Virgin Lane

Virgin Lane

The one o’clock bell sounded and relief, followed promptly by anxiety flooded through our systems as we rushed to complete the necessary tasks for dismisal and reward our growling stomachs. Our eyes flittered from the analogue clock which hung below the crucifix, to the teacher who was once again repeating what we already knew. There was no mad rush to get out of the class as soon as the bell rang like we had seen in the American T.V. shows, there was only order. Anything less than complete order would be punished and after five long years, we had all realized it was easier to comply with the rules that had been impressed upon us. So we waited impatiently, feet tapping, hands quietly packing away small things here and there, eyes trained on the clock watching our precious time dissipate. Not even the afternoon prayer was sacred against the time it took up in our schedule. Even the order that had bound us together during the long day was quickly slipping away under the burden of our anxiety and impatience.

Finally, under the allowance of dismisal, it completely collapsed. The orderly and attentive class gave way to absolute anarchy in a rush of movement to prepare for the appointed time. To say that we were all raring towards the same goal would have been a gross overlooking of our individual motivations, but the  mood was infectious. All over the classroom girls were rushing through afternoon chores, adjusting their uniform, packing their bag and recombing their hair. The almost universal dishevelment that had slowly crept upon us during the course of a stressful day was utterly abandon in a flurry of movement for the refined put-together look that we sought to emulate.

And despite our hustling and flurrying, the impatient “stupes” from friends, we still had a little extra time before our interim departure. Time that I could only pass by watching the younger forms go scurrying out of the school gates. My lips pursed in sanctimonious distaste for the little ones, ever ready to make a discourteous  comment on their intentions and actions.

The courtyard was about half full with students, by the time we finally stepped out of the shade of the gallery, and into the 1:20 sun. We squinted our eyes and waited for them to readjust against the harsh glare from so many white shirts and cars. It was one of the few breaths of freedom during the demanding last two years of highschool. Stepping onto Virgin Lane was like stepping into the real world where other things existed outside the grueling demands of CSEC. We confidently strolled down the lane, momentarily forgetting how much we felt 80 degrees of Fahrenheit under the layers of our uniform.

Virgin Lane was to me a pompous reminder of where we stood among other schools. A reminder that we were more organized and more orderly than the boys; and more mannerly and better kept than the other girls. At least that was the stereotype which I used to keep my head high. Yet that paled in comparison to the reason that I actually took limited time and mustered sparse energy to stride across this mess of pot hole ridden road, eaten up sidewalk, and throngs of teenagers.

We were here to see friends that the catholic education system said we would  do so much better if we were not  in a classroom with. (And they were right). The 30 minutes we spent slowly going from person to person in kind embrace, passing a few words between before we hurried of to our home or other classes, was the real reason. We were a generation that prized friends in the same way and sometimes more than we prized our family members (A fact that parents often noted with disdain). Therefore when we found that limited window to socialize and greet and smile and pretend we were better than the other forms who were doing the exact same thing, it would be shameful of us not to take it.

It is only astounding that the same place we would count down the seconds until we reached during highschool was the same place we dread passing by afterwards.