Everyday Narrative.

ValereighDurojaiye

There is a crack in the wall in one of the hallways. It’s nothing impressive–imperceptible, actually. It’s been there for who knows how long, and its origins are by now lost to the ages. It occupies space on a part of the wall that regularly goes unnoticed, the result of most likely an ill-placed impromptu basketball game that resulted in more injuries than one. That crack in the wall stands as a testament to the intricacies of a sort of local history.

Assuming it has been there from somewhat near the first day of the year Chattahoochee High School opened in 1991, it has borne witness to the innumerable successes, failures, egos, and subsequent downfalls, hopes, dreams, and conflicts that have graced these halls for more than two decades. The crack was ignored when the Girls’ Swim Team won the school’s first state championship in 1993, and school spirit was genuine and infectious, not like how they coax and force it out of kids at policed pep rallies that a large and largely unsurprising number of kids detest being made to attend.

This irregularity on a the face of a solid and impersonal off-white ocean of cinderblock is pragmatically insignificant. Maybe they should probably just smack some plaster over that accidental scar and cover it up. There is, in rather a nostalgic way , a sentimental merit to apparently little things such as this, and the way they have beheld the stories of students and the fact that they have their own narrative of history. Which is maybe how it should be, I think.

 

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