Rainy Morning Musings

The masses swarm to and from morning lectures, some singly drawn by the need for coffee they can’t afford. The slow movement of dark-clad attendees remind me of raindrops traversing a window, the occasional fast droplet wiggling past a student on a skateboard. I see the pairs of puff-jacketed cocooned girls in tights and wonder: have they consciously chosen fashion over warmth, or did they think such a style up as a group of primates share a new nut-cracking technique? A derogatory comparison, perhaps, but make no mistake I do admire and envy these girls for their seeming ease at adapting such styles.

For even if I did style myself in such a manner, I would, and do, still stand out. My facial structure, body language and method of speaking differs in such a way that I would be a proverbial goat among the sheep. As it is my short hair, it’s lengths creeping towards a quiff-mullet mutation, is far removed from the messy topknots and carefully coiffed and hair-dried lengths of the university’s female population. My floor length coat seems ungainly compared to thin cardigans paired with slivers of scarves draped across tanned necks.

Posture is the main divider between the throng, the less confident fashionistas of both genders hug their arms close, sometimes clasping textbooks and shoulder bags close as if a mob will suddenly descend and wrench their valuables from their grasp. First years hunch past, apology in every angle for intruding on this cultured domain. While staff are obvious to the eye, the office workers are distinguished from the lecturers in their distinct business wear and complete oblivion to any chance of someone wanting to actually communicate to them. In comparison, students look around constantly, searching for a common peer to bond and lament homework amounts too. Such little clues seem vast to me, while most seem to ignore them much as they do the raindrops rolling down their windows.

And is it surprising, when we are constantly bombarded by messages to ignore others? Don’t talk to strangers, it’s rude to stare, the opposite sex only wants to use you, eye contact for more than a second or even simply sitting next to another is considered a sign of mental retardation. When smiling at my fellow pedestrians I watch the frantic jumble of conclusions being studied and discarded, ‘What do they want?/Are they selling something?/Do I know them?/Are they a threat?’ Some automatically smile back, a trait I share, others grimace while the majority just walk by, blank-faced, for if we ignore them surely they will go away?

So I observe and judge others as time continues on, the stream drying up to a occasional trickle as latecomers and the sleep deprived shuffle past my window. Staff, staff, recent immigrant, first year, American exchange student, skateboarder, caffeine zombie, geek. It only takes a glance, but one which most prefer to slide their gaze past, for they are only droplets after all.