Freedom Stick Part 2

The weeks continued on under the rule of the Freedom Stick. The days were quiet, punctuated by an occasional cracking we never lifted our necks up to see.

In those weeks, we learned what good behavior was. We raised our hands. We stood in straight lines. We straightened up our posture, and our lower case dees.

And we learned.

We studied, we found brains we never knew we had. In a few weeks of intense concentration and focus, we shot through the year's intended lessons and began reading Wittgenstein, Kikkegard, and performing Chekhov plays.

We shed our names once we entered the classroom, and were known only by our seat numbers. I was 15. But by god, there was order. The weaker kids like me were no longer picked on. We were safe.

Finally one boy, Number 04, came to class with a cold, because he played Ivanhoe in the play and didn't want to miss rehearsal. He sniffled a little too loudly, and Mr. Grater was up from his desk like a disturbed lion, his vile plank in hand.

"Number 04. Do you want the Freedom Stick?"

"No sir," mumbled 04, through his wheezing.

"I said CEASE that wheezing!" the Freedom Stick came down on 04 and he wailed. The wail gave him another swat and prompted more wheezing. "The beatings will continue until morale improves" bellowed the teacher.

I had to look. I saw Mr. Grater standing over a trembling 04, his hand white and red from beatings and clutching the edge of his desk. It was too much.

"Mr Grater?" I asked.

"Yes 14?"

"When you named the Freedom Stick, you said it gave us the freedom to be free from the cruelty of our neighbors. Or, if you rather, from ourselves."

"There is no questioning the Freedom Stick, 04."

"Yes sir, I know. But you have educated me past the point of simple blind obedience. Please hear my questions out so I can better understand your wisdom."

"Go on."

"So through the Stick we obtain freedom from one another, but not what John Locke would have described as personal freedoms, the freedom of the self."

"You also do not have the freedom to yell fire in a crowded classroom."

"Certainly, yes. But don't you see? The freedom to learn and be good but do nothing else is no freedom at all. 'Freedom Stick' is nothing but an Orwellian word to make we animals embrace the cage that shackles us. You pluck the feathers from our skin until we are grateful for the warmth coming from your hand--" I spoke quickly now, because Grater was descending upon me, "--Just as 'Operation Iraqi Freedom' was a misnomer that actually gave the Iraqis only the freedom to have the direction of their state altered by a greater super power who AAAGGH!!!!"
Just then, white hot lightning shot through my fingers and up my spine. I tasted copper in my mouth.

Another bolt of pain struck, but I did not cry out this time. My white and bleeding knuckles clutched the desk, taking swat after swat. With each swing I felt as though he had mountains of muscles in reserve that he had never used before, and endless stream of agony.

But I did not scream for mercy.

I looked up and saw my classmates watching us. They would not hold their heads down. Then:

The drop of a pencil, followed by another. Suddenly a great rain of simultaneous pencils falling, like a wood and graphite shower. The beating stopped. Grater knew what he was up against.

The Synchronized Pencil Drop. Then began the humming. First from one student, then another and another, until there was no way of knowing exactly where the humming was coming from. They beat in rhythm with one another, like a tiny rainshower of revolution.

"Do you hear that Grater?" I asked. "Do you hear the people singing the song of angry men? It is the music of a people who will NOT be slaves again!"

Then he was struck on the face with a gooey white mass of paper that oozed down his forehead. More spitball salvos came until at last he was ducking and running toward the door.

We let out three huzzahs. We knew that we were doomed, and that soon the principal would come into the room and put down our revolution. But for the time being, we drank from our tiny milk cartons as free men.