Purpose Please

I sit here in the bright lights of my classroom,

kid’s drowsy faces smearing together in my blurry daze

as the teacher continues her lecture.

She’s a nice lady, with pale skin and wide hips,

spent more hours behind a desk than in the sun.

Today she’s dressed in light pastels

like she’s trying to calm a riot with her fashion.

 

She’s going on about formulas, about growing up,

having a passion for measuring the days in units and numbers,

and calculating just how fast business x will go bankrupt.

“It’ll all be useful one day” she says,

and around me, the few kids who are still awake

groan because they have heard this more times than

the number of hours they are free from homework.

 

Collectively, we are a puffy-eyed generation,

somewhat functioning in our attempts to follow the societal definition of success.

Our lives are not constituted of foolish childhood dreams or creativity or outside play

but of math and English word problems revolving

around the irrelevant dilemmas of imaginary John’s and Jane’s.

 

But what if, for but one second

we could all see what this supposed future holds,

to see why the textbook imprints on our forehead are

medals to be worn with pride.

 

But what if, for but one second,

we all understood the purpose

of that supposed “one day” so spoken of

in hushed whispers and steadfast determination.

In that moment, all the time and dedication

spent carrying heavy books and cramming heads with worthless numbers

becomes more important than just a passing grade.

 

But for now, the teacher will continue her lecture

pushing her glasses farther up her nose as she

attempts to smooth a crinkle from her pastel apparel,

and the kids will continue to groan as

we all continue to wait.

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