Cyndy Etler

Listen, I could have my head up my butt. It’s happened before.  But, ah…did they play this song nonstop for months, with every word intact? Like, some guy telling other kids to haul ass or get shot?

I’d drive around hearing it, 50 times a day, and I’d be thinking, Is he really saying that? And they’re playing it on the radio? A kid whistling about shooting a school up?

I must’ve been right, ’cause yesterday–like, 8 months after that song finished its loop through the revolving door–I heard it again.  But it went like this:

You better run better run, run from my–CLAPCLAP.

So it took the Ohio shooting for Clear Channel to realize the lyrics might be, er, distasteful to some?

Anyway, school shootings.  At the end of the book The Hour I First Believed, which centers around a fictional recreation of Columbine, the author reflects on school shootings and says, “Why all this rage?”

Um, guys?  ”Why all this rage”–isn’t it obvious?

You can spot the quiet rage kids a mile away. They hide in the back of the room, wearing long, dark layers, doing a good impression of invisible.  There’s a ring of empty desks around them.  You don’t know what their face looks like, what their voice sounds like, even after they’ve been in your class for a year.  Because it’s high school now.  They’ve had so many years of shit-eating at the hands of their peers, and probably the gym teacher, plus maybe their parents and jockstar older brother, they’ve finally figured it out: if I stay quiet, I’ll get ignored most of the time.  Finally.

The loud-ragers get it out. They’ll throw down with the teacher, get suspended from school.  The emo kids, too–you cut, a friend notices, you talk to your friend about pain.  Angry jocks beat guys up on the field, whack the hell out of their tennis racket.  Beauty queens don’t bawl, they bitch: gossip as slimy therapy.  Artsy-kids put it on paper.  And the tech-heads?  Don’t shoot me, but…I think their brains might be different. So brilliant, so structured, there’s no room left for sloppy emotion.  But the kids who have no outlet?  Who don’t connect with anyone and don’t have a “thing,” an art or a sport, that makes them feel alive?  Those are the kids with the rage.  Because it’s so uncool to be uncool.  You know how animals attack or abandon the “different” one, the one who could slow the herd?  Humans are animals.   Animals who can shoot guns.

But if you want to share a milk-of-human-kindness moment with a quiet rager, take it from me: take it easy.  I’ve come at these kids with the absolute best intentions, full-on Pollyanna.  It backfires.  People suck, remember?  So if somebody’s suddenly kind ‘n friendly, it translates to fake ‘n agenda-y.  I’m still trying to figure this out myself, but I think the best idea is a simple “Hey.”  Or in an online forum, maybe an “I hear what you’re saying.”  Just a single smoke signal that says, “Somebody out here doesn’t hate you.”  Maybe that’s a start.

If you’re a kid who feels this way–isolated and different–please tell me what you think.  If you’re somebody with a better idea than mine on how to reach such kids, drop some knowledge.  Please.

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It was an honors class in a wealthy-enough suburb. They insisted their high school’s parties are like this. After I said “Really?!” seventeen times, one girl fessed up: “No, our parties are more like the one in 21 Jump Street.” Seen these flicks? Which is closer to Saturday night reality for you?

Or if you’re old folk, what movie did you fantasize repped your badass weekends? Mine was The Outsiders. I told concerned adults I was a “hood.” Seriously.

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Does high school suck? I asked some real, live high schoolers that question today. They tried giving me these thoughtful, complex answers, but I shut ‘em down with a quick, “Neh. Listen. Is high school still like The Breakfast Club?” Nope, was what they said back. Those killing cliques stayed back in the 80s. There will always be The Stoners, they said, but other than that, it’s one big happy high school family.

That’s weird.

Not that many years ago, I gave the best assignment of my teaching career. I left The Breakfast Club DVD with the sub, along with an assignment:

1) Watch this movie carefully.

2) Figure out which character is you, pretty much.

3) Write an essay telling me why he or she is you.

Damn. Those kids ate that assignment UP. I mean, they hoisted me overhead and carried me around the classroom when I returned. I still can’t figure out why.

Well, I miss being toted around by a gatch of cheering teens.  So I’m trying my luck with a repeat assignment. Ready?

Tell me which of these guys is you, and why.  You don’t even have to write an essay. Just leave a comment.

And me? As a teen? I was the chick who made it rain dandruff.  But I was trying really, really hard to be the flop-haired guy in the denim.

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Every time I hear this song, I think of you guys. You kids, I mean. Especially my former student Henry. Diggit.