Describe something you learned in high school.
I learnt a lot at school.
None of it was on the curriculum.
They’ll tell you it’s about maths, English, science…
and to be fair, I did pick up enough of that to get by.
But the real lessons?
Those weren’t written on the blackboard.
They were written in corridors.
In the spaces between classes.
In the way footsteps sounded when they were coming a bit too fast behind you.
You see, school teaches you patterns.
Not the kind in textbooks—
the kind in people.
Who to avoid.
When to keep your head down.
How to read a room in half a second flat.
Because sometimes, reading the room
was the difference between getting through the day…
or not.
I learnt how to become invisible.
Not in some superhero, cloak-and-dagger way.
Nothing glamorous about it.
I’m talking about shrinking yourself down
until you barely register.
Don’t answer too many questions.
Don’t stand out.
Don’t give them a reason.
Blend into the background like a dodgy bit of wallpaper
no one quite notices anymore.
It’s amazing how small a person can make themselves
when they have to.
Funny thing is, the ones doing the teaching—
they didn’t even know they were teachers.
The lads who peaked at fifteen.
Kings of a kingdom that only exists
inside school gates.
Out there?
Different story.
But in here?
They were everything.
And you learnt quickly
that their approval didn’t matter…
but their attention did.
So you avoided it.
Like stepping around a loose paving slab
you just know is going to ruin your day.
I don’t remember much about algebra.
But I remember timing.
Waiting just long enough before leaving class
so the corridor would be empty.
Taking the long way round.
Always the long way round.
I remember silence.
How quiet you can be
when you’re trying not to be noticed.
The strange part?
Those lessons stick.
Long after school’s finished,
long after those corridors disappear into memory,
you still find yourself
checking the room.
Still measuring your words.
Still knowing, instinctively,
how to fade into the background.
But here’s the thing they never taught…
You can unlearn it.
Slowly.
Awkwardly.
Bit by bit, like stretching a muscle
you forgot you had.
You realise you’re allowed to take up space.
To speak.
To exist without apology.
Still though…
On certain days, in certain rooms,
that old lesson taps you on the shoulder.
“Keep your head down.”
“Stay small.”
“Stay safe.”
And for a moment—just a moment—
you remember exactly how to disappear.
Stay safe,
BC
The Ramblings of Bob Christian 