Background Theme: You I
Love
The air was filled with a damp chill that accompanied this
cold, overcast day in late January. I
began to realize that an unfamiliar anxiety was taking root inside me,
threatening my peace of mind. A heck of
a first day at my new school. I lulled
over in my mind the possible sources of my uneasiness.
Being
a military brat, most of my primary and secondary schooling had been at schools
provided by the Department of Defense for military dependents. The high school I had transferred from, on
the other side of the world, was also a DOD facility. I had spent my Freshman and half my Sophomore years there. Now it seemed I would continue, and perhaps
finish, my high school career here.
This new high school that I was now
enrolled in was a much older facility than other schools I attended. I preferred the new look and feel most DOD
schools had, most having been built within a decade of me attending them. This school had probably been around some
thirty or forty years at least. I didn't
care for the "lived-in" look. The place
wasn't run down by any means, nor was it a dilapidated dump; the school simply had a different
environment – different from the ones I was accustomed to on a military
installation. Absent was the clean, crisp,
orderly look I had grown used to.
I found myself beginning to suffer from a
severe case of Culture Shock. I was a
military brat. I had grown up around
everything that looked, felt, smelt, tasted, and sounded military. It was familiar. It felt safe. I knew my place in its structure. I knew what to expect in its environment.
There are a myriad of factors that work
together to compose the look and feel
of any given place. Physical appearance
is only one of them. What made me feel even more out-of-place
were the people I interacted with.
Civilians. In my young mind, the
term almost seemed like a derogatory slur.
In retrospect, I find that mindset quite ironic, having been raised in
an atmosphere that promoted tolerance and equality. That diametrically opposed ideas could rear their ugly heads and
find refuge in my mind was unusual, to say the least. I really had nothing against civilians or the non-military
subculture itself, but I felt like a stranger in a strange land. This new culture was completely alien to
me. It felt like their modes of
thinking were more two-dimensional.
Again, looking back, it wasn't that my mode of thinking was more
three-dimensional – the difference lay in the fact that their third dimension
of thought and philosophy existed along different lines than my own. I found that rationale to be especially true
when I shed my military roots years later, fully embracing civilian life.
Yes, this was definitely a bad case of
Culture Shock. I was no stranger to it,
though. I had endured it and survived,
admirably in my opinion, when I moved to the Philippines at seven years of
age. I adjusted, I adapted. Now I began to sense its inverse.
Knowing the source of the discomfort I
felt, as I sat warming myself against
the chill during the school's Lunch period, I sighed in relief. There would be a saying I would come to know
in years ahead that I would apply to situations like these: Now I
know, and knowing is half the battle.
Funny what one can learn from a cartoon. Knowing the source of my unease, I could now take arms against
this invisible enemy that assailed the realm of my mind.
I leaned back on my seat, a thick metal
chain that spanned the gap between two brick columns. I was careful to maintain my balance as the chain swayed
slightly. Above me was the roof of the
covered walkway that led to the school's auditorium. More chains were suspended between the remaining columns on both
sides of the walkway, serving as a slight protective barrier to keep more inept
individuals from falling off the concrete walkway and onto the ground some two
or three feet below. A small set of
stone steps was inset into the walkway halfway between the main building and
the auditorium. The steps on the far
end from me led to another covered sidewalk that ran between the main building
and the Library; the steps nearest me led to a triangular-shaped lot where many
students hung out in the mornings, between classes, and during lunch. Two covered walkways formed two sides of the
triangle; one ran between the main building and the cafeteria, while the other
ran perpendicular to the first, cutting between the cafeteria and the
auditorium. A walled outcropping from
the auditorium itself formed the third side.
I shifted my gaze, taking in further my
surroundings. Students were milling
noisily about; some were sitting, hunched over books; some were eating quietly
from home-packed lunches (those refusing to brave cafeteria food) or snacks
provided by nearby vending machines.
Most sat gathered on the benches that lined the sides of the triangular
lot.
I pulled my schedule out from a
spiral-bound notebook and looked it over.
Lunch ran between fourth and fifth periods for about forty-five
minutes. My next class was German I,
with a Mrs. Steuermann. I wondered how
different she'd be from my last instructor.
Don Cutler had the rare gift of infusing outrageous humor into his
teaching methods. Looking at my watch,
I saw that I had about five minutes before the bell would ring. Pulling out my Student Handbook, I looked
for the classroom on the school map it provided. It was on the second floor of the building's southwest
corner. I hopped up, adjusting my
jacket zipper to shield me further against the cold, then strode silently down
the steps, across the triangle lot, approaching the walkway adjacent to the
main building and heading toward the double doors on the far end.
The bell went off with the shrill metal cling-a-ling-a-ling I found to be
universal in a dozen different schools around the world. I figured it would be crazy of me to fight
this crowd as they crammed themselves through doors and stairways. Taking a seat on one of the lot benches, I
waited for the crowd to thin. It was my
first day at a new school, and being a military brat meant I had transferred to
more than my share of new schools during the school year. In my experience, I found teachers to be
quite lenient with transfer students who were late, especially on their first
day. Besides, I loved nothing more than
interrupting a class in full swing, enjoying the attention I knew would be
lavished upon me as I joined my new classmates. There's something enigmatic and charming about a newbie, and I
was going to drink it in. I smiled as I
watched the last of the students disappear in the wake of the final strains of
the tardy bell. Waiting just a while
longer, enough to be fashionably late, I stood and headed toward class.
Interlude: Eye Catch RANMA
Karin Steuermann was a slightly tall and slender woman with
short towhead-blonde hair and gray-blue eyes.
Generally a kind, soft-spoken person, she commanded auditory powers that
bordered on legendary. After
introducing myself to the teacher and showing her my transfer paperwork, she
turned to the class and announced that they had a new student joining them.
"Please introduce yourself to the class,
Vic," she said with a slight smile.
I looked the class over, then smiled as I
introduced myself, using the slightly uncustomary "Ich heiße…" which translates as "I am called…" I swore I
heard a slight gasp of delighted amazement from the front row off to my right.
"He sounds so real!"
I looked over to the source of
compliment. A young girl of about
fifteen sat there, long dark brown hair with a slight curl spilling along her
shoulders and down her back. Her mouth
was alight with a smile that reached her beautiful hazel eyes. Her hands were folded on the desk in from of
her, her fair skin a lovely contrast to the dark hair that framed her face.
From somewhere inside me, something awoke
and took notice. Woah! She's cute! I thought as my eyebrows hit the ceiling.
"Of course, Alisha," Mrs. Steuermann
chided gently. "That's what we all
strive for."
Alisha slunk down in her seat
slightly. I looked over at her and
smiled. I don't know if she noticed it
or not. I marveled at how pretty she
was. I felt something inexplicable at
that moment, one of those things one feels when Fate intersects Destiny, only
it is rarely recognized the moment it occurs.
It quickly faded but would resurface when I least expected it.
I turned my attention back to the rest of
the class as they introduced themselves, using the form of "Meine Name ist…" or "My name is…"
Satisfied, Mrs. Steuermann directed me to
take a seat. I walked toward the middle
rear of the class and took a seat at an empty desk there. I glanced over to the dark-haired
damsel. Alisha.
I pulled out my folder and opened my
newly-issued German textbook, turning to the page indicated by the teacher as
the class resumed.