I never liked school buses much. At first, it used to be because I’d always end up running after them in the morning; now it’s because I’m always trying to avoid them during the morning traffic. But underneath that tacky bright yellow color, lies something I dislike even more: the place where the tacky bright yellow colored bus takes you: the classroom. It’s the home of the Pythagorean theorem, a melting pot for the tyrants and the heroes, and a playground for bullies.
The recent bullycide incident at South Hadley High School really struck me. I don’t know why but it just did. I had my share of drama during high school, but never quite like the type suffered by Phoebe Prince. After tolerating three long agonizing months of harassment, ridicule and abuse, Phoebe finally took a stand by taking her own life. Despite the fact I don’t have kids, this scares me. Maybe it’s because I have a niece and nephew that are the closest things as to having my own, and it makes me fear for their lives. Tragedies are supposed to be left inside the history books I thought, so how did this happen? How did a place that promises growth, development, and education become a site for vigil, terror and ignorance?
Regardless of whether Phoebe’s pleas for help were suffocated or unnoticed, they are now buried along with her. Often times the bullied die as the victim, but sometimes as the criminal – as in the case of the Columbine and Virginia Tech shootings. I never fully grasped the magnitude of a shooting until I held a real gun for the first time ever two weeks ago. I wasn’t at a shooting range, nor was I in a life defying situation – I was simply given an opportunity to learn how to practice so I naturally took it. As I held the gun, I felt the weight of the metal and the power it possessed. I loaded it, aimed, and pulled the trigger. Bang. Bang. Bang. Bang. Considering how hesitant I was shooting at my ad hoc target, I couldn’t even fathom imagining how millions of lives are taken by this metallic venom. It’s ironic isn’t it… countless ways to die but only one way to give birth.
Giving birth may not be in my near future, however, graduating from grad school hopefully is. As if torturing myself with useless math and chemical formulas, and dates of century old battles for 10+ years wasn’t enough, I went back for more. Except this time around, things are a little different. Projector screens hover over blackboards, laptops sit in place of notebooks, financial aid has been replaced by tuition reimbursement, and passing notes is now an ancient practice thanks to texting. But what has changed the least is perhaps the student herself. I entered undergrad like many of my fellow classmates: undecided. And although I graduated with a degree in Marketing, a part of me still feels undecided… about everything.
Who’s going to be signing my paychecks 5 years from now? A global bank? An editor of a magazine? The unemployment agency? Am I going to be doing diaper duty, or be seen at a cougars’ speed dating event? Will my blog cease to exist by then, or will it have surpassed a million readers (hey, it can happen!)? When WILL I have it “all figured out” anyway? That’s a loaded question, but unlike that handheld gun, I’m willing to hold on to it until I answer it. After all, I didn’t have a say in my birth, nor will I have one in my death – the least I can do is fill in the blanks in between.
The recent bullycide incident at South Hadley High School really struck me. I don’t know why but it just did. I had my share of drama during high school, but never quite like the type suffered by Phoebe Prince. After tolerating three long agonizing months of harassment, ridicule and abuse, Phoebe finally took a stand by taking her own life. Despite the fact I don’t have kids, this scares me. Maybe it’s because I have a niece and nephew that are the closest things as to having my own, and it makes me fear for their lives. Tragedies are supposed to be left inside the history books I thought, so how did this happen? How did a place that promises growth, development, and education become a site for vigil, terror and ignorance?
Regardless of whether Phoebe’s pleas for help were suffocated or unnoticed, they are now buried along with her. Often times the bullied die as the victim, but sometimes as the criminal – as in the case of the Columbine and Virginia Tech shootings. I never fully grasped the magnitude of a shooting until I held a real gun for the first time ever two weeks ago. I wasn’t at a shooting range, nor was I in a life defying situation – I was simply given an opportunity to learn how to practice so I naturally took it. As I held the gun, I felt the weight of the metal and the power it possessed. I loaded it, aimed, and pulled the trigger. Bang. Bang. Bang. Bang. Considering how hesitant I was shooting at my ad hoc target, I couldn’t even fathom imagining how millions of lives are taken by this metallic venom. It’s ironic isn’t it… countless ways to die but only one way to give birth. Giving birth may not be in my near future, however, graduating from grad school hopefully is. As if torturing myself with useless math and chemical formulas, and dates of century old battles for 10+ years wasn’t enough, I went back for more. Except this time around, things are a little different. Projector screens hover over blackboards, laptops sit in place of notebooks, financial aid has been replaced by tuition reimbursement, and passing notes is now an ancient practice thanks to texting. But what has changed the least is perhaps the student herself. I entered undergrad like many of my fellow classmates: undecided. And although I graduated with a degree in Marketing, a part of me still feels undecided… about everything.
Who’s going to be signing my paychecks 5 years from now? A global bank? An editor of a magazine? The unemployment agency? Am I going to be doing diaper duty, or be seen at a cougars’ speed dating event? Will my blog cease to exist by then, or will it have surpassed a million readers (hey, it can happen!)? When WILL I have it “all figured out” anyway? That’s a loaded question, but unlike that handheld gun, I’m willing to hold on to it until I answer it. After all, I didn’t have a say in my birth, nor will I have one in my death – the least I can do is fill in the blanks in between.
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