Slash and Patch


Oh, the irony of the wonderful place I live in.

So much that’s right is really wrong, and so much more that shouldn’t be wrong, is.

Just something weird I’ve noticed.

When it comes to sex, we are mum. (Not in my school, though.)
No one talks about it.
It’s the giggly-hushy thing. No one knows any better, though.

In sixth grade, we had to fill in some form, and our class teacher was giving us the instructions.

“Write your full name, in capitals, where it says ‘Name’, and only write ‘M’ or ‘F’ where they’ve asked you to write your sex, you don’t need to write the whole thing.”

Oooooooooooo, goes the class. I turned. What happened? Ooooo, did you hear her? Snicker snicker snicker. She said the word.
Class teacher frowns.

In seventh grade, we were studying reproduction in plants. Winks all around.
I believe our science teacher took it really well; she said to us, “Wait till next year, you have human reproduction in store!”

Eighth grade. Biology. Second term.
The chapter everyone had been, uh, waiting for.
Suppressed smiles, lit up eyes, looks thrown around, snickers and meaningful glances.
I remember some of my friends saying before we began the chapter, you rankers should watch it this time. We’re gonna ace this test. Full marks.
(It was at least mildly amusing when I somehow did score a full on that bio test, and waved my paper, complete with badly proportioned, crooked diagrams, under their nose.)
This was the build up to the chapter, anyway.

Our biology teacher had it lucky: she was the teacher of the two official, branded worst classes of eighth grade.
You guessed it, one was mine, and we were only second worst.

She had a tough time with The worst. She decided she didn’t want to go through the snickering again.

So we got a pre- Human reproduction lecture from a very peeved biology teacher.

You are eighth graders, you are big children, and hopefully a lot better than <whichever one it was, The Worst Class>. I hope I can expect you not to act like small kids, if I hear a single laugh, whisper, or a giggle, your class has had it from me.

Hardly fair, this was the first time we were to have any chapter remotely about us. Whatever that meant.

 

(Extra info for those who’d like to know how the class went: there were muffled grins. It was building, really.
Somehow, the class ended with our frustrated teacher telling us something about HIV and prostitutes. Weird.
The next day on, it was like a normal lecture. Just a lesson again.

One of my buddies was telling me about her experience with the initiation of The Chapter (or, as it used to be referred to around that time, that chapter *wiggle eyebrows*). She said, again, the urge to giggle or smile was building up strong, and at one point, someone in her class cracked a really lame and pointless joke.
The class roared with laughter.)
(Buddy and I were in different schools, back then.)

I suppose you can call it weird behaviour on our part, but I do think we got a really negative response from our teachers too.
Imagine how normal the first class would’ve been if the teachers had first talked us through our side of things. (Later, they seemed to escape into the technical biological aspects of things.) If they had just told us that it’s a very normal thing, and eventually it will happen with everyone, or almost everyone, at least. If they hadn’t made it seem like being remotely interested in how your own body works, and apart from the digestive, circulatory and respiratory systems too, somehow made you a bad kid. In sixth grade, something had blown up, and a teacher of ours had spent fifty minutes talking to us about how there’s nothing special or different about having a best friend from the opposite gender (which I agree with) and that ‘love’ was only for the silver screen. She said love only happens in movies.
That was something, though, that even as a sixth grader I doubted.
(She was even one of those teachers everyone wanted to please, because being good in her class was worth points to your class ‘team’, and the ‘team’ with the most points got a surprise at the end of a term.
Yep, it’s come from not wanting to think a bad thought against your favourite teacher to writing about these very things that are embarrassing in hindsight. There’s been some stuff on this very post that I’ve found my fingers drifting over the backspace for: no, this is too embarrassing, I can hardly believe now that we went through this as a class! But then I think to myself, if it was, it was. I can’t delude myself to believe it wasn’t. I don’t think I questioned most of the things going in and out of my life till rock music found me, and pretty late too. (More on that another day.) But I suppose there is still something good to consider: that today, I am awake. I’m putting out what I think and feel. I am not going mad, because I can talk here. In a way, my puking zone, but there’s always food for thought.
Embarrassing as it may seem, it’s perhaps helped me turn out the way I have today. I’ll never know.)

We’ve come from there to the boys in my class pushing to wear skirts in October when it will get very hot. (Nope, no comments. They say, we’ll borrow skirts from the girls.)

[UPDATE FROM A MONTH LATER: THEY DID IT. I’M SO PROUD.]
(Details another day, perhaps.)

We’ve come to a point where we almost had a class discussion on masturbation. (I said almost. Not yet, though.)

We talk openly about sexuality, about the idea of love, and feeling and identity. And there’s a comfort in looking to the people around you and knowing that you can talk about anything that comes mind, no one’s going to harshly judge.
(And if they do, like I always tell my shyer surveyees, you can totally judge back. There’s no hard feelings.)
My friends and I recently had a big talk about crossdressing and not dressing, and prom clothing.
(About turning up at a prom in boxers, and about coming in the opposite gender’s dress code. And asexuality (mine, to be specific.))

It makes me wonder why it’s such a problem to talk about things, that ultimately matter.

(Yes, I suppose your last-year-of-school-prom-cum-first-prom-ever-if-happens dressing ideas can matter? I don’t know. I’d go if I can rig the DJ’s system. Or blast out AC/DC myself there. My guitar and I, here we come!)

 

On a different note, I passed by a newspaper stall that had twenty copies of a local paper with the headline, Living the Shitty Life.
I can guess they probably meant it literally, but wasn’t shit a swear? I remember it being censored in the music video of Longview by Green Day (a song which is pretty much a good listen if you’ve been interested in the last bit I’ve written. It’s a very open, honest piece where singer-guitarist Billie Joe Armstrong talks about getting so bored that masturbation becomes boring; the song was a breakthrough then, because no one would talk about such stuff in the ’90’s. Similar to what I’d talked about, listeners of that time found it liberating. It’s also got a pretty good bassline.)
The irony (and this is something a lot of my friends have pointed out to me before, and I will hand the observation down to y’all) is that shit, censored all over, is pretty much the first swearword a kid here learns, and they don’t even know it, it’s so normal. Most kids will tell you that the first rude word they used was stupid, or idiot, or in some cases, even shut up.
(You must remember that I see kid cases every week, I play basketball.)
Yet SO much other stuff, including stuff that happens within your body and your head, has been silenced all this while.

We developed as human beings, the smarter species, the thinking feeling beings, the difference between us and them being “humanity, “compassion” and “civility”.
But so-called civility has taken such control, we’ve reduced us to parodies of ourselves. Emotions aren’t weaknesses, thoughts are not a waste of time (I have a maths test tomorrow), being different is not being defective, and being the same as another person is not lame (neo-aggressive unique individual thought that shames you for thinking like another person) (not pro-plagiarism). When all this is the only stuff left to distinguish us from the robots that we always vilify, (besides the organic nature of our skins versus their lasting stainless steel surfaces, and the fact that the average human is slowly falling behind the robot) why would we try our hardest to discard those elements?
When we have only one life to do everything possible, it wouldn’t make sense trying to hide behind a blueprint forever. At least for the moment, humans are born, not cultivated, created, or designed.
Thoughts are the things that shape what we become, and hiding them means not only suppressing something that could potentially change your world, but maybe someone else’s too, which I find to be the most beautiful thing about an artist. The ability to express a thought, and to have it reach someone else, far away, with whom it may resonate, or on whom it may leave an impact. The ability to spread an influence.

The way to live, at least if you feel you have something to say to the world, is practically to live by the lyrics of the most meaningful song in my life, Butterflies and Hurricanes.

It says:
Change everything you are
And everything you were
Your number has been called
Fights and battles have begun
Revenge will surely come
Your hard times are ahead
Best, you’ve got to be the best
You’ve got to change the world
And use this chance to be heard
Your time is now


Change everything you are
And everything you were
Your number has been called
Fights and battles have begun
Revenge will surely come
Your hard times are ahead
Best, you’ve got to be the best
You’ve got to change the world
And use this chance to be heard
Your time is now


Don’t let your self down
And don’t let yourself go
Your last chance has arrived
Best, you’ve got to be the best
You’ve got to change the world
And use this chance to be heard
Your time is now

And a beautiful piano solo.

 

The clock is laughing in my face.

– Brain Stew, Green Day.

Wish me luck for that maths test.

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