Social Stratification: Social stratification refers to a system by which a society ranks categories of people in a hierarchy. It is perfectly clear that some groups have greater status, power, and wealth than other groups. These differences are what led to social stratification.
Two theorists, Karl Marx and Max Weber, are the primary contributors to this perspective.
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I knew the Universe was nudging me towards an apparent change ever since Ms. Eden tried her best not to mark her farewell with some abrupt smiles in my general direction. It was a different kind of emotion that swelled under the full beam cabin light, inside the hazardous and over worn car before the brown Volvo tripped onto the pitch black road and became running lights.
When I returned home at 7, after some lone wandering around Hindenburg to spot any blonde German women in the front, I felt worried and happy.
My mother was casual in her indifference and I felt obligated to worry more about if Ms. Eden reached home safely.
Especially in the Volvo which looked more unreliable than teenage romance.
'Social Stratification' are the first two words mum said when I slumped down on the breakfast table and tried to wake myself up with the wretched image of someone slurping from the bowl of oatmeal.
I blurted, "What?" and instantly regretted it as the owl faced woman in front went on with the quotes of Mark Weber and the nonchalantly unfair side of social equity.
One can never truly feel the escalated pain of Sociology till they are blessed with the words of Mark Weber before hearing the crunch of the morning toast.
But Mark Weber was waiting for me at school with his practical use of 'Social Stratification' and I felt not only awake but also blessed by the theory.
According to my mum's rigid voice and distinctively pronounced terms, 'Social Stratification means the division of people in Socio-Economic groups or strata by their economic status and social values.'
Then my mother's owl eyes looked extra keen as she gloomed her facial features and delivered the line, "But if you take the Economy and Finance away from it, Social Stratification and Inequality can be seen--"
She paused an unfortunate stop, mainly for her hand gestures and the next words to arrive in her tired mind.
"It can be seen under a philosophical light."
I regretted seeing the morning, philosophically enraged version of my mother. But I wiped the remorse away just like the patch of soot in the biology lab on the 3rd floor as I established a "Social Stratification" of Seine High.
Harvey was drawing the pure adolescence energy as he loaded the plastic spoon with chocolate pudding, ready to shoot as he sprints past Mrs. Yang's moped Sedan and catapults it over the brick barrier.
It journeyed like a comet, aimed at the bulky body of Pastry before plummeting on the tarmac.
Then lunch became more diabetic on the ground, as Kenny joined in to the fight, launching spoonfuls and then the whole cup of pudding travelled across the scream filled air and destroyed the shine of Pastry's artificially blonde hair.
I hoped to see a referee's whistle, a yellow shirt charging across the parking lot to stop Harvey from his act of culinary terrorism but Clay didn't even manage to get up. He sat on the brick barrier, not observing or shouting basic yells to stop since his arm latched around Rommery's skinny neck before they dulled their smiles and retracted their back to the debate papers in hand.
I knew Mark Weber did not feel lonely, sad, envy or empathy when the theories of Social Inequality was written so I decided to follow in his footsteps.
On Tuesday, I made sure that Clay and Rommery were together and in viewing distance of Mr. Marsh's office when I carried the bag on only one strap connected to the shoulder, to enforce confidence and direction. The Stationary shop with its large square footage near Hindenburg cost me a full fiver for the A4 sized Plastic file.
Never before until now, Plastic smelled life confidence.
I confronted Mr. Marsh, near his window and the half chewed sandwich was his accomplice for the lunch hour.
I chose the unscheduled period of meeting, other than the proper hours when Stuttering Ingram was seen entering and running away after half an hour.
I entered to assure his subconscious that he should utilize this chance to leave the Grilled Chicken Sub.
I was already at an advantage since I was directing his next move.
Like an invisible hand.
I began by telling him that the picture of Quarter Final Winners of '89 that he hanged on his wall was getting a bit too old and needed to replace the title with Semi, Runner up or Winner.
I wanted to have every inch of his undivided attention and his movement secreted the word Success when he rested the Sandwich on the plastic plate.
Food waste was a small sacrifice, compared to the priority of my dominance.
He asked me where I was during the Primary Directive Selections and I answered that I didn't know it was going. The reply returned with the word of Clay and formed a question to know if he had informed me.
I responded in negative. It was true. Clay said nothing about the Primary Directive.
I assured him by saying that past does not matter and as a token of my initiative I have already finished the Bullet point and Summery of ; 'Global Warming' and 'Globalization'.
His brow curved to say "I'm impressed." But his mouth did not follow because we argued and disagreed with the explanation of my 'Smoking incidents' before the break.
To show Mr. Marsh that I am mature, I did not argue but nodded like an old man and answered that it was a wrong thing to do.
He advised me to stay after school on Wednesday, with the added instructions of grouping all the available Statistics to show him during the Prime Selective Mock Debate. I said I was done with that and the paper was resting on the desk in my bedroom.
That was somewhat untrue.
I knew Clay had seen me swiveling my body around as I clicked Mr. Marsh's office door and walked past them on my way to Geology where one Jackie Hemphrey was concentrating on Peru.
I am in place to push back life, stomp on its teeth with my social stratificationally aware feet so that I can still get a grip on life.
***
"Meet me in front of the Gym exit. Wait a bit. Need to talk."
- Rommery
I deprive South America from my attention as I smooth the paper out in search of any more clues or hidden implications. The broken creased note slips inside my fingers and fall onto Uruguay, crushing one of the smallest countries by the coast of South.
I can tell that the note has to be passed through Alfee because it is slathered with Coconut Milk Lotion for 'Extra Sensitive skin', letting off a distinctive scent of week old butter in the process.
I let my neck pivot around casually as Mr. Fransisco coughs a few unnecessary times to chain everyone's attention to himself.
Rommery's strands of brown hair is pulled back behind her neck, letting the space be occupied by the violet scarf which looks too hot to be wearing in the middle of October.
She knows that I have spotted her and carries on her indifferent ignorance before her eyes flinch at my direction.
I can see the border of her neck, where the hem of the shirt and the beginning of the scarf have callously allowed a patch of skin see daylight.
Through the gap of Alfee's slumping posture, I spy Rommery's anatomy where the dulled skin has increased climax by turning into a naughty red color around her neck.
I think of domestic violence but they are too young to be 'Domestic' and Clay is way too much of a gentleman to lay his hands in the manner of hurt.
The rash is an unintended present, unlike the scarf which is the culprit behind skin inflammation.
She cranes her shoulders done to write something down, revealing the full square footage of her plagued skin. She pauses for the dual purpose of thinking as well as itching before she slumps down on the text book page.
Their relationship is strong enough to fight out a rash.
I am nothing in terms of power when compared to skin epidemic.
***
I feel momentarily imbalanced, like a gyro put on endless cycle and spinning out like a rotor of an uncontrolled helicopter.
I waltz past the Boys bathroom, start the jog at the lockers, perform a slide on the corner of the cafeteria.
In the past 4 minutes, I have decided that, standing Rommery up will be the appropriate decision. Whilst the GDP, the GNP, Square kilometers of Argentina were dully repeated by Mr. Fransisco; I contemplated on the possible reasons for Rommery to subside to passing notes to me.
The last time a girl passed a note to a boy, in the clandestine manner of not making eye contact, it ended atypically.
It was Pastry who wrote the note to Milt, a person who has never known the words 'Privacy' or 'Keeping his mouth shut'.
They were involved in giving each other a rapid mouth to mouth, like the synchronized breathing procedure done by lifeguards.
Pastry's big mouth was gulping on Milt's little fish size flanges. She was on the offensive, as if she was trying to land a big bite on him like a hamburger.
After peaking in that horrendous scene of poorly executed CPR, I had nightmares about Hamburgers and Pastry.
The jog has turned into a full sprint but it is constantly hindered by the backpack as it bunks on my waist in every long steps. I dash past the half deserted Teacher's Lounge where the sight of Mrs. Muhr's hunched back asks me about the cause of Rommery's note of nonchalant romancing to me.
I break the complicated equation down to something that is easily understandable to someone who watches Prime Time Television.
Clay and I are cars in a Dealer's parking lot. Rommery is the buyer who's engaged herself in comparing qualities, drawbacks, insurance information, space to decide which will be better for her.
I see the blur of the picture of Prime Directive for Summertown Debate Competition.
As far as we are concerned, I have a higher strike rate in the Batter's base more than Clay since he has the tendency to play it on the edge.
He has more home runs because of his well worked shoulder that ensures the ball to either get lost or stay at a comfortable space to complete the Run.
I am better at sprinting since bigger body mass has something to do against acceleration and velocity.
It is safe to assume that I have not been attentive to Physics.
He is better at Math.
I am better graded in Literature.
We both are non existent in Philosophy because both of us cautiously avoid Mr. Chamber's class.
Evidently, I am better at noticing little things with bigger meanings behind the bush because it is I, who have discovered the escalation of Jackie's premature depression and his parent's destined to be broken marriage.
I slow down in the beating steps on the entrance of the gym. The main trouble with Geography is, the class starts at the snoozing hour of 4 and drools down till the clock falls asleep on the 4:45 stance and then wakes up with the scream of the electronic bell, buzzing all over school.
I decline my feet from running bases and continue on with troubled pacing till I am at the metal entry door of the gymnasium which is apparently open.
My mother is a well known publisher and editor of News House.
My father cannot stay home because the world is in constant dire need of his medical expertise.
Clay's mother is a housewife. His father is in the risky business of Finance.
He would understand more accurately when I say that my parents have better equity and financial backbone, in a sinking economy that is unpredictable.
I feel lightheaded when I continue my sprint through the Gym hall exit and onto the car park where the mopey Silver Sedan of Mrs. Yang is parked in the middle spaces rather than the side.
There is no glimpse of a violet scarf and the scenery of myself and Rommery having an untimely, perfectly adolescent and hormonally driven affair.
I do not practice the art of swiveling head like a startled prey when I walk past Mrs. Yang's car but I do check the reflection on my left to see the baggy structure of a 39 year old woman, performing her daily ritual of crying in the car.
"I am ill equipped, currently."
I mumble to myself as I pass the threshold of Mrs. Yang's dead husband's grief. Despite of the trial to keep a brave face on, I can hear my mind shooting words like 'Lack of affection', 'Better than them', 'Lost friends', 'Downward arrogance' and 'Argentina'.
I stand concretely on the plan of retreating home and settling myself down on the patio with the slide door closed so the bickering tap of mum's typewriter would cease to exist and the silhouette of Mrs. Bonneville's will lend me a hand in scheming.
I cannot finish the thought of writing to Ms. Eden before the yelp of a jovial voice bursts into the silent setting.
"I knew you weren't gonna wait for me." She rises from her crouched stance to upright, like the fast forward video of Human Evolution in one second.
I am petrify over the step as her full image slowly steps over the bricked hurdle, cautiously avoiding the grass plants and onto my side.
Her scarf yells of being " Violent Violet " .
Her face has no intention of brutality.
I mouth inaudible excuses that aren't in English as I smirk and step backwards.
My guilt is the culprit of making the scenery look more remorseful than it actually is.
She is a pathetic pacifist. I am facing the safest enemy.
"I told you to wait, Frey. Can't you read or did you just ignore it because it wasn't underlined in red?"
This joke is aimed at my generous use of mum's red markers under the bullet points of Global Warming.
"Where's your boyfriend?"
Now, I am fluent in English because 'Spontaneous Frey Newell' does not believe in muttering excuses.
"I dunno."
"You should. Teenage love is more unpredictable than Share Market needles."
I know my slur has an instant effect, expressing what I really feel since her fruity disposition freezes for a second before she swallows the smile.
"I am not interested in Finance." She announces as her hands fix the tilted axis of the scarf.
Clay has the raging possibility to follow his father's footsteps into the world of numbers and digits.
She does not like business.
We are mutually accustomed. More reasons why we should be what I want us to be.
"So, why are you running away after I told you to wait?"
"I was not. I was just looking around to find you."
"You totally weren't. You were totally gonna make a break for it after you walked past Mrs. Yang's car. It's mainly because you wouldn't like to startle her by running off."
I turn my head around for the dual purpose of hiding the impressive burst of my disposition and also to check for the existence of Mrs. Yang.
There are no hands resting on the driver side armrests, no crumpled up Help Magazines or Daily News on the dashboard and no patches of soggy tissue papers.
"Don't worry. She's not here yet."
She's knows the traits of my character, maybe not at whole since she does not see the unrevised, unedited version of a Frey Newell who trots around the sound of typewriter's tightened screws whilst imitating the features of a supportive figure.
I can feel the temperature on the edge of my neck rising as her feet crosses the boundary of distant meters and step in closer.
Given the information, time and place, she could understand myself and after that, there would be no need for the 'Spontaneous Frey Newell' because then I would be him and he would be me and we will be happy in our perfect alignment.
"What is this about? About the debates?"
"Not really, no. You just have been acting real . . weird lately."
In any other situation, with someone else, I would comfortably destroy the assumption of their keen observation towards me. But I see a violet blur, a Prime Selective Seine High jacket and a tempting patch of a rash covering the edges of her collarbone.
"What . . what do you mean?"
She does not need to say the words of a hormonal invitation.
I break down the figments of her body language to understand and distinctively examine which one secrets the message of attraction in the adolescence language.
Her forehead is clean and deprived of any intentional creases but her eyes are baked with mysticism and question.
I protrude her arms with my eyes and try to make out the hidden meaning of her right hand which is clutching on to the scarf and occasionally prodding the rash.
Her feet are directed towards me at a difficult angle, like Advanced Geometry.
Her girl Poppins shoes have dirtied themselves as the strap on recently convoluted with some jewelry mud.
Never have I found Poppins shoes enticing.
I have a momentary flash of seeing Pastry and Milt, going at each other's mouth with certainly peculiar and original disgust. Then the images are replaced by the buzz of a TV screen and a pop black and white French Film where everyone looks like a tourist from a Beautiful Land.
"You and Clay have been acting very strange lately."
I am in place to perform a mouth to mouth, disregarding the fact that we both are still in the school compound and the silver Sedan of a pathetically depressive widower would buzz out to see us.
I stare down at her shoes where I can spot the blades of snatched grass, stapled to the leather as her white socks are dampened.
I find no suitable explanation to be attracted to see the oval shaped, old ladies footwear that is commonly known as Poppins shoes.
Now?
***
I have discovered a daily, nonchalant fact about myself when I am on my way home.
'The Number 11 bus is built for reflection, recollection and examination of memories to hit upon with proper plans in the future.'
I could feel the vibrating floor of the bus which was assisting me with the buzz of enthusiasm and coughs of scheming when it barked one last time and headed on towards middle market.
I usually let my feet take the weight of my journey on my way home but on an impulse, I have decided that there are more important things to do other than jutting my calves' forwards.
I expected the conversation between Rommery and I to be climactic and fulfilling.
I have addressed 'Having Great Expectations' as one of my primary faults.
It went in the most pedestrian way a conversation between two adolescent human beings can actually go.
Rommery asked me why I have been avoiding "them" for the last two weeks. She had slid down the scale of attractiveness when I heard the word "them" shoot out of her mouth.
I replied instantly, since the 'Spontaneous Frey Newell' have been kicked away from the tarmac to defend the leftover dignity in myself.
I answered, saying that I have been busy with Weber.
She asked who Weber was.
I decided to keep Marxism out of the equation since it had the possibility to make things unnecessarily complicated.
Then the chat shamelessly directed itself to the care of her boyfriend as Rommery addressed our fidgeting interaction during labs, baseball practice and in general.
I took the condescending path by uttering the lines, "I think it's better to sort this out between you two rather than asking me, because if its Clay's problems, then he probably knows best."
She was trotting onward to become the offensive.
"Stop side stepping over the problem!"
Then she huffed to conjure strength for the next Bullet point on her agenda.
"Is it because of me? That you guys are getting distant?"
"Wow! But you can stop flattering yourself if that's alright."
I apprehended the fact too late, that she was really being worried about our relationship because her cheeks increased in colors before a frail "Okay, that's all." slithered across her mouth.
"It's Social Gratification!"
I yelled as she decided to sidestep over the brick terrace and carry on with her crapped day.
I expected her to understand what I meant to stay, from the moment I uttered the terms 'Social Stratification' but then I realized the trouble of 'Having Great Expectations' when she turned around and mumbled "What?" like a simpleton.
"It's Social Stratification."
I passed the words on to her again, decreasing the scale of my aggravated posture.
"Is it one of the new debate topics?"
"You mum's in social, Rommery. You should know about this."
I could feel the air around us, stuck and slippery with a sensitive symphony.
"My mum's not in social."
"Then . . doesn't she run a feminist club or something?"
"Frey, it's not a feminist club."
She huffed in a big gulp of air as if she were in place to devote a large chunk of attention towards me.
"It's a Woman Empowerment group."
"It doesn't matter. I'm down in the dumps of the social stratification and I don't like it."
I knew I had said something vulgar, gripping, too distinct to ignore; like yelling a swear in a booming frequency in the middle of Sunday Church.
"What . . . what are you trying to say? What's wrong?"
I realized the tarmac had turned into a traveling belt of a shoe factory as she drew herself slightly away with keen eyes staring at me to spot something strange.
As if she had seen something that she has never seen before, but instead of being curious, she did the pedestrian thing of being indifferent.
"I don't deserve this . . I don't deserve being . . . so ignored! It wasn't my fault that things are like this! I was just trying to help Jackie because no one would!"
I could feel the escalation of our verbal dance losing steam.
I couldn't help it.
I'm 'Spontaneous Frey Newell'. In disguise.
"Frey, . . what the hell are you even talking about?"
"I want . . you to be my friend, Romms. Like, the good kind. I don't want this Stratification to happen. I don't want you to--to ignore me. I want it to change."
I didn't realize I was being so loud till Mrs. Yang's Sedan decided to relieve its existence through an alarming 'Blip' as her uncomfortable shoes clicked on the pitched concrete.
"How . . how are you kids doing today?"
I nodded like an automaton at her question and Rommery decided to pull the chute as her words of common courtesy were changed with Mrs. Yang before she departed with a simple "I'll see you later, Frey."
"Stopping at Number 2!"
The bus driver calls out to the passengers and breaks my daze with an equally helpful noise as the vehicles docks with a pneumonia-esque cough.
"Have a nice day!" He chirps the well wish as I step on the muddy footbed of the car, whilst nodding back with a disposition that can only make an insult at his immaturity.
I try to accept myself as a level headed person, someone who does not lose their perception in times of danger or anxious period of their lives.
Like my mother, who frantically checks the pantry, double checks the freezer doors, the meat compartment, the vegetable box before jotting down the ingredients with a half satisfied smile.
I break down the remaining 13 minutes of my walk towards home, in the important conquest of scratching up answers.
I cannot help but think of Kenny when Dwarvan's Meat and Buffet signs swings with a meaty creak in the air.
I have seen the unhealthy way Kenny deals with his downturns, especially during the result seasons when the grades of Chemistry, Bio Labs and Advanced Math hold the potential of making bullies cry and shed light on future consequences.
One can easily count the scale of Kenny's failure in life by the amount of weight he gains each month.
The second thought of stepping into Dwarf's for a hazardous round of molten cheese, ham, sausage bits and brown 'Dwarf's special sauce' is enough to form a riot in my stomach.
The man at the corner of 19th owns a News Stand which is approximately 11 minutes from my house. His double rimmed glasses flashes under a yellow light which is engaged in the battle of dispersing the white halogen of the street lamp as I waddle around the corner.
The magazine on his hand pushes my attention to Harvey since the plastic papered cover showcases a woman's anatomy, emphasizing on her womanly body parts as some vulgar words riddle the cover shamelessly.
He cranes his neck around, several times before my silhouette rings his moral's alarms and the magazine swoops down under the stand's desk.
Harvey's idea of cheering himself up rests on the physical actions of 'Self Love' which aligns with his other predictable actions that involves such magazines with the same layout of erotic material on display.
I walk past him, without showing any special attention as he nods his way in my general direction.
Mum is in good familiarity with him because she does not even need to ask for the Daily since he hands her the smoothed paper without a word and adds a joke about the news being "Hot from the press."
Whenever he smiles, I can see the edge of his rigid front teeth, prodding his under lip with a quiet vibration that added to the beauty of being old.
Now, the only thing I see is a pervert, in the wonderland of erotic images, in his own little cage of boundless masturbation.
I keep questioning the choice of my friends till I see Mrs. Bonneville's window in the distance where the tulips are trying to hard not to look out of season and care.
Even though, I try to push the thought downwards, like a cannon ball being stuffed to the back of the barrel; the soppy thought shoots out.
I know I have reached the highest sense of becoming a cliché when I empathize myself with the Tulips.
Out of season and out of care.
Sitting on the window still like a great pretender.
But I lose the tears when the dining table of our house is bombarded with potato mash, a gravy boat sinking without water or gravy, the moody song of a French Sonata drowning the yellow Halogen with nothing but the frail cries of sadness and loss.
My vision has turned into geometrical jams since I can only see elements and substances in hexagons, like the same view one has when he or she looks through a kaleidoscope.
A Kaleidoscope is usually affiliated with happiness, joy, mixed with the ecstatic lighting.
I feel the heating guilt of breaking tradition since my tears has turned my gaze into a kaleidoscope.