In Perfect Cadence
The much too familiar scent of greasy over-priced slop sold to fill the impatient students lethargically trails from the inside of the green windowless cage through the heavy steel doors out into the concrete slab of a walkway only to be inhaled by the students following the aroma in a zombie-like trance. The grass was green, or at least the few patches that scarcely covered the pitiful dirt patches were. The ancient melancholy gravel disintegrates under the scuffling shoes of clueless adolescents like the timer of their idyllic childhood ticking and ticking all the way down to zero.
Herding the students to their desired destination is a limited pathway of asphalt separating into three directions- which virtually no one seems to veer off of, no one seems to question, and no one seems to rebel against- runs through the campus. The unpolished and tasteless washed-out tan and forest green combination are the colors chosen to dye the bumpy stones walls of all the standard rectangular rooms. Two cold stony antique-looking tables with delicate carvings ring around the edge and littered with monochromatic graffiti and matching cold stony antique-looking stools and bottle green plastic tables adorn the outskirts of the empty vast concrete circle placed directly in the nucleus of the quad. The towering tree inhabited with the same black shrieking birds creates yet another discreet boundary in which the students refuel and energize for the upcoming class. On the main path there is a solitary stone-encrusted water fountain that blends is under used and constantly ignored by passersby due to the fact that there is many more desirable drinks full of artificial sweeteners and unnatural colors waiting patiently behind the money-snatching cafeteria ladies. At 12:25 each day from Monday through Friday it isoccupied by the students of Casa Grande: the freshmen, the sophomores, the juniors, and the seniors.
The school is flooded with the same trendy Toms and the same tight skirts and the same cool backpacks and the same Pink yoga pants and especially- the same desire to fit in. Every day the students ponder what to wear to school and as a collective group seem to choose the same uniform. While strolling down the path teenagers can be spotted texting away on their iPhones or tenderly holding hands and making googly eyes at each other or even rushing to the Big House Library to finish a last minute homework assignment. Clusters of girls giggling and chatting, groups of guys goofing around, and the occasional wanderer bring the stereotypical scene of high school to life. Among a group of friends I noticed that they begin to all dress alike, speak alike, look alike. Their stride falls into a perfect cadence and every step and move is consistent throughout their manner of walking. As walk I can see girls adjusting their hair as an icy shot of wind propels through their perfectly styled locks and creates a moment of panic, but then all is well when their manes are tamed. I feel the sun strangely making an appearance in the middle of winter drenching the campus. Zooming, beeping, patrolling- -the yard duties cruising in their small grungy white golf cart watch the students as if they were stumbling and easily irritated toddlers. The tacky, yet sturdy statue of a blue retractable ball-point pen, a gaudy yellow standard elementary school grade pencil, and an ordinary everyday bubblegum pink eraser is an indestructible reminder of the schools’ academic goals; forever memorialized by the frozen stance of the oddly arranged office supplies.
Everyone- girls and boys, freshmen and sophomores, socially impaired and gifted gabbers- all gather at the edges of the concrete ring, leaving the middle as empty and desolate as the most blistering desert on the face of the planet. This undesirable spot is reserved for the fearless and bold dare to venture and risk the criticism of their peers and the sporadic crossings of people traveling through it. Although the middle is crux of the area is lifeless, it is jolted to life by the laughter of a good joke, the chatting of amiable friends, and the various noises of papers flipping, shoes shuffling, and mouths chewing.
Throughout the rest of my high school career I will constantly be reminded of this strange yet familiar place. A place where everyone co-exists, yet do not interact with each other; a place where everyone attempts to be individual, yet they become even more identical; a place where friendships are formed, yet they will soon be forgotten; a place where memories are constructed, yet shall crumble down in the future. There are little, if any, differences among the teenaged population, but surviving in this social jungle is the true test of ingenuity.
The much too familiar scent of greasy over-priced slop sold to fill the impatient students lethargically trails from the inside of the green windowless cage through the heavy steel doors out into the concrete slab of a walkway only to be inhaled by the students following the aroma in a zombie-like trance. The grass was green, or at least the few patches that scarcely covered the pitiful dirt patches were. The ancient melancholy gravel disintegrates under the scuffling shoes of clueless adolescents like the timer of their idyllic childhood ticking and ticking all the way down to zero.
Herding the students to their desired destination is a limited pathway of asphalt separating into three directions- which virtually no one seems to veer off of, no one seems to question, and no one seems to rebel against- runs through the campus. The unpolished and tasteless washed-out tan and forest green combination are the colors chosen to dye the bumpy stones walls of all the standard rectangular rooms. Two cold stony antique-looking tables with delicate carvings ring around the edge and littered with monochromatic graffiti and matching cold stony antique-looking stools and bottle green plastic tables adorn the outskirts of the empty vast concrete circle placed directly in the nucleus of the quad. The towering tree inhabited with the same black shrieking birds creates yet another discreet boundary in which the students refuel and energize for the upcoming class. On the main path there is a solitary stone-encrusted water fountain that blends is under used and constantly ignored by passersby due to the fact that there is many more desirable drinks full of artificial sweeteners and unnatural colors waiting patiently behind the money-snatching cafeteria ladies. At 12:25 each day from Monday through Friday it isoccupied by the students of Casa Grande: the freshmen, the sophomores, the juniors, and the seniors.
The school is flooded with the same trendy Toms and the same tight skirts and the same cool backpacks and the same Pink yoga pants and especially- the same desire to fit in. Every day the students ponder what to wear to school and as a collective group seem to choose the same uniform. While strolling down the path teenagers can be spotted texting away on their iPhones or tenderly holding hands and making googly eyes at each other or even rushing to the Big House Library to finish a last minute homework assignment. Clusters of girls giggling and chatting, groups of guys goofing around, and the occasional wanderer bring the stereotypical scene of high school to life. Among a group of friends I noticed that they begin to all dress alike, speak alike, look alike. Their stride falls into a perfect cadence and every step and move is consistent throughout their manner of walking. As walk I can see girls adjusting their hair as an icy shot of wind propels through their perfectly styled locks and creates a moment of panic, but then all is well when their manes are tamed. I feel the sun strangely making an appearance in the middle of winter drenching the campus. Zooming, beeping, patrolling- -the yard duties cruising in their small grungy white golf cart watch the students as if they were stumbling and easily irritated toddlers. The tacky, yet sturdy statue of a blue retractable ball-point pen, a gaudy yellow standard elementary school grade pencil, and an ordinary everyday bubblegum pink eraser is an indestructible reminder of the schools’ academic goals; forever memorialized by the frozen stance of the oddly arranged office supplies.
Everyone- girls and boys, freshmen and sophomores, socially impaired and gifted gabbers- all gather at the edges of the concrete ring, leaving the middle as empty and desolate as the most blistering desert on the face of the planet. This undesirable spot is reserved for the fearless and bold dare to venture and risk the criticism of their peers and the sporadic crossings of people traveling through it. Although the middle is crux of the area is lifeless, it is jolted to life by the laughter of a good joke, the chatting of amiable friends, and the various noises of papers flipping, shoes shuffling, and mouths chewing.
Throughout the rest of my high school career I will constantly be reminded of this strange yet familiar place. A place where everyone co-exists, yet do not interact with each other; a place where everyone attempts to be individual, yet they become even more identical; a place where friendships are formed, yet they will soon be forgotten; a place where memories are constructed, yet shall crumble down in the future. There are little, if any, differences among the teenaged population, but surviving in this social jungle is the true test of ingenuity.
-Salma
I really loved the description of the different groups at school because your execution created an image in my head. Your balanced paragraph summed up your main ideas in a flawless way too. Nice job Salma! -Sammy S.
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