Thursday, October 1, 2009

A Trifle Rifle Matter

As I was walking (late) to class this morning, I was greeted by a most peculiar and unnerving sight...

Rifles. Lots of 'em. In the hands of forty or so 18-year-old kids.

Book-ended by two dozen young boys and girls on each side of the narrow sidewalk, I tried to inconspicuously squeeze through in order to get to my class, but I never get away with that here. I'm the only other American teacher during this time of day on the entire campus. *Sigh*

In their white soccer-jersey-material'ed school shirts, with the blue stripe coming down on either sleeve, and the notorious red tie around their neck, these kids looked so wrong. Cute, smiling faces polishing firearms with cut-up, dirty rags just doesn't sit right with me.

"Hello," said one brave boy as I neared the end of the pack, almost and thankfully reaching my classroom door (well, opening - there are no doors in the lecture halls.)

Not wanting to piss off a man with a gun, I responded with a chipper "Hey!" and an energetic wave of my right hand. I think he approved. And I hurriedly ushered myself and my ten-pound backpack inside.

Safe. For now, at least.

I really hope those things weren't loaded...

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