Maxigumee

I’m reading One Flew Over The Cuckoo’s Nest for school. It’s a somewhat depressing book, as most books assigned by a teacher are. There’s a sadistic quality about english and literature teachers, like they get pleasure out of the suffering of characters in books. It has a bit of an innocent tone which kind neutralizes the whole sadness of it. Much better than 1984, which was assigned earlier this school year. Anybody who reads that book an enjoys it must seriously be somewhat sadistic, or perhaps masochistic.

The book takes place in the psychiatric ward of a hospital, and is told by the patient who’s been there the longest. He’s part indian, and everybody thinks he’s deaf (but as far as I can tell, he’s faking it, as he notes what people are saying in the book). There are several parts of the book which seem real to me, but probably a bit surreal to others who haven’t experienced. The psychiatric ward of the hospital seems to be a bit like a very depressing school. The florescent lights, the constant drone of who knows what. The students having facts from teachers pounded into their heads constantly.

One place that I’ve experienced things like the psych ward in the book was at an after school program that I attended while I was in the fourth grade. Man, that place was seriously one of the most depressing I’ve ever been to. The after school program was in the basement of a community center. No windows, stuffy air, the smell of cleaning products, evil florescent lights….the bright little home work room…. There was also such an orderly, cramped, confining feel to the place. All of the counselors and people who worked there seemed unbearably calm and collected. I think I acted the way I did there because I was subconsciously trying to break up that terrible peace. Anything at all to make that surreal place become more real.

I was driven to do things so incredibly insane, I don’t think I’ve ever really acted that badly anywhere else. I remember one time, this girl and I were waiting to be picked up or something, and there was a pile of floor tiles on a table. We picked some of them up and dropped them on the floor. They broke, and we got in trouble. Today, I don’t why I was compelled to do that. Perhaps because the floor tiles seemed squashy? What I do know is that for some reason, that place made me very insane.

Somebody should seriously do a study of children’s behavior inside and outside of places like that. How can the mentally-challenged be put in places like that when those kind of places turn normal people insane? At least try to make places like that more friendly and brain-nourishing.