by Nōnen Títi
I’m beginning to like the English language. I can do something with this.
“Moral”, “virtuous” and “ethical” are used as synonyms, but where “moral” stresses conforming to “established codes or notions of right and wrong”, the dictionary isn’t so sure when it comes to “ethical”, which suggests much more “subtle questions of rightness, fairness or equity”. I guess what they mean is that those are people’s personal values. So I am virtuous if I kill Miranda, because that would be adhering to moral law, even if I think killing is wrong.
Anyhow, this makes me wonder if backstabbing under the façade of being a helpful principal is a crime. Probably not, but what does that say about the laws of the school? The irony of morality, it seems to me, is that it encourages unethical conduct by those who uphold as a virtue obedience to the system they are the beneficiaries of.
“I am so tired of this class!” Mr Shriver exclaims from right behind me. I jump and automatically cover my writing with my hand, but he’s looking at Charlotte’s corner. “All I asked was for you to write one lousy little essay about the book. One page would have done it. Just a paragraph I would have marked for effort, but you hand in your personal experiences with your boyfriend. You’re giving me a headache,” he tells Lindsey. In fact, he’s more than ‘telling’ her, he’s nearly shouting.
Next to me Kathleen has the giggles. Lindsey scrambles and fails to make an excuse for mixing up the papers.
“Is there anybody in this room who even gives a damn about what I say or are you all doing your own little thing? In that case you can all leave now and see if you can get through the exams.”
“Really, we can go?” Lindsey asks, causing more sniggers from Kathleen.
Mr Shriver throws his book onto the desk. “Yes, really, you can go. Please do, right now.”
Lindsey hesitates. “Alone? But I didn’t mean to give you that, honest. I was listening. Mariette never listens and she don’t get kicked out.”
“Mariette doesn’t waste her time writing love letters,” he replies and with that takes the noteblock from my table. He reads, presumably the last paragraph and then starts flipping back. I can see him frown at my side comments. Eventually he hands me it back. “I thought you didn’t do English anymore?”
“It was an accident.”
“This is an English class, am I correct?” he asks.
“Yes.”
“So why are you accidentally doing English and is she writing love letters in it?”
“Probably because English is the language of the mind and love is the language of the body and they’re both present here,” Kathleen replies immediately, which causes more laughter.
Mr Shriver walks out saying he’s going to have a cup of coffee and we can all stay here during lunch.
“Now what?” Charlotte asks me and then turns to Lindsey. “See what you’ve done? We can’t be here lunchtime.”
“I didn’t do anything. She said it. Why are you suddenly on their side?”
“Shut up,” Kathleen tells her. “Mariette doesn’t have to stay at lunchtime so she can do the speech, but I’m going with her. You can all do what you want.”
“I’m coming. The meeting is more important,” Mick says.
Slowly each of our core group agrees and with Charlotte and Paul the majority of the class, so we all leave with the bell.
The meeting is short and smooth. Within half an hour most people have signed the petition requesting student representation in the council and we head for the office. Too many of us go and fill up the lobby. The secretary turns the colour of beetroot, picks up the phone and dials the principal’s extension. “It’s those same kids again,” I hear her say. A moment later she hangs up. “Mr Moralis has gone out,” she says.
PM’s car hasn’t gone out with him and his phone is managing fine on its own, but I can hardly tell her she’s lying. “Could you call the vice-principal then?”
She uses the public announcement system for this.
“Poor Mr Shriver; he always gets stuck in between,” Jerome says.
Mr Shriver’s reaction to seeing us here confirms that thought; he scowls.
“I’m sorry, but PM – I mean Mr Moralis – seems to have fled once again. All we ask is that you accept this as representing the majority of the student population of Flatland High School.”
“Starting a rebellion will most certainly get you expelled,” he says.
“We’re not rebelling. We’re representing the students of the school, who have voted on these points and are agreed that our rights as written in the prospectus are not being met.”
“This won’t get you anywhere,” Mr Shriver says.
“At the very least it will get everyone in this suburb to see the discrepancies between promises made to the students and what’s actually being carried out, since we’ve informed the local paper, the other public high schools and several celebrities,” Mick replies, which is a slight exaggeration.
Mr Shriver is quite pale, naturally, but I swear he just lost another shade. “You’re beginning to make life here unbearable,” he says, but he takes the folder with the copies of the proposal and the petition from me. He never mentions the lunchtime detention.
JEROME
The Monday of week eight of term three, our sixth week back at school, started with our official revolt, after which Mr Moralis disappeared. He isn’t at school on Tuesday, but our whole class is held back at recess and given a warning by Mr Shriver in PM’s name. Our parents will be informed and people will fail their classes and risk being expelled for disruptive behaviour. This is directed at Mariette especially, since she won’t get a second chance. Mr Shriver also tells us that the school council has, with a majority vote, rejected our request to be represented there.
Kathleen had already told us about that since her father had to go to an emergency meeting last night. His was the only vote that kept the decision from being unanimous. What we also know, but Mr Shriver doesn’t tell us, is that Kathleen’s dad threatened to go to the media himself if students are expelled for behaving in a perfectly democratic manner in their school community. The threats are, therefore, empty.
At lunchtime we call a student assembly on the oval behind the gym and announce that we will launch our publicity campaign to get the news out of the school. Mariette adds a brief explanation of our grievances, like the lack of mutual respect, being made to wear uniforms while public schools can’t legally enforce them, and the lies in the prospectus and promotionals about student rights that don’t exist.
Instead of being satisfied with this speech, Mariette responds to her personal warning with a (no doubt totally illegal) notification addressed to PM stating that action will be taken on her behalf for personality based discrimination if the threats of expulsion continue. She backs it up by referring to Mr Shriver’s lecture, saying personalities cannot be changed so social expectations should be adjusted to the people and not the other way around, and she mentions that PM said that the school respects individuality, and that he even used that word in the contract she had to sign.
“I thought you’d burned that?”
“I did. Mick sneaked into his office and got PM’s copy from my file. He found some more interesting stuff we can use if he makes real problems.”
“You’re mad; that’s stealing.”
“No, we copied it and put it back. Nothing’s missing.”
“If Grandpa Will finds out…”
“He won’t. Everything else in the letter is real, except the attorney who wrote it,” she says.
On Wednesday hordes of students come out of uniform, which was not part of our plan. Kathleen makes a strong speech at lunchtime explaining the need to wait. We have to be super-cautious to keep it decent. Protests go by our rules and can’t be destructive if we want to come across as sincere and mature enough.
On Thursday that warning is backed up by Paul’s sport celebrity, who tells all the students that we have a real chance of succ
ess if we keep it peaceful. The local paper is also there and they take photos. I give my written explanation to Josh, who will give it to the journalist. Lunch ends early when Mr Shriver sends everybody to class.
Never before has this school – possibly any school – buzzed with this much excitement. Suddenly all the students are aware of the rules and rights. Every word from the teachers is being scrutinized for evidence of unfairness and discrimination.
On Friday it’s clear that the words of caution have been minded. There are no irregularities reported about students but every speech from our side is met with cheers. At the assembly there are some cardboard signs:
The right to education has been made into a threat.
A system where criticism isn’t allowed is known as a dictatorship.
Make progress out of learning, not education into regreTs
Mr Shriver warns us against rioting again, though he does commend us on the peaceful nature of the protest so far. Nevertheless, he gets booed out and eventually tells us to go home. I wait for him at the door until most students have left the gym.
“We’re honestly not trying to make your life miserable,” I tell him.
“I hope not.” He doesn’t look miserable.
I hand him the poem I wrote in the bathroom at the start of term. “I wrote this a while ago. It’s about somebody I know… knew, not from here, and… but Mr Moralis reminds me of him.”
I hate it when people read my work when I’m standing there, but he started and I can’t just walk away. I silently recite it in my head while he reads.
The outer shine of generous,
is virtue without honour,
charity, a bit of cash,
no honest heart, just glamour.
A suit, a handshake, a lying smile
but black inside, no soul;
he walks the street, no head at all,
a quick glance between brows.
A wave, a wink, a polite phrase
and social courtesy;
no ethics, just morality.
Shamelessly follows the law;
no justice, he’ll report them all.
A few more victims at his feet;
he’s done his job, can’t see their need.
He should have burned in life, in hell;
though heaven’s kingdom, he believes,
rewards his generosity.
The citizen of moral good,
who cannot give without receipt
to show around and share the fame
of being well-doer in name.
I should have burned you at the stake,
but now I have a sharper blade.
It withstands the fire and the scorn;
it writes the words until you pine.
You social slug of outer shine.
“I really think you should join us on Sundays,” Mr Shriver says, handing it back to me. He takes out a piece of paper and writes down the address. “No pressure. If you come at one-thirty it’ll be just me there. The rest come about half an hour later.”
I thank him and put the poem away.
We’re having dinner when the local paper is delivered, which we hear in the stopping and starting of the scooter the delivery kid rides. Mariette’s eyes light up and we dash out the door, reaching the mailbox at more or less at the same time. I feel a little silly, suddenly. Mariette opens the paper on the floor in the hall. I sit down with her. We find it on the second page: Student Power Movement brings back Sixties Charm. Below is the photograph of the basketball guy under the school entrance and slogan. Next to it is my article, pretty much word for word.
“Brilliant,” Mariette says and pulls the whole page out of the paper.
“Hey, hey, I still want to look at that,” Uncle Gerard tells her from the kitchen table.
She brings it to the table. I can’t help smiling while Uncle Gerard reads. I’m proud of it. I’m even more pleased by Mariette’s one word of approval and I’m happy with the closeness this seems to have created between students. Even the ones who would normally be ignored or alone are involved. Suddenly the students are one.
Uncle Gerard shakes his head and hands the paper to Aunt Karen. “Is any schoolwork still being done?” he asks.
“No, but we’re doing an awful lot of studying.” Mariette answers. “Each of us is doing a report on a revolution from the past so we can discuss why they were successful and we’ve borrowed the civics video and some movies from Kathleen’s dad, so we know not to make mistakes.”
“Is this what that letter is about?” Aunt Karen asks. “What letter?”
Aunt Karen gestures to the cupboard in the hall where the mail sits waiting for Uncle Gerard every day. Since I’m closest, I go for it, but I give it to Uncle Gerard.
“I know. Flatland’s having an uprising. Everybody has burned their uniforms and a lot of teachers have run away,” Miranda says.
“What?”
“Where did you get that kind of nonsense?” Mariette asks her.
“That’s what they say. Even the teachers in our school say so.”
As always. Aunt Karen looks at me for an answer.
“There hasn’t been any burning and the only one running away seems to be the principal,” I assure her.
Nevertheless Aunt Karen goes on a rant about the risks and says we’ll end up failing the year and be expelled and that with Miranda looking to go there. She strongly advises us to stay away from the troublemakers.
Uncle Gerard hands me the letter. It says more or less exactly what Aunt Karen just did: A threat directed at parents to expel the instigators for endangering student safety and disturbing the learning process. It’s signed by PM.
“Asshole. He hasn’t even been there,” Mariette says, having read it over my shoulder. “And for your information, Mum, if Jerome and I withdraw, the entire movement will fall apart.”
“I was afraid of that. Gerard, I told you something was up with this going to school happily. I think we should call Uncle Will.”
“Gee, Mum, can’t solve your own problems?”
“Stop it, Mariette,” I tell her. “The deal was that we keep this mature. That goes for here as much as for at school.”
She gapes at me, maybe even blushes.
“Seems to me it isn’t doing any harm so far,” Uncle Gerard says and winks at me. That might be the only time we’ve managed to shut up the women. Even Miranda just looks at her mum. I take the chance to explain what Kathleen’s dad told us about the meeting and that it’s unlikely they’ll carry out the threats.
A little later the phone rings. “Wow, the support is already coming in,” Mariette jokes, but it is Grandpa Will.
“Charl is home, Jerome. We decided the hospital isn’t helping. I know you haven’t asked for a while, but could you call us on Sunday and talk to him?”
Now it’s my turn to blush, though Grandpa Will can’t see that. I’ve been so wrapped up in everything at school that I’ve forgotten to worry about Dad. Maybe, for just a little while, I believed I was permanently part of this family.
“So how is it going?” he asks.
“Eh… fine.” I’m not sure what to tell Grandpa Will. There’s a fair chance Aunt Karen will tell him about our rebellion, but if I start defending us beforehand and she doesn’t tell, I could get Mariette in trouble for no reason.
“Are you still there, Jerome?”
“Yes, of course I’ll call. What time?”
“Call at midday. It might be a good idea to call Rowan sometime as well. Are you sure you’re okay?”
“I’m fine; just busy with school. I’ll call Rowan tomorrow.” I tell Mariette what Grandpa Will told me about Dad. “Really, that’s great, but you’ll stay here, won’t you?”
“Until the summer holiday.”
“Good. So do you think we could write a counter-letter to all the parents to explain our point of view, especially about the uniforms, just so they know we’re not wrecking things? I mean, if we make it sound mature ma
ybe they won’t get so upset about it and won’t believe all the gossip.”
That sounds like a good idea, so I invite her to my room and in an hour we have a pretty neat-sounding proclamation telling parents that we do not encourage the destruction of uniforms but we do protest their compulsory nature.
We start by saying that we’re aware they’ve been around for generations but that isn’t an excuse for using them. Peer pressure about the wearing of designer clothing is not a valid reason, since peer pressure involves much more dangerous habits, like drugs, to which we are supposed to be able to just say “no”. The risk of bullying is also not diminished by the wearing of uniforms, but is in fact increased, for now the teasing is about personal features that cannot be changed, like wearing glasses. The other reason always used by parents, that of not having a problem choosing what to wear, seems patronizing to us, since we happen to be old enough to make that choice for ourselves.
Here we add the requirements we have for a non-offensive dress code: The safety issue is also nonsense, since it is easy enough for young people intent on criminal activity to find a uniform and mingle; it is most often kids already going to the school who are destructive. Real danger comes in adult form, people not recognizable by what they wear and they especially tend to go after girls in school uniforms, who become walking targets. The last excuse, that of looking presentable, never really works as uniforms are frequently damaged, socks scrunched, skirts shorter than underwear, et cetera. What it does do is give some people a sense of belonging to a group and that is fine as long as it is an option. Judging by the fashion trends, most people would still be wearing similar clothing anyway, but those who cannot do so wouldn’t be discriminated against. And for those parents and teachers who say, “Just get on with it, it is only a uniform; it never did me any harm”, your child may not be the same personality you are, so how would you know you’re not hurting their individuality?