Forging conformity

I felt my heart pound as I stood on a platform to witness my school assembly. All my schoolmates threw an occasional glance at me and laughed. A person standing on the platform was an open invitation to mock. The indignation prevented even the tears to come out of my eyes. Who wants to come out and feel despised? Tears were no exception. I started recounting the events which led to this.

“Stanney, Stanney!”, I heard these words amongst condescending laughter as my classmates shook me. I could see my whole class laughing either directly at me or giggling with their hands sensitively closing their mouth. Jim, who was next to me pointed me to the Geography teacher, Mrs. Smith. There she stood with her eye piercing my mind with the intention to tear me down with her righteous condemnation. ‘What could I have done wrong while standing with my class in the school assembly’, I thought. Whatever it was, there was a sense of usuality and a burst of fear in me as I stood with my hands tied watching her come near me. 

“You look like a roadside fellow. Can’t you comb your hair properly? Who comes to school like this? You are a disgrace to this school and your classmates”, she yelled in an unnecessarily loud voice. I wondered if her intention was to communicate a point to a child standing a metre from her or to ensure she can get a laugh from the whole school. She definitely was successful in achieving the latter. 

My thoughts drifted to my mother combing my hair in the morning before I left. She combed my hair with her right hand as she held my chin with her left. I haven’t seen myself in the mirror. ‘That looks nice!’, the last words of my mother before I left for school served as a reflection. ‘How could two people have such mutually contradictory thoughts in a gap for 30 minutes?’, I thought. 

“When was the last time you had your hair cut?”, Mrs. Smith asked. The vile in her tone made me feel my breakfast will never get digested. I picked myself up and replied, “Two weeks ago mam.”  “Did you go to a dumpster to do it? Next time ask your parents to take you to a place where they cut hair for humans.”, she responded in an angrier tone. Perhaps she didn’t like my answer to her first question. “Go, stand on that platform”, she shouted. I looked at her sheepishly and walked away. 

‘What is wrong with a roadside fellow?’, I thought. Why is that an insult?. I never understood that point and till this very date found the usage semantically incorrect. Who goes to a dumpster to cut hair? What was she trying to do? I couldn’t attribute good intentions to that.

The giggles started to die down slowly. It felt like someone started to reduce the volume slowly. I could slowly hear myself more. For a reason my brain wasn’t able to comprehend the giggles of girls seemed to hurt more. What made actions of the opposite gender drive more extreme reactions baffled me. There must be some extreme pleasure we derive by humiliating someone in public. I haven’t been on the other side of this to understand the emotion.

Time started to dissolve the shame. I lifted my head and looked around at the teachers and students going about their business. The occasional stare and giggle aside, I was pretty much non-existent for everyone. I looked at the teachers dressed in their fancy clothing while students were all in uniform clothing. Some teachers had accessorised their hair a lot. One male teacher didn’t have the luxury having lost most of his hair. The shame which once made my legs heavy had disappeared. It was replaced by a sense of individuality.

The hypocrisy of this entire setup was extremely amusing. The teachers wanted all the students to look almost the same, behave the same and to their liking. However, they found ways to differentiate themselves in both attire and behaviour. I pictured all the teachers wearing uniform clothing and having a cane in their hand. The picture I had was reminiscent of a prison. It was hilarious to see my schoolmates dance to the tunes of their authoritarian masters in an indoctrination centre. 

The assembly was over and students started to go back to their classes in a fashion which would have made ants proud. Jim found a moment to advise me. He asked me to apologise to Mrs. Smith. I was in no mood to do that. I watched all the students go to their respective classrooms. I started walking to my class when I heard Mrs. Smith’s loud voice. 

“Stan, where are you going? Come here.” 

I turned around to see her angry face. I walked nonchalantly towards her. There was no remorse in my system but I did feel a tinge of fear. 

“I hope you have learnt your lesson. I don’t want to see you like this again”,  she shouted. I stood there with my head down. I didn’t want to laugh as I was picturing a rabbit head on her. She turned away and walked to her staff room.  I slowly walked to my class where the social sciences teacher was teaching how we should respect people for their character and not looks.