The Savvy Pen

On Time and Crazy Hurdle Jumpers

By Crystal Hua

I am only a spectator, in the sense, when I stood overlooking the whole Gabrielino lunch quad one day, and saw amazing sprints.  Students were reinventing the Olympics in front of my eyes as larger boys were dashing and small girls looked like fierce piranhas out to get anyone.  Now, usually I don’t judge people by the way they run or the way their “ginormous” backpacks fly behind them, but I can say I was laughing pretty loudly.  I mean, truth is, if I wasn’t observing the adrenaline in me would have done the same.  You know, need to eat to live, right?  I used to feel no shame whatsoever running down the B building like physically disadvantaged me; then flying through lunch tables only to pant like a dog and say “Ha!  I made it before–*breathe– you.”

But being one day older in observation, I feel strange.  Time, like the ticking one, lingers over students during lunch—is not timeless.  We live in America.  The cooperate society that says dash and run at the sound of the shotgun and last is the loser.  I have been Loser only twice during lunchtimes because I was so far from my rubber, teriyaki rice bowl.  But, being Smart Loser I found that if I went against the edge of the wall and waved like an idiot saying “Hey!  Hey so-and-so!” and pretend I knew the girl next to me, I could cut significantly.  Even so, my sense of moral judgment cannot become clouded by the need to feed. 

The point is, students stand in lunch lines that get only larger as the years grow on and from the lack of efforts to censor people from outside the school that use a fake SG address to come to Gabrielino.  It’s not exactly a bad thing, because the shady business is that there are smart people outside of SG and we need to bring them to our school.  But is that ethnically fair for others?  Not counting the impossibility of removing everyone, we get into the whole issue of who to oust and not.  And the next thing we know we will be asked to monitor the dogs that come to sniff for crack and other illegal substances.  So what do we do?  We can leave the situation as it is and field a new track team from the exercises every lunch.  Or we can fix the problem through less dramatic means.  There is a solution to our problems even though we cannot stop time. 

Believe it or not, cooperate America can be fair to employees by giving bonuses and amazing them through what-not means.  So at GHS we need to amuse our students.  Instead of making people wait in endless lines, why not cut them down?  Why not create more of those lunchlady stands or more machines to scan those flashy pink cards that scream scratch.  Or we could do what Disneyland does and make lines more compact to save space to have them become the happiest places on earth. 

What I’m saying is that there is a solution, one that requires the motivation of students and administration.  As such, in the art of war all is fair, right?  So in all fairness we can take hand’s time and leave the blaming on our shoulders to fix.  We need leaders, not another generation of Marion Jones.  We need action and we need to consider the possibilities.  So, that’s why the art of war is…bloody art, but also something to improve upon and make our school blood face and well fed.  

My actions would indicate that I was born in a third-world country and shipped to America during the prime age of adolescence.  Neither deprived nor from foreign lands, I was generally awkward in social situations and life in general.   

            Sure, I had friends and could chew gum while window-shopping with them on occasion, but hadn’t noticed that unless introduced to such things I was hopeless. So, what’s with Starbucks?  

My first encounter with the café was when I lived in a developing city, watching friends dribble over something called ‘Mocha Frappuccino.’  Though what made Starbucks memorable was a particular time I ventured in alone, and didn’t know what to order.  Standing behind that sleek counter and hearing vicious machines whir and pound helpless coffee beans from Brazil made me almost nauseous.  Gurgling temptations to adjust my glasses and view the blurry menu overtook me.  Why?  I couldn’t drink coffee or stand smelling Folders when grownups would have their daily ‘caffeine-wake-up-call.’ So, how did I end up at a famous world class coffee shop?  I only wanted a ‘drink,’ which was an excuse to stay inside a trendy place and pretend to wait for someone, too.  In actuality, I would be busily typing a report for Biology due the next day.  

            Soon seconds ticked to “Thank-you—May I help the next customer?”, and equipping me with one robotic phrase. 

            “One Mocha Frappuccino.” 

            Forgetting the ‘please’ and pointing a devastated five dollar bill towards the clerk, I also noticed there was a space between the breath of words I whispered and the lady-clerk which spelt weird.  But I was more afraid Ms. Carry (her name tag) would say, “I’m sorry Mocha Frappuccino’s were ten years ago…they’re gone now.”

            Instead of the dreaded reply, she asked, “What size?”

“Decaf?  No I don’t know what size that is.  But small…Small is always small.” I thought, “At least I won’t suffocate from larger portions of MO-chaness.”

            Confidently, I proclaimed, “Small!”

            The wait was exactly five minutes and ten seconds until employee Bob yelled, “One small Mocha Frappuccino!”

            Grabbing the drink without saying a word, I relocated to a private sector far from the pick-up line.  I made it.  SURVIVAL-OF-THE-FITTEST. 

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