Just before we left, they have life sized wooden cut-outs of us done. We then got to paint ourselves and the 'Class of 2003' were mailed in a semi-circle on the wall in the undercover area. Mine looked ridiculous - in fact most of them looked ridiculous - but it was a way of knowing that we wouldn't be forgotten.
Recently (how recently I don't know; but I imagine in the last 5 years as I don't remember it happening when my brother was there) the undercover area was filled into to make another classroom. The wooden semi-circle was move to the main entrance of the school - which I guess means they were even more happy about having them. When my old year 6 teacher retired, they were still there. When I came back to help out, they were still there.
I walked up and went around the outside of the field, still completely unable to accept the view from the junior playground - lacking the undercover area that I spend the best part of 3 years of my life playing under in the great British weather composed almost entirely of rainy days.
I walked past the infant playground which looked (remarkably) like it always used to - back when I was a buddy to the cute blonde I mentioned back in BEDA: 4, even further back when I got in trouble for poking a girl in the eye in self-defence when she had jumped on my back and pulled my hair; even further still when I still thought hopscotch was fun before I fell and took the skin off my knees.
I dashed past the new bike racks and the sensory garden that replaced the area I ran through and into the road on my first day to the main entrance to admire my (somewhat embarrassing) handiwork through the new green fences.
Well, they were gone! I was heartbroken. I'm not entirely sure why some 8 year old piece of wood covered in (probably chipped) paint that doesn't even accurately represent me - even then, never mind now - meant so much, but I did feel slightly teary at the thought of all memory of the class of 2003 being eradicated in this new age where class sizes are so big I'm surprised they fit in the classrooms.
Hundreds of children have gone through that school in the 8 year period since I left; but I got all level 5s in my SATS, I played Blousey Brown, I always sang a solo and made my mum cry. I'm not even sure any of the teachers I had are still there - two retired, three moved on and I think one of them died. Knowing that your memory is gone from a place in 8 years makes me feel awfully old, even though I'm only 19. A part of me is tempted to Google the term dates and go and see if they need any help in the time between the new term starting and my going back to uni - but a bigger part of me is telling me to let it lie, and build a bigger legacy elsewhere.
I have the newspaper clippings to prove that it'll take an awfully long time for me to be forgotten in my high school - although its not something I want to be remembered for, or even remember myself. I get this feeling that I've left footprints of incredibly varying depths and I find this a little unsettling. The footprints in the mud have been rained over at primary school, the squashed snow at college melted almost as soon as I left and the indentations from my walk through high school and have been unwillingly cast into cement as an unhappy accessory. I guess I have to try and control how heavy my footfalls are in future - to be preserved where I want them to be, and washed over by the new generation where I don't want them to remain.
I do wonder what happened to those wooden cut-outs of us though.
30 Day Song Challenge Day 7 - A Song You Hate
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