Lessons in Time

Every morning at 8:15, the ringing of the bell brings the prepubescent children to the front yard where single lines are formed, and the urge to keep throwing rocks at the brick wall where targets have been drawn in chalk are restrained. Shuffling is heard as the girls line up with their black skirts and the boys in black trousers, hair neatly kept, slicked back or in braids. One by one, the children walk through the front door, down the corridor where there always seems to be a defective flickering light highlighting mop streaks. A familiar smell of old paint and freshly brewed coffee welcomes the children to the rest of their lives. Those in their later years, eagerly waiting for the term’s end and their progression to middle school where recesses are unsupervised, naturally enjoy the upper echelon of the primal hierarchy. Not so much as a glance is sent towards the younger children who know the older ones by full names, harbouring feelings of envy, admiration, and simultaneous hatred for the pretentious bunch. The youngest, terrified of making a fool of themselves by displaying their true distaste with being away from the warm comfort of their homes, nervously hide their bewilderment and overwhelm.

Standing in the cool breeze of fall with a thermos full of dopamine, overgrown children called teachers conceal their fear of disobedience through a stern demeanour in their instructions. Their understanding of power is questioned daily - is it possible to lose it once it’s gained? Is consistency the principle of its upkeep? Can one have it and still offer understanding to those meant to be moulded into functional adults? Memories of an earlier life within corridors of the same height and width riddle these tall children with their own fears of experiencing the same emotions of humiliation and confusion. In their suits and long dresses, they feel in control. Afterall, so much time passed brings the prize of wisdom, surely? It must be that civility and a full understanding of social consequence as a result of a fully developed prefrontal cortex guarantees one’s ability to oversee so much angst and chaos. In an ever-changing world where rules are questioned daily, the fine line between rebellion and informed education is hard to tread. Some incorporate the cryptic truths they have come to learn in test questions, and are displeased to see regurgitated answers. Others have only ever learned and affirmed cold, brutish reality, and conduct their classroom rules accordingly. Through and through, these beings are tasked with the duty to instil principles that defy time.

Clocks tick on, one or two minutes out of sync but in every room in the building. It’s only proper to learn to tell time and always keep an eye on it. The building stands tall, solid, unchanging. It weathers the fall breeze and rainfalls, the freezing subzero temperatures that bring the hail then snow. It sweats under the scorching heat of lonely summer months, observing the disdain of small groups of slackers lectured at by summer school teachers hoping for a resume that guarantees permanent work. Black skirts turn to pants, then jeans, then sweatpants. Black trousers get wider, sit lower, then higher. Hair is unbraided, dyed, shaved, then hidden. But shoes still step through the same corridors. Lines are still called as the sun rises, parents still arrive when the doors open to close for the day. The national anthem blares through the old PA system all the same. The building does not get to know where anyone goes when they leave. The building does not get to know if anyone beats the clock long enough to change the outdated hierarchy permanently.