on my goggles this morning, I tried to smile.
Youâve made me reconsider my surroundings. Youâve made me hopeful.
If that means using the cane, so be it.
From the street, campus sounded as disorderly as ever. It overflowed with the cacophony of those idiotic
Jugendlichen
. They spoke as if they were Sirens hoping to drown out the sound of the school bell. There was a great deal of movement. Students pushed and jostled and smacked against one another. MBV informed me that no one was lurking by the wall. Somewhere on the right side of the courtyard, a boy was being lambasted for his choice of trainers. Near the front steps agirl was getting her hair pulled from the roots by an envious friend. Hair-pulling and footwear-lambasting are standard fare at Bernholdt-Regen.
You asked about German schooling. In
Deutschland
, our futures are decided early. After
Grundschule
(elementary school), we are separated into three possible groups. The students who excel academically, who cross their
t
âs and double-dot their umlauts, end up at a
Gymnasium. Gymnasium
is preparatory school for those who wish to attend university. Students who wish to become techniciansâthose who wish to be mechanics, sayâmust qualify for
Realschule
, but may join a
Gymnasium
later.
For everyone elseâfor those who donât excel, those who are indifferent, or those who are
problem students
âthere are
Hauptschulen
.
Ollie, I am certainly problematic. Bernholdt-Regen is for the unwanted and unworthy. I deserve nothing better.
The boy in unpopular shoes was trying to claw his way out of a headlock by the time I stepped into the courtyard. I bit my tongue to keep from clicking. I crossed the campus threshold. The earth did not crack. Hellfire didnât bother raining from the sky. Nowhere was the bulky outline of Lenz Monk.
I let the air out of my lungs. Perhaps it was safe to enter after all. Perhaps I would not whimper today.
But as I made my way forward, students made a noticeable effort to step out of my path. I am often ignored. This was something worse. It was just as when I left the gym bloodied: the seas of body odor and cheap cologne and cigarette smoke parted before me.
I am used to whispers, but there were none. People went silent when I passed. And the quieter they were, the less I could see. The hazier their faces. The blinder I became.
My pacemaker was straining as my heart rate increased. My chest ached. Sweat beaded on my brow. I bit my tongue harder. Picked up my pace. It was the strangest sensation, being the focal point of so much attention. I had to restrain myself from thwapping the spectators with my cane in an effort to see them properly. It was as though I were walking through a layer of static. Trying to catch movements obscured by cuts of nothing. Soon all I could hear was my own heart straining.
I became self-conscious about the cane. Surely none of them were buying the charade. Is there a certain tempo at which the visually impaired tap their canes? I kept falling into musical patterns. Tapping the beat of Grandmaster Flashâs âThe Messageâ against the sidewalk. At least in the caneâs resonance I could see.
When I reached the stone steps at the front of the building, a girl was sitting on the top of the banister. Smoking a cigarette. There are smoking areas on some German
Hauptschule
campuses. Our school is pathetic enough that it seems to be the entire campus.
Her hair was an unruly, stringy nest on top of sides shaved down. Perhaps not so different from your enforced rooster cut. Her boots looked heavy enough to leave dents in concrete. She had more piercings than I could count, cluttered together in her lips and nose and ears; when she wrapped her lips around her cigarette, they clinked together.The sound of them illuminated her face: a sharp nose and eyes set in deep, dramatic hollows. I could hear the wheezing in her chest even from the bottom of the stairs.
She was
Youâve made me reconsider my surroundings. Youâve made me hopeful.
If that means using the cane, so be it.
From the street, campus sounded as disorderly as ever. It overflowed with the cacophony of those idiotic
Jugendlichen
. They spoke as if they were Sirens hoping to drown out the sound of the school bell. There was a great deal of movement. Students pushed and jostled and smacked against one another. MBV informed me that no one was lurking by the wall. Somewhere on the right side of the courtyard, a boy was being lambasted for his choice of trainers. Near the front steps agirl was getting her hair pulled from the roots by an envious friend. Hair-pulling and footwear-lambasting are standard fare at Bernholdt-Regen.
You asked about German schooling. In
Deutschland
, our futures are decided early. After
Grundschule
(elementary school), we are separated into three possible groups. The students who excel academically, who cross their
t
âs and double-dot their umlauts, end up at a
Gymnasium. Gymnasium
is preparatory school for those who wish to attend university. Students who wish to become techniciansâthose who wish to be mechanics, sayâmust qualify for
Realschule
, but may join a
Gymnasium
later.
For everyone elseâfor those who donât excel, those who are indifferent, or those who are
problem students
âthere are
Hauptschulen
.
Ollie, I am certainly problematic. Bernholdt-Regen is for the unwanted and unworthy. I deserve nothing better.
The boy in unpopular shoes was trying to claw his way out of a headlock by the time I stepped into the courtyard. I bit my tongue to keep from clicking. I crossed the campus threshold. The earth did not crack. Hellfire didnât bother raining from the sky. Nowhere was the bulky outline of Lenz Monk.
I let the air out of my lungs. Perhaps it was safe to enter after all. Perhaps I would not whimper today.
But as I made my way forward, students made a noticeable effort to step out of my path. I am often ignored. This was something worse. It was just as when I left the gym bloodied: the seas of body odor and cheap cologne and cigarette smoke parted before me.
I am used to whispers, but there were none. People went silent when I passed. And the quieter they were, the less I could see. The hazier their faces. The blinder I became.
My pacemaker was straining as my heart rate increased. My chest ached. Sweat beaded on my brow. I bit my tongue harder. Picked up my pace. It was the strangest sensation, being the focal point of so much attention. I had to restrain myself from thwapping the spectators with my cane in an effort to see them properly. It was as though I were walking through a layer of static. Trying to catch movements obscured by cuts of nothing. Soon all I could hear was my own heart straining.
I became self-conscious about the cane. Surely none of them were buying the charade. Is there a certain tempo at which the visually impaired tap their canes? I kept falling into musical patterns. Tapping the beat of Grandmaster Flashâs âThe Messageâ against the sidewalk. At least in the caneâs resonance I could see.
When I reached the stone steps at the front of the building, a girl was sitting on the top of the banister. Smoking a cigarette. There are smoking areas on some German
Hauptschule
campuses. Our school is pathetic enough that it seems to be the entire campus.
Her hair was an unruly, stringy nest on top of sides shaved down. Perhaps not so different from your enforced rooster cut. Her boots looked heavy enough to leave dents in concrete. She had more piercings than I could count, cluttered together in her lips and nose and ears; when she wrapped her lips around her cigarette, they clinked together.The sound of them illuminated her face: a sharp nose and eyes set in deep, dramatic hollows. I could hear the wheezing in her chest even from the bottom of the stairs.
She was
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