CLASSROOM

children lined up in their rows and columns, fidgeting, fighting the urge to explode, run, scream. Desks in a grid like a cage, control, order. each one bears the marks of the prisoner that came before, scratched into is worn and flaking wooden surface. this room, this...box in which the children sit for far far too long, these walls, splattered with information, numbers, letters, moral codes--still—these chaotic walls are solid. these windows are solid and the light they let in is attractive and bright but there is no breaking through that way either. that woman who looms tall at the front of the room, miss so-and-so, who smells of flowers or spice or something else that makes your nose itch—she's the mother here. she's the large voice that fills the room and you do what she says, not knowing that you can refuse. i had a teacher once—my mother said she was a sister. i told all the kids that she was my mom's sister, misunderstanding. things taught, told, shown, but sometimes not explained, in this room. other children, like you, unlike you. that like you, that don't like you. difficulty fitting in, for some, is the blanket under which they hide, in this room. the blank or unhappy face in the class photo. or half-hidden by someone in front.

the broad colorful flag and the songs that we sang as we stare at it blankly with our hands on our hearts, the scattered pictures, the dark dusty chalkboard. the sound of the chalk tap-scraping itssyncopated rhythm across the surface, like jazz drumming. language, writing, music—all one, i learn here, then i am taught to forget at home. for that is another classroom altogether.