by Nōnen Títi
“What about those who do? Object, I mean.”
“That depends on where they live, doesn’t it?”
“You mean they end up dead?”
“In some cases, or they become political prisoners accused of civil disobedience; the people Amnesty International is trying to help. But in the case of a school in a democratic country, I think you’ll survive.”
“But people get detentions for wearing the wrong clothes, don’t they? That’s the same thing.”
“That may be so, but the school rules say uniform is compulsory.”
“Who wrote those rules anyway – the government or the principal, because he gets high on girls in mini skirts?”
“You’re skating on thin ice,” Mr Fokker says, and without any further comment he picks up his lecture where he left off.
I don’t try again and I don’t do what I feel I should, which is stay behind and tell him I’m sorry for that last remark. I walk to civics in silence. Jerome doesn’t say anything either. He must think I’m a troublemaker and a show-off. Not that I care what he thinks.
Miss Coven drones on about citizens and rulers and what conduct is expected of both of them. She’s been saying these things all year but today I hear the words – or rather, I can hear through them. “A good citizen abides by the law,” she says.
“What if the law says you have to kill your neighbour because he’s black?”
She turns red. “The law doesn’t say things like that.”
“It could in a dictatorship, or just a hundred years ago here it could have,” I insist.
“In dictatorships good citizens don’t follow the rules; they protest them.”
“And end up dead?”
“Then they keep silent,” she answers.
“That doesn’t make sense. What you’re saying is that a good citizen and a good ruler don’t go together.”
“In democratic countries good citizens follow the rules because they have helped make them.”
“I see. So we don’t have to be good citizens because we’re too young to vote and we don’t have a say in the school rules, which makes this in essence a dictatorship, so we’re good students if we protest the rules.”
“Bravo!” Fred shouts.
I must admit I’m a little impressed myself with the way these words just came floating out. Fred isn’t the only one to support me out loud, which makes Miss Coven stand up. “You are deliberately twisting the words of the definitions. In this school we do listen to the problems of the students. The school captains have been elected in a democratic manner and even in the real world the government allows some underage people to come up with an idea every year.”
“Excuse me, but in the real world kids my age and younger are dying as soldiers fighting for their country without ever having had a choice and kids my age are held in concentration camps for having fled a war started by those same democratic countries that now imprison them and-”
This comes from Mick, one of the danglers, who rarely joins in discussions and so now he draws the attention of the entire class.
“You’re not listening. I wasn’t talking about political refugees but only about proper citizens,” Miss Coven cuts him off, so I jump in to rescue Mick.
“But we are talking about all citizens everywhere, and that includes kids. You resent us for having an opinion about kids like us being treated like cattle because we’re not saying what the curriculum wants us to say. What they want is for us to respect a bunch of soldiers prancing around in their medals; soldiers who are trained and in some cases paid to kill innocent children in other countries; soldiers who guard those locked up in camps here.”
“Those soldiers are the ones who guarantee your peace and liberty.”
“Not according to my grandfather. He says soldiers act on instinct and honouring them only allows them to long for the glory of being powerful in somebody else’s home,” Jerome replies.
“Maybe you shouldn’t take the words of your grandfather at face value. Most people-”
“Whoa, stop,” I interrupt her. “You expect us to accept your or the country’s words for what they are at face value, without a valid reason. Just because most people say it doesn’t make it true, you know.”
“Countries need an army to defend them against enemy invasion. The soldiers need to be trained to be ready to fight for peace.”
“That’s stupid. Soldiers don’t exist because there are wars, you know; wars exist because there are soldiers.”
“If there were no soldiers in any country to begin with, people couldn’t start wars,” Pat agrees.
“As long as not every country believes that, we need an army to defend our freedom,” Miss Coven replies.
“No we don’t!” I know I’m getting a bit carried away, but can’t she see how screwed that statement is? “What you’re saying is that we start training Rottweilers to become sheepdogs, but what do you think will happen when you let them out into the field?”
“Soldiers shouldn’t be paid, at least. They should only volunteer in case of an emergency. How hard can it be to teach a group of blockheads to follow orders?” Kathleen puts in her bit.
“Can you all just be quiet? I need to get through this chapter,” Miss Coven begs.
“We don’t care about the chapters in the book. If you’re going to lecture us about liberty, then consider the right to free speech and don’t deny us ours,” Mick answers, making it clear he never needed rescuing in the first place.
Miss Coven makes no further attempts to talk to us but leaves the room, upset.
“One down,” Kathleen says.
After a little while Charlotte stands up. “Five minutes without a teacher and we can go,” she announces, so we all pack up early.
“You should do this more often so we can get the period off,” Fred says to me.
“It would be nice if you’d put in your money’s worth. I hate being the only one.”
“I had the impression you loved it.”
JEROME
Thursday isn’t very eventful. Instead of risking any more debating disasters, Mr Shriver orders us to write an essay in which we are to give our personal views on the arguments of the last weeks. “I want individual opinions, so no talking and nobody goes home early even if you’re finished, so you may as well use the two periods.”
At my old school I used to be an onlooker when the other kids had fun at the expense of the teachers. Here I’m part of it and I like that. Yet I also appreciate the teachers being fairly tolerant. At my old school people would have long since been expelled, so I start my essay by saying that and expressing thanks for this chance to let us all say what we feel instead of just those with the loudest voices. I also back up Mariette by saying that we’re constantly reminded about our responsibilities and future while we’re treated like incompetent ten year olds, which works childish behaviour in the hand, like every time one of the older kids gets talked down on, he takes his car and goes racing around the neighbourhood.
It just doesn’t seem right that kids are allowed cars, which are deadly weapons in the wrong hands, while they can’t choose what clothes to wear or what they would like to learn. Wouldn’t it make more sense to ask young people to prove that they can handle their own lives before allowing them weapons that can affect others? I might be more outspoken in this essay than ever before because I have just a fortnight of school left – for ever.
On Friday we have a late start and then English again, for which Mr Shriver puts on a movie made after a Shakespeare play. Once they all settle down he calls me to his desk. I can only guess I’m in trouble for what I wrote.
“I’m sorry to hear you won’t be with us next term,” Mr Shriver says.
I explain to him that I was staying with Mariette because Dad was ill, but as he’s better now I’m going back.
“This is a very good essay. It shows you have a good grip on both sides of the argument, and it’s very well written. Does writing run in your family
?”
“Not as far as I know.”
“Mariette is a natural writer. Do you write stories too?”
“No, mostly poems, but I tried a play once.”
“Impressive. I’d be interested to see some of that. I run a literature group on Sunday afternoons at my house. You could join if you want and I’d be happy to write you a letter of recommendation for your new school.”
I’m not sure how to respond so I thank him for the idea, but say that because I’ll be homeschooling I won’t need it. He frowns at that, but doesn’t say what I can see he’s thinking. Most teachers don’t like homeschoolers. It makes them feel superfluous.
“What did you do wrong?” Fred asks.
“Nothing.” I repeat what Mr Shriver said.
“He’s inviting kids to his house? Isn’t that ever suspicious – you won’t go, will you?”
“I’m going to the farm,” I answer.
History is next.
“What happened between this group and Miss Coven on Wednesday?” Mr Fokker asks, looking at Mariette.
“We were debating civics issues in civics class,” she replies defiantly.
“How exactly were you debating these issues?”
“We just gave our opinions and responded to hers, but you see, there were many on our side and she was trying to argue clichés she didn’t feel strongly about, so she ran out.”
“Did you crack the ice?” he asks her.
“No, honestly, it was only about opinions.”
“That’s right. Mariette told everybody that the soldiers who fought for our country were cowardly murderers,” Charlotte says.
“After which you were only too happy to go home,” Mariette retorts.
“Well, my father says that you were saying treacherous things and you’re lucky it isn’t wartime or you’d be shot.”
“For saying I don’t agree with fighting?” Mariette scowls.
“Actually, Charlotte is right,” Mr Fokker says. “During times of war those who openly oppose the war efforts are at risk of being disposed of. In the Great War quite a few soldiers died at the hands of their own people for being traitors or deserters.”
“That just goes to show how intelligent the military mind really is then, doesn’t it? Serves them right for going to war in the first place.”
“Many didn’t have a choice, Mariette. In times of war governments take the liberty of ordering anybody to do anything, including going to fight. Conscription ordered every man between eighteen and sixty to fight in World War Two and many women were pulled from their homes to work in the factories. If they didn’t comply they could have ended up in prison or indeed, like Charlotte said, dead.”
“Because the government was a dictatorship?”
“No, you dimwit, the soldiers went to fight against a dictator,” Charlotte replies just a little faster than she should have. Mariette closes the trap instantly.
“Maybe you should tell me what the difference is, then. Where do they get the right to make deals with other people’s lives? They were as bad as Hitler. Tell me the difference between sending people to the gas chambers or to war. How do they figure it’s freedom and democracy that gives them the right to decide somebody else should die so they can live and then on top of that betray us by making it sound as if we have freedom and on top of that use Hitler’s idea of propaganda through schoolbooks to make sure the next generation believes it too? If you ask me, they’re all the same. If governments have the right in times of war to become dictatorial then it follows that they’ll be ever so keen to seek war because it gives them power and that’s why they become politicians. They don’t want peace at all. It’s all a deception.”
Mariette’s rant silences the class, Charlotte included.
“So how do you feel about this then?” Mr Fokker’s voice has a slight note of derision to it, which only stirs Mariette up more.
“I’m serious, you know? Where does some self-righteous government assume the right to tell people to die for them? Shouldn’t all people have equal rights to life? Isn’t that written somewhere?”
“In the United Nations Universal Declaration of Human Rights, but that was 1948 – not that it makes a difference, but just to put it in perspective,” Mr Fokker answers.
“I just don’t think they should have the right to take liberties with other people’s lives,” Mariette says again.
“I don’t think they should have that right either, but having rights and honouring rights are two different things. Wars have been fought over those rights.”
“I still think that all men are born with a war personality and if we just get rid of them we’d solve all problems,” Mariette scampers.
“Maybe that’s what conscription was meant to achieve.”
This puts an end to the discussion. After lunch we go to civics to find the principal there. He tells us that Miss Coven had to go home after our class on Wednesday.
“So did we,” Charlotte says.
This results in a speech about us causing problems, being not as well-behaved as the younger students, this attitude being detrimental to our success in the future and that he expects maturity and perception from Flatlanders, at which Kathleen starts sputtering.
“What’s so funny about that?” Mr Moralis demands.
“Nothing, it’s just such a three-dimensional distinction.”
Of course this doesn’t help. Fred can’t keep his face straight nor can many others.
Smiling a fake smile and with tension in his voice, the principal replies that he has been more than tolerant and that he trusts this back-talking will not continue or he’ll have to inform our parents. Mick answers back that his parents like him having an opinion.
“Your parents know the rules of the school as they are clearly written in the prospectus and that includes no tolerance of disrespect,” Mr Moralis says, and adds that he is here to take over the civics lesson, not to discuss the matter, and for us to take out our books and read chapter seven.
I do as he says. Its title is: Our Greatest Good.
Western civilization has something very precious to protect, our greatest good, our liberty. Never again will modern man live in servitude-
“Why chapter seven if we were reading ‘The Conquest for Logic’ last week?” Charlotte asks. “Because I say so.”
“But we’ve done this one already.”
“I’m not interested in what you’ve done.”
“She was only asking. Doesn’t she deserve an answer?” Mariette asks.
“I will not accept any more questions. Your interruptions disturb the other students,” Mr Moralis informs her.
Mariette’s book hits the floor with a bang. “You are so full of shit, you know that? I’m disturbing the class by asking questions. I’m preventing other students from learning. From learning what? To obey your orders? This has nothing to do with education or civics. It’s about indoctrination!”
She’s standing up and yelling at him as she would at Aunt Karen.
“Mariette, calm down.”
“No – why? Because I’d get in trouble? Because he’ll report to my parents? What will he say – she asked a question, that’s not allowed here?”
“Mariette, enough already,” Fred says, while Kathleen pulls her back to her seat.
“For one thing, your choice of language is not proper,” the principal says, trying to sound determined, but his hands are trembling.
“What? I’m not allowed to use bad language but I’m supposed to accept your hollow words as honourable? Fuck you, I won’t. To me life is more important than politeness,” Mariette shouts at him, standing back up.
Incapable of fighting this eruption of fury, Mr Moralis does what Miss Coven did two days ago and walks out. An uncomfortable silence settles over the room, which is slowly broken by a few uncontrolled hiccups of laughter from Kathleen while Mariette retrieves her book.
“You’re so-” Kathleen starts and sniggers. “You’re so… so full of s
hit,” she laughs. “You told him that to his face. You’re crazy.”
Her laughter is contagious and more and more people join in. “I guess you may as well homeschool with Jerome, because you’re in for a very long vacation,” Fred says.
“Wait for us at the milk bar. I’m going to that assembly. I just have to see how he holds himself up, especially with all that shit,” Kathleen tells Mariette.
Fred and I join her and we sit at the front near the side-door. Five minutes after the bell Mr Moralis enters the gym. His eyes scan the room before he steps up to the microphone. His whole attitude screams insecurity, which he tries to hide with a put-on smile while he greets the assembly with his usual. “Hello boys and girls.” He immediately moves on to the anthem, which lets him step back.
“I’m not getting up,” Kathleen says.
I look at Fred who seems to hesitate, but then also stays seated. My chest tightens; I’m trapped between not wanting to desert them and not wanting to get in trouble. But then again, I’m here only two more weeks. What can happen? So I sit back down, attracting more attention than if I’d stayed in my chair. Fred solves his dilemma by whispering to me, pretending he hasn’t noticed the song is on, for which I, in turn, am grateful.
Our silent protest is mentioned moments after the music stops by Mr Shriver, who is vice-principal and stands next to Mr Moralis. He invites those who didn’t get up to do so now and sing for the whole assembly. I suddenly feel sick. Kathleen grabs my hand and refuses to do it, so we all stay there while all heads turn toward us. I realize it isn’t so easy to act like an individual, even with three people.
Our refusal provokes a speech about unpatriotic behaviour and ends with the warning that our parents will be notified.
“Good,” says Kathleen. “I can’t wait.”
“You have easy talking. Your parents are cool. Mine will have a heart attack,” Fred whispers.
Kathleen tells Mariette about the assembly. “Call me,” she says when we separate.
At home Mariette goes straight to her room and she’s moody all weekend. I talk to Dad on Sunday and Mariette calls Kathleen on Monday, which we have off since it is a public holiday. “Is there any use me going tomorrow?” she asks.