every monday when i was smaller,
i would wake up and creep into my parents' bed,
"i don't wanna go to school" i told them.
"i don't wanna."
and we'd lay like that,
me staring up at the white ceiling fan,
watching its blades go round and round.
we'd lay like that for ten minutes,
or however long it took us to wake up;
i didn't expect it to change anything,
and it didn't change anything
because an hour later i was in the car line,
walking to class
sitting down
learning,
learning how great our country was,
and how great it wasn't.
how we had the right to speak,
just to be told to "hush" at lunch,
and how exercise was important,
but to sit out recess when you were bad.
self expression was encouraged;
our art teacher told us over and over
that art was never finished, that no art was bad,
and then scream at us to hurry up and finish,
and "you weren't doing it right".
we dreaded that class,
we dreaded it like the monsters under our beds.
then we'd go home and be asked by our parents at dinner
"how was your day?"
and we learned that the easiest answer was
"good."