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you're surrounded by uniformed schoolgirlsin chonburi province, 63 kilometers from bangkok. it's hot. all of them have their little touches: the trinkets on their slim mobile-phones, the hair clips, the oversized jelly-watches, the fake designer bags or the outlandishly cute ones with hello kitty on them or frays and sequins which glint in the sunlight, the little belt clip thingie in the back that clasps together the waist of their skirts to their belt.
some are laughing, some are bored, some have black pencil skirts with a slit on the side, some have navy blue pleated ones, some have black high heeled shoes and some have school issued mary-jane's with calf-high socks. all of them are pristine and kempt. this, the only good thing resultant from having to wake up at 5.15 in the morning; even the soi dogs were still sleeping.
you think to yourself "is it any wonder that the stigma of bad girls in school uniforms exists?" there's gotta be some frustration in the uniformity of school dress codes; of course you have a culture of fantasies stemming from this, the period of rebellion.
i should feel bad for the social-hyper-sexualization of these post-children students, but i oddly have given up on feeling socially guilty about most things i have no control over, which is not good or bad of me, just existent: the gray matter.
a trio of girls are staring you down, and you feel awkward. maybe it's the pink polo/uniform you have to work in, and then again, maybe not. one of them cat-calls out to you, asking if she could have your belt buckle. you look down and remember that you got this kick-ass buckle at a garage sale with this summer-girl one summer (cue beck, sea change, track three) :
that sunny sunday afternoon, you walked with this ambiguous friend-girl all day long scrounging for 3rd-hand items at the rockridge weekend summer garage sales, and ended up getting: two old school british pilot hat liners (one yellow and one green, both rad), a crapload of awesome vinyl in grrreat condition, the belt buckle which gleams in bold 70's rocker font, 'Bad Co,' and of all things a working record player with speakers which was discarded on a street corner. heading back to her aunt's house in berkeley, you listened to bill withers, bob marley, and etta james on the scratchy equipment while sipping homemade lemonade. afternoons like that don't come along often enough.
looking back up at and into the brashness of this tanned little girl. you say to her that she can have it if she has three-hundred dollars. you have been wearing this belt buckle for a few years now, and it just belongs, and this tiny girl just wants to have it? what? are you out of your frickin' mind?!
and of course you play the game of ask-not give-plead-nope sorry-i'm mad at you-ooookay, i don't know you at all-pleeeeease??-i'm going but you're lucky you're cute-won't you sit down with me and my two school girl friends-hey co-workers, are you sure we're leaving?-don't go-god dammit today sucks. my thai is good enough to be understood after some lengthy exchanges, and her slang is blatantly impeccable. her feet are turned in slightly, and the breeze wafts some stray wisps of hair across her dark-brown eyes as she pouts. it's almost enough.
then as your leaving, she asks for your phone number. of course you don't give it to her, and she says to you that your haircut is really cool; cue the cute little friends friends to chime in and agree. your face goes red.
on the truck ride home, you attempt to sleep at the wrong angle, squeezed in between DV equipment and frustration. the pockets of your knees are sweating, and you wish you were entirely somewhere else. and for some dumb-ass reason, you feel bad for not giving that student-girl your belt buckle. what up wit dat?!
i love you thailand. you never cease to make it interesting.
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