walked listlessly to the narrow streets of my city, chasing the long way that would allow me to remain neutral in that state and do not get to school. I watched "backpacks" scurrying, frightened by the ticking clock that will inevitably signaled the arrival of the sound of the bell and I tried to avoid mingling with them slowing down the pace. I reached the fence and bark like dogs every morning I bypassed, I cut the sweatshirt, pull a pretty flashy, but easy stitching. Now I was in the red zone, in the polygon of the school ready to be watched by all professors, from all the professors, trying to understand my serial number in the register. Within, I open the door quietly, as if to say that I do not have anything to do with that place, crossing the eyes of a secretary who pretends to be distracted by the cards, the educational bureaucracy that clear away a piece of the Amazon every day, now not I can not pretend to be the school, there are inside. Are clearly now a cog in that system, knock on the door and greet time with false gaiety of English and the "R" on the registry with a good-morning, but in reality I greet the morning with a horrible light bites lip that makes me feel alive, that makes me feel more blood in the body and not only rationality in the muscles that keeps me from running from that place going somewhere.
Nothing happened during the five modules (as the dictionary calls the school hours after the reform of Moratti), normal administration, the withdrawal of a phone, a reprimand, for a kiss that two boys are given during recess by a proff, the fall of professors with high heels down the stairs, the usual leafleting outside the Lenin-Marxist school, the usual ball.
All this morning for two hundred, two hundred "R" on the record as evidence that the school has no other means to show their muscles, the place where you should teach justice, tolerance and where it sometimes becomes an arbitrary use of force was weak with the strong and strong with the weak. Where they know they can strike where they know they can hit you and persecute s'infierisce. The school is made for those who need it, is made for those who in the meantime, life will always find a place that is willing to immerse themselves in any case, the pants. The other school of the wicked people, teach them the logic that govern our country, few agree, many obey. And everywhere you turn you see people using the power (any power) is corrupt, bribe, bribe, bribes, bribes, bribes, enter the "clan", and get envelop envelop the octopus.
After these two hundred morning, after two hundred of these missed opportunities, remember the professors who have told stories, yellowed by the years, the '68 attended, though now I walk, perhaps unconsciously, every principle, using the same means denouncing even worse, since we are in a period of restoration where you are recreating a power even more ravenous. After two hundred days I managed to write a book, a case of election law, articles for the school newspaper, post on my blog. Mica little! I had cleared a piece of the Amazon, but I had no choice, unfortunately, did not let me to use the laptop during class time. After two hundred days I saw the heat of heating school passing before my eyes and say goodbye as he left the windows and thin walls. After two hundred days I could breathe my air, not the same as Profs. He went to sea, took the train to the few clean beaches near the city of Genoa, he rented a pedal boat in salendoci percent. Then the country, rides for the Piedmont in search of the house of De Andrè. He always wore the wheels in different places, smelling of hills covered with vineyards. After I heard in a cage for nine months now, I was free! "School" was a word that was no longer part of my vocabulary, I dreamed of a better world, outside of classrooms and school buildings that I had so much taken away and that, for the summer, I had reserved a debt. A slight post-it stuck on the back that you slightly loosens the skin, until they can no longer pretend nothing and you are forced to reconsider within the system.
Now we ask how can there be in this guy, so little enthusiasm for life. In her sad story only hints of personal life, do not we focus on the happy moments if not to regret and never to describe them. He does not tell its minimum Liguria beach holidays with his girlfriend, sees others as an unnecessary nuisance, sees the world as something to aside, to disregard. Yet there is a chronically depressed, overwhelmed everyone with his humor, with his vitality, even though many times he uses this irony to defend himself from his anger and expresses it with rice.
Now while we analyze this situation, while we activate our senses and our expertise of psychologists, as we seek to bring out all the understanding we can also bring out the tears, if we are not devoid of piety, because every day in hours when there is something to distract our boy, you will make, from September, a murder, not clinical, but a moral from the school, against our guy, and a whole generation, killed by the school, killed by the state.
Alberto Spatola
