Michael Rosen, Guest Speaker
“. . . and without further ado, I’d like to welcome Mr. Michael Rosen to our classroom!” announces Miss Cheerilee.
The door opens, and a tall being steps inside. The class politely applauds; this is Michael Rosen.
“Hello!” he greets. “How are we today?”
“We’re having an excellent day today,” says Cheerilee. “Mr. Rosen, would you mind telling us about your class when you were young?”
“Certainly!” he replies. “I wouldn’t mind at all. Gather ’round, fillies and colts—have I a story to tell to you all!
“When I was in grade school—no older than you are—”
“Ooh! Ooh!” A grey pegasus colt is waving his front hoof in the air, desperately. “Did you get your cutie mark yet?”
“Rumble, wait for Mr. Rosen to finish before you ask any questions,” Cheerilee says. There’s a certain tone of sternness in her voice.
“That’s quite okay,” objects Rosen. “No, our kind don’t get cutie marks.”
He starts again. “Back in grade school—and remember, I wasn’t any older than any of you are now—I had a teacher who was so strict. . . you weren’t allowed to breathe during her lessons.”
The class takes a collective breath—Cheerilee included.
“Yes! Quite like that!” He points at the students. “She used to go up in front of the class and say, ‘NO BREATHING!’ Then we had the whole morning to go through doing just that!” And he takes a big breath in, and holds it—his cheeks puff up, and his eyes are sticking out of their sockets. A few students giggle at this sight.
Pop! He lets the air out, and continues. “The weak students used to just keel over and die. Yes, it’s true! You’d hear them going down behind you!” Then he waves his arm to show “students” falling over from their last breath: “Kerpoom! Kerpoom! Kerpoom!
“And there was always this one whiny kid—and I’ve forgotten his name; it’s been so long—and he’d be asking, ‘Miss? Can I go out and do some breathing?’ But the teacher would always respond, ‘No! You’ve got all playtime to do it in!’ And he’d say, ‘Oh, go on miss, go on!’”
“That’s awful!” says Cheerilee. Then, to her class, “Don’t worry; you’re always allowed to breathe during school.” And back to Rosen, “You can continue, Mr. Rosen.”
“I shall,” he declares. “Do you know, at the beginning of the first week, we had forty-eight kids in our class? I know, that sounds like a lot to you, but where I come from, that’s a typical number. Well, at the end of the week, there were only five of us left.”
“Wow,” said Apple Bloom. “I’m sorry.”
“That’s okay,” he replies. And he continues, “Why, we’d be stepping over other kids on our way out the door.”
He points at one spot on the floor. “Oh no! That was Melanie! That’s a shame; she was really nice.”
He points at another spot on the floor, letting out a small chuckle. “Hard luck, Dave! Always knew you were a bit weak!”
An orange hoof goes up. “Yes, Scootaloo?” asks Cheerilee.
“If what you’re saying’s true,” asks Scootaloo, “then how come you’re here to tell us that?”
“Fair enough, I’ll tell you,” he answers. “I was getting to that part anyway. It’s because we sat at desks. We didn’t sit at tables like you lot, we sat at desks, with lids that you could open. And some of us—myself included—we figured out what you had to do was snatch a quick breath of air from under the desk lid when the teacher wasn’t looking.”
An “Oooooooh” resonates collectively from the class.
“So, once more, from the top.” Rosen starts again. “‘NO BREATHING!’” Big breath in, puffy cheeks, eyes sticking out. Pop! “The weak ones: ‘Kerpoom! Kerpoom! Kerpoom!’” Hands flailing. “The whiny ones: ‘Miss? Can I go out and do some breathing?’ ‘No! You’ve got all playtime to do it in!’ ‘Oh, go on miss, go on!’
“And us lot?” With puffy cheeks and eyes sticking out, he looks side to side, then flips up an imaginary desk lid, and gasps for a few breaths under it, then shuts the lid. “Boom! Oh!” He puts his hands to his temples. “That was a mistake: slamming the desk lid down! If you’ve made any noise at all, it’s ‘Out! School prison!’ I’m not joking; there really was a school prison, right under the school hall, where they’d strap you up from the wallbars.” Then he puts his hands in the air, as though he’s strapped in place. “You’d go down there, and more likely than not, there’s a kid, and he’d be saying, ‘Miss? I’ve been up here for three weeks!’” He looks down at his feet. “‘And there’s rats!’” He looks down again. “‘And they’re nibbling on my toenails!’”
“I’m—I’m appalled,” interrupts Cheerilee. “How could you have survived such horrible conditions?”
“Ah, and this is where I came in! What you also had to do was put your thumb—” he holds up his thumb, to show the students what it is—“around the edge of the desk lid, so that when it went down, it didn’t make any noise at all.
“So, once more, from the top.” Rosen starts for the third time. “‘NO BREATHING!’” Big breath in, puffy cheeks, eyes sticking out. Pop! “The weak ones: ‘Kerpoom! Kerpoom! Kerpoom!’” Arms flailing. “The whiny ones: ‘Miss? Can I go out and do some breathing?’ ‘No! You’ve got all playtime to do it in!’ ‘Oh, go on miss, go on!’
“These other kids:” Side to side, flip up, gasping for air. “Boom! ‘Out! School prison!’” Hands in the air. “‘Miss? I’ve been up here for three weeks! And there’s rats! And they’re nibbling on my toenails!’
“And me?” Side to side, flip up, gasping for air. Then, gently, with his thumbs curled, he sets the desk lid down. “No noise at all. —Survival!”
“Well. . . that was an amazing story. . . ,” a bewildered Cheerilee comments. “Thank you so much for coming in to tell us that!”
The class applauds Rosen for such.
Kerpoom! Kerpoom!
Snips and Snails have fallen over.
Author's Note
This story was inspired by the poëm “Strict” by Michael Rosen.
