As much as I am trying to embrace my inner know-it-all that is essential to the senior persona, right now I am feeling as confused about my school as a seventh grader fresh off the Catalina boat. How can an establishment that encourages us to speak up about controversial issues now put its figurative hands over our mouths without shame?
Marlborough, much like the teenage girls that its ever-graceful halls contain, has its phases. My seventh grade year was marked by lectures on the evils of theft after numerous incidents of stealing were reported. More recent was the Era of the Recycling Bins. Who could forget the countless videos threatening physical assault upon students who dared let a glass bottle go to waste?
However, I have quite a bone to pick with the new subject of recent lectures: gossiping.
I have now sat through about three meetings in which both my class and others’ were chided like toddlers for utilizing our school’s social grapevine. So far, the only effect I’ve seen is no effect, unless you count the resentment for being treated so condescendingly. As much as America’s guidance counselors would jump to disagree, gossip is inevitable. When was the last time you heard of a school successfully eradicating the exchange of rumors from its campus? And no, last night’s episode of Hannah Montana does not count.
The point is, gossip is and will always be a foundation of our society. We are a species that thrives on communication, and especially in this day and age, the spread of information is unstoppable. The only way to truly restrict gossiping is to make it a punishable offense, and this is not an option. Why? Because (and AP US students will back me up on this) the censorship of gossip is a violation of the First Amendment. And to be honest, to hear my fellow students be reprimanded for raising concern about certain incidents around the school is enough to cause my hand to reach for my pocket United States Constitution.
It’s time for the Marlborough establishment to admit there are some aspects of a teenage society beyond their control--and perhaps channel their energy into a more productive realm. A suggestion: we have not had a single speaker this year. Perhaps if that was provided, it would give us something more interesting to talk about than the latest trivial mishap.
Thursday, August 27, 2009
Senior-seventh grade bonding is not too bad
Moans of agony echo throughout the living room. Bodies cower on the gargantuan beanbag and cushioned chairs, and as the door swings open, seniors grimace and wince like they’re vampires seeing daylight. “Seven-twelve buddy activities! Come onto the field!” We succumb.
Have we any other choice?
I reluctantly trudge toward the grass, my steps so heavy, as if I’m dragging my shadow. Ultimately futile was the email I sent last night: “Ms. Moser, please let me be exempt. I have so much work to do and I think that my buddy, along with the entire seventh grade, hates me anyway. Sincerely, Taylor Thompson.” To no avail. I’m about to face the girl to whom I had recently waved and received no response (I can presently infer that that was a misunderstanding).
Seniors and seventh graders gravitate toward their peers, because let’s face it: No one enjoys inter-grade activities, especially not me. Faculty members overlook the scene, their mouths curling into pleased, toothy crescents. I’m thinking they must get some sadistic pleasure from watching two alternate herds (seniors and seventh graders) hesitantly transform into an unhappy smorgasbord of awkward pairs.
My buddy and I introduce ourselves. She’s bubbly, forward, and athletic, which are qualities I often lack. Just as I’m ready to hide under the post-three-legged-race table of Diddy Riese cookies, a sweet song permeated my eardrums: “I don’t want to do this” escapes my buddy’s lips. Let us sing this song in tandem, I declare. The last thing we want to do is participate, and ironically, this fact bonds us.
We tie our legs together. Mine is considerably thicker. Despite our differences in size and disposition, we are both determined: determined to get this over with. Our arms link, and we waddle across the field like idiots. As we finish, a tsunami of team spirit crashes over me, and we exchange victorious grins and an epic high five. We did it! A-period is over! We’re now permitted to resume our lives, Diddy Riese in tow.
Everlasting friendships are sparse and age boundaries remain unscathed, but it was a pleasant change to converse with seventh graders as opposed to treating them as personal bowling pins. Inter-grade common interests are nearly nonexistent, but inter-grade courtesy can be cultivated. I can honestly say that my hallway glares became less menacing, and occasionally, my buddy and I exchange a previously unheard-of acknowledgment: a smile.
Have we any other choice?
I reluctantly trudge toward the grass, my steps so heavy, as if I’m dragging my shadow. Ultimately futile was the email I sent last night: “Ms. Moser, please let me be exempt. I have so much work to do and I think that my buddy, along with the entire seventh grade, hates me anyway. Sincerely, Taylor Thompson.” To no avail. I’m about to face the girl to whom I had recently waved and received no response (I can presently infer that that was a misunderstanding).
Seniors and seventh graders gravitate toward their peers, because let’s face it: No one enjoys inter-grade activities, especially not me. Faculty members overlook the scene, their mouths curling into pleased, toothy crescents. I’m thinking they must get some sadistic pleasure from watching two alternate herds (seniors and seventh graders) hesitantly transform into an unhappy smorgasbord of awkward pairs.
My buddy and I introduce ourselves. She’s bubbly, forward, and athletic, which are qualities I often lack. Just as I’m ready to hide under the post-three-legged-race table of Diddy Riese cookies, a sweet song permeated my eardrums: “I don’t want to do this” escapes my buddy’s lips. Let us sing this song in tandem, I declare. The last thing we want to do is participate, and ironically, this fact bonds us.
We tie our legs together. Mine is considerably thicker. Despite our differences in size and disposition, we are both determined: determined to get this over with. Our arms link, and we waddle across the field like idiots. As we finish, a tsunami of team spirit crashes over me, and we exchange victorious grins and an epic high five. We did it! A-period is over! We’re now permitted to resume our lives, Diddy Riese in tow.
Everlasting friendships are sparse and age boundaries remain unscathed, but it was a pleasant change to converse with seventh graders as opposed to treating them as personal bowling pins. Inter-grade common interests are nearly nonexistent, but inter-grade courtesy can be cultivated. I can honestly say that my hallway glares became less menacing, and occasionally, my buddy and I exchange a previously unheard-of acknowledgment: a smile.
We're in the midst of a cookie crisis
If you give a mouse a cookie, he’ll ask for a glass of milk. Take one from ’90s icon Angelica Pickles, and expect a temper tantrum. The student body must channel the latter cartoon character, because the freshly baked chocolate chip cookie has been exiled from our once-beloved cafeteria. We must kick and scream ‘til we stop the injustice and cookies return to their rightful homes: our stomachs.
I remember that warm, buttery noontime scent. It felt like Otis Spunkenmeyer himself was whispering in my ear, beckoning me with sweet songs of a crusty outside and a gooey middle. One bite into the steaming, golden brown discus was so memory-inducing that I could see each grade at Marlborough sail by as if I were looking at my adolescence through a moving train’s window. From ages twelve through seventeen, I would savor this 12:00 ritual. But now it’s gone. Both my memories and those of generations to come have been unjustly stripped from our feeble hands.
Marlborough places a strong emphasis on tradition, so I’m appalled that our school has been rid of a great one. Purchasing a cafeteria cookie might’ve been the only tradition that didn’t involve standing among your classmates looking like a coiffed fastidious priss (i.e. Pin and Ring Ceremonies) or slouching miserably in Caswell feeling like a talent-less imbecile (i.e. Cum Laude and Awards Ceremonies). The cookie was a unifying tradition. I’d stand in line with jocks, princesses, and straight-up weirdos, all of whom were connected by their love of the baked treat. “A cookie, please.” I’ll have what she’s having.
Smiles are narrower, but waists aren’t. Mr. Oie and select parents believe that eliminating the hands-down best treat will spawn a healthier Marlborough, yet chips, croissants, Pop Tarts, and mutant muffins remain. I’m down with a delicious, healthy cafeteria, but something tells me that the recession won’t allow for fresh ingredients. So just keep the cafeteria OG, fools! I can’t fathom how the perpetrators of this culinary crime believed that removing cookies would improve student health, because evidently they still condone the serving of tacos blanketed in cheese, bacon-studded baked potatoes, and Chinese food. It was an incredibly pointless move.
Just bring back cookies, Mr. Oie. You can restore happiness as quickly as you destroyed it, so why not?
-Taylor '09
I remember that warm, buttery noontime scent. It felt like Otis Spunkenmeyer himself was whispering in my ear, beckoning me with sweet songs of a crusty outside and a gooey middle. One bite into the steaming, golden brown discus was so memory-inducing that I could see each grade at Marlborough sail by as if I were looking at my adolescence through a moving train’s window. From ages twelve through seventeen, I would savor this 12:00 ritual. But now it’s gone. Both my memories and those of generations to come have been unjustly stripped from our feeble hands.
Marlborough places a strong emphasis on tradition, so I’m appalled that our school has been rid of a great one. Purchasing a cafeteria cookie might’ve been the only tradition that didn’t involve standing among your classmates looking like a coiffed fastidious priss (i.e. Pin and Ring Ceremonies) or slouching miserably in Caswell feeling like a talent-less imbecile (i.e. Cum Laude and Awards Ceremonies). The cookie was a unifying tradition. I’d stand in line with jocks, princesses, and straight-up weirdos, all of whom were connected by their love of the baked treat. “A cookie, please.” I’ll have what she’s having.
Smiles are narrower, but waists aren’t. Mr. Oie and select parents believe that eliminating the hands-down best treat will spawn a healthier Marlborough, yet chips, croissants, Pop Tarts, and mutant muffins remain. I’m down with a delicious, healthy cafeteria, but something tells me that the recession won’t allow for fresh ingredients. So just keep the cafeteria OG, fools! I can’t fathom how the perpetrators of this culinary crime believed that removing cookies would improve student health, because evidently they still condone the serving of tacos blanketed in cheese, bacon-studded baked potatoes, and Chinese food. It was an incredibly pointless move.
Just bring back cookies, Mr. Oie. You can restore happiness as quickly as you destroyed it, so why not?
-Taylor '09
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