Tank likes football, but he’s on varsity.
“Yeah, it’s a huge drag.” I say, just trying to fill silence.
“That’s not what your mom said last night bro!” My friend Kylse yells, because that what he does, a constant stream of your mom jokes 2 years after they stopping being funny. Kyle isn’t my favorite.
“yea, she was more like ‘Kyle, is it in yet?”’ My friend Jackson says and laughs. Jackson’s the funny one, and the smart one, and the athletic one, and the popular one, and the closest thing I have to a best friend. I’m kind of like the bottom feeding leech hanging on his arm, like I use all his extra charisma, and whatever it is that makes him fit in so well, and I use it so I can survive without looking like a complete loner. Between him and the headphones, I almost pass as normal to the average uninterested onlooker, almost. It’s just the little things that give me away, like how I hardly hang out with anyone outside of school, or how my friends are joking around and I’m absentmindedly staring at the wall.
“So what if you got with my mom Kyle? I mean I had your sister a few times!” Jackson says, the lowest of all low blows.
“Ohhh!” I’m paying just enough attention to coo in. Being as all around gifted and charming as Jackson is, he gets around, including a one night stand with Kyle’s older sister. Being called out, Kyle has two choices: Step up, but back down. He concedes to Jackson the way I probably would. Jackson has a better comeback to give to pretty much anything either of us could ever say.
The bell rings, telling us to leave. As I start to walk to my next class I can feel my heart beat faster and faster. Not because I have any reason for it to, or like I’m nervus about history next, but because I’m just that kind of person. I don’t worry about anything actually threatening, or anything that matters, I just worry. It’s like my body has two modes: worry and off. I don’t mean off like sleep, I mean like what happened during my chemistry quiz. I mean my brain freaks out, and freaks out, and freaks the fuck out, until it just shuts off. That’s when I just lay my head on the desk and hope someone’s sneaking up on me with a hatchet.
My brain does that a lot, y’know, just shuts off. Usually in school, so from experience, I can say definitively that learning is bad for you.
Or not even so much learning that’s bad for you, I don’t mind forcing pointless information into my head, it’s the whole proving I learned something thing that gets to me. Homework, quiz’s, tests, competencies, proficiencies, minimum graduation requirements, minimum college acceptance requirements; pretty much anything that has me prove something or step up to some sort of challenge. It just makes my brain buss and my heart race. Makes my palms swear and my hands cramp up.
I make it to class and sit down before the bell rings.
My teacher, Dr. Goode, he’s not a fan of formalities or greetings. I don’t even see how you can be a Dr. in history, but he got his doctorate and insists on the respect that title supposedly deserves. It all seems a little pretentious to me, but then I guess I’m pretty biased. His first words are,
“Open your textbooks to chapter 16.” There are no hello’s or jokes or any hint at a pleasantry, he just dives into the lecture.
“Yo, did you do the homework?” My sort-of-friend Alex asks, “Cuz I need to copy.” Because that’s what Alex does, copies, and sits there singing annoying ass songs, but mostly he just copies.
“Do I ever do it?” I say, barely listening to the teacher drone on with his lecture.
“The roaring 20’s had a distinctive effect on modern culture…”
“I don’t know, do you?” Alex asks.
“Yeah, sure. I did it in English.” I say and hand him the lazily labeled map we’d been assigned.
“Thanks, I owe you.”
“Yea, yea, just don’t let him see you copying.” I say dully and put my head down onto my folded arms.
“This is going to be on the test.” Mr. Dr. Goode says about some stupid Jazz guy from the 20’s. Yeah, everything’s on the test, I get it. He drones on.
I can feel my head shutting off as soon as I actually think about the test. It goes from 200 MPH and the engine running 6 grand down to 150, down to 75, down to 20, down to a pathetic sputtering idle. If my brain is an engine I must be treating it like shit.
But, I mean, you can’t really blame me for the lack of attention. It’s like trying to explain quantum physics to a 4 year old… Just don’t do it. Put on Power Rangers and leave me alone. I mean, I really don’t give a shit. If my life depended on giving a shit to this class, I would still flush. How does me reciting the presidents in order or memorizing a bunch of stupid amendments make me any bit better as a person? It’s not like I’ve dreamt of being a historian since I was 7, I used to want to be a cop because I saw it on TV, a spaghetti maker; like not even a chef, I would literally tell people “I want to be a spaghetti maker!” My teacher didn’t realize what she was getting herself into when she said to do what you love.
The lights turn off, catching my attention enough to make me look up.
“We are going to watch a video depicting the 20’s and the lead into The Great Depression. You will be responsible for 20 facts.” Mr. Dr. Goode says as he presses play on the antiquated VCR.
Thank god, easy points. My grade could really use some cushion.