Spelling. It has been an incredible teacher.

Punished for disobeying the system. Not participating in the draconian law. Where children are institutionalized and forced to work. Completing assignments deemed necessary for their lives to progress forward.

I would not go ‘gentle into that good night’. Being ostracized was ok with me. I could collect my thoughts in private whilst the others babbled what little they knew on the playground. It was here, I did my homework.

From the fluorescent blue hall, on the checkered linoleum floor, while leaning on a wall built in 1911, I spelled. The big, clown-like print in the workbook was insulting. The dashed lines next to it, even more so. Copy words, match words, circle words. Redundant work, not meant for a child with imagination.

The work was completed, the day was done. So it went, for quite some time.

What a gift. To see behind the scenes of how the school worked. Principal walking past while a secretart shuffled papers trying to keep up. That was the insanity of so called importance. No, my fave was seeing the janitors who knew why I was, where I was, and they could relate. These scruff, sweaty, 50 year plus tattooed mechanics that look like they were in the great war but now reside making regular trips to the boiler room were heroes running the school.

But I digress and can write no more.