Grandeur

The line of white cars slowly moved up as the vehicle in front of ours dropped off their child and pulled out of the parking lot. “All right, here we are, Trell,” my Dad announced as our car came to a stop where the van before us had been. It was much like our sedan, all white except for gray plastic rims, and a license plate that had the numbers in pink, printed on a black background. I opened the door and grabbed my backpack, slinging it over my gray, button-down shirt, which was tucked into khaki shorts. “Remember, Trell, you’re not special! You’re just as good as everyone else!” I waved back to my Dad and blew him a kiss before running up the path to the large double doors of the school.

It was a drab and boring place. The walls were all white, with no pictures or posters, and the floor was uniform gray laminate. All of the doors were simple, with a knob and a small rectangular window in the right corner. They were all painted beige and had a gray digital display to mark the classroom and teacher. I met up with several of my colleagues and we exchanged handshakes with a legal greeting, such as, “You are looking as good as everyone else is today,” or “You’re looking quite average today.” We had nothing else to discuss, as far as we were concerned our home lives were identical. We played the same games, had watched the same TV show last night, and had listened to the same radio station on the way here. We aren’t allowed to have friends anymore because that suggests a level of favoritism. In a world where no one is special, there is no reason to show partiality to anyone.

Before long, a monotone gong sounded and signaled for everyone to go to their classrooms and we filed into Mr. Hager’s as usual. After placing our backpacks in the cubbies on the left wall we marched over to our desks and took our seats. The desks were small and made of brown laminate tops with four gray legs and matching chairs. It was by now that we all noticed that it wasn’t Mr. Hager at the front of the class. This itself was not out of the ordinary; we have had substitutes before, but they had always been noted on the classroom display. What was interesting was that rather than the teacher’s uniform of gray slacks and a beige shirt, what this person was wearing was, well, quite interesting. She was wearing a bright pink shirt with small dogs dotted over it. Her skirt was striped in various shades of blue. My eyes continued downwards. Her tights and shoes were bright green, almost neon. I wouldn’t even begin to guess where she bought things like that, certainly not nearby. “I am Mrs. Grandeur,” she announced, and we all froze in our seats, our breaths catching in our throats.

Everyone knew about Mrs. Grandeur; her mugshot was on every screen; TV, phone, everywhere. She was an agent of chaos, a voice for anarchy, a person who believed we needed to challenge the norms of society. She was a rebel and that made her a criminal. She also had a habit of breaking into schools to spread dissent among the pupils. What could we do? Where could we go? She was between us and the only door out. I looked at my colleagues, who all seemed as confused as I was.

“Wow! May I say…” Mrs. Grandeur looked down at her clipboard. “Jason, that is a fine haircut. It makes your eyes really stand out.” Is she crazy? You can’t say something like that! That was definitely a compliment and that was super illegal! I looked at Jason, surprised. He seemed surprised too, like he didn’t know how to react or what to say. He had the same haircut as every other guy in here. Mrs. Grandeur peered down at her paper again. “Rebecca, I always liked that name and you have such a beautiful smile to match such a nice name.” Many in the class turned to stare at Rebecca; although I could admit that she did often have a nice smile, right now she looked stunned. “Trell…” I wanted to run. This was awful. I wished the ground would swallow me up and hide me from whatever horrible compliment she was about to bestow on me. “Trell, I noticed how tidy you were putting your bag away. That is very responsible of you.” My heart began pounding rapidly and I felt my cheeks flush. It was the first time I had ever been complimented.

It was an odd feeling. At first, I didn’t like it. The compliment drew attention to me and that was embarrassing, but as Mrs. Grandeur complimented others and it began to feel more normal something began to swell within me. A sense of accomplishment or, at the very least, recognition. It felt good to be seen. To be recognized. It felt good to have someone notice the work I put into something and appreciate it. “Th…” I looked around nervously as Mrs. Grandeur stopped, about to sit. “Thank you, Mrs. Grandeur.” Her smile said it all, a sincere response to my appreciation. I was quickly echoed by other classmates, and then we started to turn to each other, bestowing compliments and thanks in equal measure. I think we all learned that people are special and the uniformity forced on us was not equality. It was a way that we were oppressed and Mrs. Grandeur taught us that the best way to fight back was to recognize each other as unique and different.