I remember (These Four Walls)

     I remember the four walls of my high school classroom. White paint, blackboard, bulletin board, two fans—standard classroom. The desks and chairs were placed in a 4 x 10 arrangement. I sat by the right corner near the door. My desk—made of wood—had words written all over by predecessors who had once sat where I was. Some were typical: Playerz 4 life. School Sux. Call Me 01-xx. While others were just downright disturbing: Penis—enough said.

     When the bell rang, the four walls capsuled us from the outside world. The space within it became the new world, and for 5 years, I would have learned, cried, laughed, and hurt within these four walls. This was an all-male school. And yes, you may cringe at the thought of 40 guys boxed into a small space, but I could not have asked for anything better than a class of testosterone-filled adolescent boys. Oh, the times we had—skipping classes for basketball, whistling at young female teachers, hysterical beating traditions during birthdays. Everyone was a brother.

     And then there was my language teacher-- a short middle-aged man with curly hair, brown skin, clean shave, and a deep-creased frown. It was his signature frown. This was his world as well. He was the caretaker of the four walls. The commander. The boss. Instructing those under his dominion to listen as he blatantly quotes the textbook; word for word. And he was not fond of the brats who interrupted the natural order within the four walls.

     I was probably No. 20 in his ‘brat’ list. Never finishing homework, always making excuses, getting poor grades. Best of all—or worst—I had a bad habit of turning my attention towards my friends during lessons.
  

“Joshua, don’t turn your back on me when I’m teaching!” he said.“It’s disrespectful, you bla-bla-bla bla-bla.” The noise was drowned by the sound of rustling leaves outside. I lost attention. 

     There would always be a brat in every class, every year, every generation. It’s like reincarnation--each rebirth would take on a different face, but the spirit of the brat lives on to annoy the hell out of teachers.

     My teacher,Mr. Sapi, had past his prime. I imagined a time when fresh paint coated the four walls. I imagined a cleaner classroom, sturdier tables, and a young man full of vigor and enthusiasm. A man ready to challenge the world. Years would fast forward and the man would be worn down by the repetition of students—coming in and out, in and out, in and out, in and out— the four walls. As the paint faded, so did the image of the young man. It was a slow fade; of what once was, and now a distant memory. We will all experience that one day. Those were my thoughts.

     And as every one of us within the four walls will one day depart—to find love, opportunity, amusement, satisfaction, and to find self—and severe ties along the way. I will always cherish the moments stored within those four walls. I made sure to leave a piece of me behind. Joshua was here.