We met in the school
yard; even the kids who went to
the Christian school visited our
school yard from time to time.
Not that that happened a lot.
This other school was located
just about half a kilometer east,
but usually that was enough
to forget about our mutual
existence. Rivalry or something
like that had nothing to do with
it, we just didn’t think about each
other.
In primary school it was
different. The primary school I
went to lay next to the one of the
‘caddolics’ and during break we
stood calling each other names
through the holes in the fence.
We did that because you were
supposed to, it’s what we learned
from our brothers and sisters.
Feeling didn’t really have a part
in it.
*
The distance of half a kilometer
between the two secondary
schools was enough to prevent
childish stuff like that from
happening. ‘Ah, yes,’ is what we
said when one of them turned
up in the school yard; we shook
hands, exchanged a kiss on the
cheek and a cigarette. When
they were there it was as if it had
never been otherwise. There was
immediate friendliness.
The distance halted any further
deepening of the friendliness,
just as it halted rivalry. Not only
in our minds, but in our hearts
too, we remained indifferent
to each other. The indifference
was friendly because we shared
something important: time.
Even though we didn’t see
those kids very often, we knew
our lives ran parallel to theirs,
that we had something in
common – these years in this
decade, we were what would
turn out to be a generation but
for now it mainly meant that
they passed their time just like
us, in similar classrooms, with
similar teachers and similar
school books, with similar lunch
breaks, hours off, weekends,
meanwhile listening to the
same music at the same kind of
parties, differing in the details
at most, their names sounding
familiar, but not enough to
generate a face.
*
text from Miriam Rasch, Shadowbook page 86-88
image source: https://ahseeit.com//king-include/uploads/2018/11/45800797_2265407260363968_5560481759113510912_n-3364274105.jpg
