I haven’t legally entered Fieldston’s grounds since ninth grade–at least; not on a technical level. When the new school ID’s were rolled out, and we were meant to take our pictures in the commons, I made the executive decision that I would spend the next few years of my life without school identification, mostly because I didn’t like people to see me being photographed (it made me itch to think of the whole commons seeing my give my lopsided grin, fix my hair and fiddle with my hands like an antsy child).
When the campus security office or Sandra Wang sent emails emphasizing that student ID’s were a necessary safety precaution (to go along with the fence) and that every student needed one to set foot inside the upper school, I sent those straight to my spam folder. I just didn’t have the heart to document my insecure existence on a laminated card, and I especially didn’t find it worthwhile to swipe it every time I wanted to go to class.
Honestly, my technical nonexistence hasn’t caused all that many problems for me. Maybe it’s because somebody is always willing to swipe their card and hold the door open, maybe it’s because I don’t appear to pose much of a threat to anybody (being a fairly small and doe-eyed teen-aged girl), or maybe, as Mr. Montera has suggested, it’s because I blend in with a crowd when I wear my bright red puffer coat.
In assemblies, we were told that under no circumstances should we hold the door open for another student, that we should encourage our peers to use their ID’s–and yet, politeness prevailed. Security guards that recognize me don’t turn me away from school in the mornings when I can’t produce identification, and even the vaguest of acquaintances are quick to swipe their cards for me and open doors from the inside. Even beyond that, I am known. People know my character. They’ve read my articles. Without a photo ID, my face and reputation seem to be enough.
We unite in frustration towards the school, towards ineffective bureaucracy and surreal security measures.
I feel like there’s a lesson about community in the ease with which I’ve been able to infiltrate the school’s property–there’s no call to action here, no demand for tighter security–I have little desire or need for armed guards patrolling the halls or incessantly documenting each student’s comings and goings. I just hold a funny sort of appreciation of the bizarre rituals we put in place for the illusion of safety, and the way we students love (need, even) to undermine those rituals.
