I’m wasting my time here. The only reason I’m not long gone already is because my parents are making me finish high school. God, I can’t wait to get on the road. This place is just like back home: wealthy kids strutting around with expensive headphones wrapped around their necks like extravagant nooses, brand names like badges on their chests, and a vacant look in their eyes that suggests a certain softness about them. Everyone here is soft. They’ve all grown up with soft beds, soft pillows, soft lives. It makes me sick.
They don’t even have bells here; they are “jarring and disruptive”, so instead everyone tramples into the cafeteria of their own accord, checking the time on their shiny new iPhones or gold-plated watches. The caf is despicable, too. These kids have their meals handed to them on porcelain dishes every day, all-you-can-eat buffet style. Down the road, a man is sitting on the sidewalk begging for a couple extra cents so that he can feed his family tonight. Here, people throw away food by the plateful. Disgusting.
As soon as I get my diploma next month, I’m out of here. My old yellow Datsun--which I earned with my own money, by the way-- is waiting for me in the parking lot. That old thing yearns for adventure as much as I do. The short, choked highway to and from school is too safe for its migratory soul. We’re both vagabonds, I suppose. Maybe that’s why I fell in love with it in the first place.
The long line for hot lunch inches forward, herding us towards the heat and smells of food.
I decide to get some of everything; I’m starving.
They don’t even have bells here; they are “jarring and disruptive”, so instead everyone tramples into the cafeteria of their own accord, checking the time on their shiny new iPhones or gold-plated watches. The caf is despicable, too. These kids have their meals handed to them on porcelain dishes every day, all-you-can-eat buffet style. Down the road, a man is sitting on the sidewalk begging for a couple extra cents so that he can feed his family tonight. Here, people throw away food by the plateful. Disgusting.
As soon as I get my diploma next month, I’m out of here. My old yellow Datsun--which I earned with my own money, by the way-- is waiting for me in the parking lot. That old thing yearns for adventure as much as I do. The short, choked highway to and from school is too safe for its migratory soul. We’re both vagabonds, I suppose. Maybe that’s why I fell in love with it in the first place.
The long line for hot lunch inches forward, herding us towards the heat and smells of food.
I decide to get some of everything; I’m starving.
The first paragraph is very good. It correctly examines Chris's opinion and situation with his parents as well as what would be his opinion on the students here. His extreme desire to leave and adventure independently is correctly portrayed by your second to last paragraph. The only criticism I might have would be on your first sentence of the second paragraph. In this sentence Chris criticizes the lack of a bell system. I believe that Chris would work better under the more free flowing system without the bells. In all your scrutinization of Chris McCandles and your portrayal of him is terrific.
ReplyDeleteHi Phoebe,
ReplyDeleteYour piece captures Chris' perspective so well, and it's beautifully written. You identify aspects of modern life that would irritate Chris, showing that not much has changed since he was in high school. He still finds fault in the same aspects of human nature and privilege that he did years ago. Great mention of his yellow Datsun--your personification of it sounds exactly like what Chris would say. Great work!