Happenings in the schools, translated…
One morning in the second grade, I was headed to school to turn in my assignment, when everybody opened up their practice books and stacked them one on top of another, I’d found, that I’d not written down the complete assignments—three pages of handwriting exercises, I’d left, blank.
not my photo…
I’d gotten almost all straight-A’s for my Chinese homework assignments, and, in the pink boxes, I’d followed the strokes, and wrote legibly. It’s just, that right then and there, my brain felt that freeze and it went blank, I’d taken the advantage of the time when my homeroom instructor hadn’t gotten into the class, placed my writing books between my legs loosely, pretended to be calm, snuck into the boys’ bathrooms, then locked the door.
It was, dark and damp inside, and the scent of the rancid urine filled up the enclosed space, I’d spread the writing practice book on across the icy cold tile walls, with my index finger trembling, my bladder feeling the pressures, I knew, that in just five more minutes, I’d get found.
Quick, quick, the world outside the restrooms is turning in supersonic speed, and, the days following the opening of that bathroom door, I’d written down more characters, faced with many more lines that turned dead. No longer in the elementary school years, I’d still recalled, how one morn, there was, a little boy, giving himself too much troubles, feeling the panic, and the shame, like he’s, forever, hiding right there, writing fast to me: it’s not time, to admit that you’d been beaten yet.
not my photo…
And so, this stems from this person’s perfectionist personality, plus he’d not wanted to ruin his perfect record for making the grades in the subject, that, was why he’d forced himself to do all of it, and, the experiences had apparently, stuck with him, because even after so many years, he’d still had nightmares about it.