#ahanging

(A George Orwell Parody)

It was in Peoria, a scorched afternoon of the sun. A distinguishable smell, like freshly carved graphite, was drifting through the halls of the campus. Us students were sitting at our assigned desks, desks arranged in such a way that we would receive the company of no friend. Each workspace measured two feet across, a foot and a half wide, and were uncomfortably barren, spare a number two pencil and testing booklet. At every desk one would find a child deprived of sleep, and stricken with stress. These were the condemned students, due to be irrationally segregated within the next week or two.

One more child had been brought into the classroom, and was placed at a desk. She was Hispanic, a walking corpse of a girl, with drooping eyes and a heavy backpack. She spoke with a thick, broken Spanish accent. Like an accent you'd expect to hear from someone just beginning to learn English. Two Caucasian teachers lead the way to her newly assigned seat, orally explaining to her what she would soon be thrust into. Another two teachers stood at the front of the classroom, starring harshly at the girl entering the room, while the two spoken of before blocked her from trying to relocate herself. They also stood very close by, with their mouths readily available to assault the girl with meaningless words. It was like men speaking to a mute who may use his inability to speak as a scapegoat to leave the testing environment. And yet, the Hispanic girl sat quite still, unresisting, as if she didn't realize what was going on.

Seven thirty struck and the announcements, seemingly crisp in the hot air, found their way to the distant classrooms. The vice principal of the school, who was making his way through every testing center, was just entering our classroom, moodily eyeing all of us, starred angrily at the tube. She was an Ex-teacher, with long blonde hair and a whiny voice. 'For God's sake, get on with it, Thakrah' she exclaimed in a pissed manner. 'The little brats ought to of started the test by now. Can't we start yet?'  

Thakrah, the head of the classroom, a skinny old white lady in a summer dress, exchanged words with the vice principal. 'Yes ma'am, yes ma'am,' she spoke softly. 'We are all prepared to begin the testing session. The tests are awaiting. We shall proceed.'

'Hurry up then. The students won't get lunch until this job's over.'

And so we started the procedure. Two teachers marched around either sides of the classroom, eyeing the Hispanic child the entire time. The other two began to state the instructions, regardless of the fact that we had all heard them about a thousand times, except for maybe the Hispanic student. One kid had reached the example questions. The majority of us, undergraduates and the like, jumped ahead to the example questions as well. Out of the blue, we heard a noise. The satisfactory sigh of a student who was finally able to express herself through something other than words. On one of the example problems, there had been an algebraic equation. The Hispanic girl whipped through the problem, trumped in speed and accuracy by no one.

'Who made that noise?' spoke the vice principal irritated. 'No talking, children!'

Dumbfounded and suspicious by the noise they had heard, the two teachers patrolling the room walked over to the child. Immediately frustrated by the fact that they could not answer the problem the girl had "attempted", the teachers flipped the page from the example problems to the "stop" sign on the next page. They ordered the girl to be quiet, and to keep a decent disposition until the rest of us caught up. Of course, they assumed the girl had gotten an incorrect answer. For how could a minority of whizzed through an equation so easily? Especially one at such an obvious disadvantage.

When we began the test, the equation had been forgotten by the girl, for, now, the algebra that was once on her page had been replaced with a writing prompt. It was about twenty minutes before we started to fully understand the awfully stated prompt. I glanced from student to student, curious of how far they had gotten on their tests. They wrote shakily, worried about how every word would reflect upon their grades. Finally, my eyes fastened upon the Hispanic child. With each stroke of her pencil, an unreadable character was printed. She flipped back to the page with the prompt to re read it. That was when my epiphany occurred. The girl did not understand what was being asked of her at all. And yet there she sat, unyielding to the stress and her own misunderstanding. There she sat, scribbling, writing, in an attempt to create a fresh start for herself in our state.

It is curious, but until what had happened in that moment it had never truly dawned upon me what it was to destroy any one child's pride. As I secretively watched the girl as she attempted to create a masterpiece out of nothing, I saw self pity, and unspeakable wrongness, in forcing a student to partake in such activities with such a drastic disadvantage. This girl was not stupid, she was at a severe disadvantage and trying her best as all of us were. She had a family, and a home, and a life, all toiling away in front of her. They were teaching her to accept defeat. Teaching her to understand that no matter how hard she tried, she would not fit in among children with the native language down pat. Teaching her that she had no place among the smarter students. Teaching her that inequality is what drives our nation. And when she goes home tonight, she will still feel like nothing. Be nothing. Set up for failure. She would be one less competitor in the grand scheme of things, one more job available to me.

The room we were in was cramped, and quite a ways away from the main office. It was a brick erection like four sides of a standard house, with white paneling for a ceiling. Below us was hideous, stained carpet. The vice principal had entered the room once gain. He greeted us with a fake grin and a secretively sinister nod. After receiving word from him the teachers that had been stepping alongside the walls of the class exclaimed in unity that the testing period would be over in five minutes. Once again they began to pace the room, in search of suspicious behavior.

We sat, writing furiously page after page. The teachers now walked the room at a faster, more anxious pace. And then, when they exclaimed that one minute was left, the Hispanic girl began tapping her pencil. It was a loud, slam of a tap. And when she began to do this, it became obvious she was about to cry. Tears welled up in her eyes, as she continued to tap. Most likely in an attempt to divert attention, but to no avail. The tap, imitating the sound of a bell tolling, had only drawn herself more attention.

Counting down in an almost mocking manner, the teachers said the words and we were out of time. Honestly, the time it had taken that test to pass us had flown by. I felt sympathy for the Hispanic girl. But I could not help myself but to wish that she would stop the tapping. it hurt my mind, for it was a constant reminder of how anxious and depressed she was. Please! I exclaimed to myself. Stop this God Awful noise!

Suddenly, all life and noise returned to the classroom. Students began to create conversation, teachers engaged in the student's affairs by asking how their experiences were. And from what they could tell, the students felt very good about how they had done. All, but one. There she sat, her lifeless carcass sitting unmoving at the two by one and a half foot workspace. I noticed that the tears that had once dwelled on her bottom lids were now gone. All that was left at this point was despair, for she knew nothing would change from this point on. She had not created any type of name for herself, nor would she ever.

One of the teachers reached out with her hand and laid it to rest on the Hispanic girls shoulder. 'You're alright! Exclaimed the woman. You've made it through the test!' And while this was true, the little Mexican girl understood that this was the end of the beginning for her. She looked up to the teacher and put on a mask as to hide how she really felt. She nodded at the woman with a smile, unknowing of what the teacher had even said.

Once things had settled down a bit and the students awaited further instruction, the vice principal exclaimed that it was time to eat. 'Thanks God' she stated without the least bit of concern for the girl's life she had just ruined. The excess amount of teachers left the room, leaving Thakrah all alone with her students. The algebraic equation, once fresh in the girl's head, was now gone, never to be remembered again. Thakrah allowed us to travel to the food court in search of, well, food. And all the children spread out to go eat and enjoy themselves while having a mediocre meal.

Close by to me and a bunch of friend's table, a few teachers were talking. With only a few feet between us and them, I could not help but to hear the conversation they were having. 'You know, when that little Hispanic girl first found out she was going to be attending this school, I had to watch her cry a damn river. Honestly, get over yourself! You now have the privilege of living in the U. S. of A.!' the brown haired teacher said. The others just laughed and glanced back and forth at the Mexican girl, who had yet to find a place to rest. She had not gotten any food.

A teacher returning from the teacher's lounge then walked up to the group of district employees a few feet away from my table and sparked a conversation about his time in college. Apparently his master's was within his sights. This got all of the other's attention.

To this day I can't help but to wonder how  some people can be so ignorant of how they affect another person's life. And to think that this is a standard process within our school districts disgusts me. But in all reality, does it really matter? That

one

Hispanic girl's life? Let's be honest, not really. I mean hell, I felt like

I