The morning march has resounded and finished, marking the beginning. V.J. stood at my desk, going over my extra period schedule. No extra periods next week? he asked.
I’m too tired, gunked up in the haze of a Tylenol PM to be helpful. Earlier, I stared at all the seventh graders who sat outside, the constant sound of their chatter heavy in this February humidity, like reptiles who had learned to speak, and sit, and smile. I stare at V.J. in the same way. I stare at the eighth graders of room seven with equal amazement. How can you exist, so many of you breathing and sweating inside this tiny can of a classroom? How am I to say anything to you? You talk, therefore you exist.
It should be, I talk, therefore I exist. My presence in this room must be confirmed by my voice — to myself. So I yell. Quiet down! At which point the din grows louder and a pen finds itself airborne. “How nice to be free of that sweaty hand,” it must think.
Room seven is the worst room in the eighth grade, identified by their utter disregard for any education I might try and squeeze in. The fact that we — Mr. Cho and I — are even still in the same room with these yahoos is absurd. I am Sisyphus. Education is my boulder. A goldfish is swimming against the glass wall of its bowl. The room is sweltering and I sweat through my shirt. Cho is talking to a student whose father owns a hotel in Hua Hin. He wants a deal so he’s pressuring the student to call his father. How much can I get off? Ten percent? Fifteen percent? Call your father!
I use the bathroom and wipe myself down with a gob of toilet paper. The talking from room seven is so loud I can hear it from the opposite end of the hallway. I’ve given up. I shush them one more time, but I don’t even mean it. I do it to do something. I shush them and the futileness of my presence in the room solidifies. My year as a lawn ornament is clear now, here, amongst the sixty-two yahoos, heat pressing against the windows with eager hands, and the pressure of too many voices building, building, building.
The bell rings and we leave. The ending to an unpleasant ordeal as most ordeals end: unceremonious, silent.
The next period comes. Seventh grade — much better to deal with. Cho and I come up with general knowledge questions. The top three winners get candy. The stunt went beautifully. This dichotomy of moments, the complete inconsistency of the experience between classes confuses you. One moment you wonder why. Another moment you are answered.
I have images of driving to my grandfather’s place. Cold air. Plaid patterns. The good smell of a large, carpeted house. Maple wood chairs and a kitchen with a toaster oven, a Tivoli radio, a tea kettle on the range, and cold cuts in the fridge.
Am I ready to leave? What is everyone calling this? Getting on with it. Was this all a distraction? No. This was life. This is life. Life has no interruptions; no plans. I got on a plane and I went. Very soon I’ll repeat that action.
