Ghost town
The vision of this place comes to me in flashes. I remember walking across the entrance of the building as the light rays gave me the only sense of warmth I’d get the entire day. In freshman year I’d pass by this spot on my way to gym. In Sophomore year it was on the way to Honors English. In Junior year I barely passed by this brief pocket of relief until I started taking the long way to Calculus. In my senior year I had a free period and that’s when I finally decided to take this time to sit on the benches next to these gorgeous, gigantic windows that lit up the building with glowing natural light. “Are you a freshman?” the security guard asked. To which I replied, “N-No. I’m a senior.” “Then you should know this spot is reserved for GUESTS only. Students are not allowed. Get lost.”
Staring at the bright green wall paper in the math classroom, I’d have to grip the cool steel leg of my desk to keep myself focused on the board in front of me. My tunnel vision focused on the way my teacher’s lips moved but her words were gibberish because I wasn’t actually hearing them. I’d blink out of my daze only to turn and look out the window but only being able to focus on the metal webbing that kept us trapped inside like prisoners. The world just went by like a movie on 2x speed but my brain was living a vibrant life of its own, focusing on the beauty of the future and the aspirations I had for the present.
The Big Brother administration at Bronx Science breathes down the necks’ of virtuoso students as they drain them of their light, brainwashing them into carbon copies of each other focused on only the numbers that supposedly define who they are. The building and environment built around contained toxicity in small enough doses we couldn’t comprehend what’s happened to us until it was too late. The grey walls and dim lights suffocated me but the faulty box structure also revealed enough small, brief zeniths of light from the outside that became the red pill I needed to swallow.
The light shone. And in it I saw the grey desk of my guidance counselor, who was the breath of fresh air I ran to whenever I choked, the striped sleeves of my Junior English teacher, who created a safe haven in her classroom and allowed the gift of individuality to reign free, the green optimism of my Design teacher who taught me it’s okay to be as ambitious as I am, that I am the creator of my fate. Bronx Science was my prison. But it gave me a degree of Stockholm syndrome with these broken pieces of beauty that came with it. Bronx HS of Science was the antagonist it needed to be so I could emerge as the hero of my own story.