Cro School
BY Ana Mihalic Tynan
2022, walking through the iron gates to Richmond College, I was steeling myself for the next 3 hours of VSL (Victorian School of Languages). I could see staff roaming within the faintly-stuffy-smelling office building which stood to my left. The primary building for Japanese, Serbian, Arabic, and Level one Cro lay beyond it, following a garden (containing a magnificent pine tree) with two downball courts. If I could go back a few years, I would be running along the great big fir, or playing 40 40 homebase with old friends in the barren strip in front of the primary building. I would be swinging from the rungs of the climbing frame and settled amongst the playground. I was no longer allowed to roam, as it was for under 12s only. As I surveyed the nostalgic sight a sudden feeling of sorrow flowed through me.
I sped down the path towards the secondary education building (I was 5 minutes late of course),
where Arabic, Bosnian, Mandarin, and Croatian level 2 classes were held. 2nd last lesson, I reminded myself, as I took yet again a readying breath, inhaling the putrid scent of garbage. Cro school (as I ‘affectionately’ called it) had been the bane of my existence ever since grade one. Boring at the start, then just plain annoying. Now though, ever since attending my first Saturday of Year 9 Level 2 Cro, run by Mira Čarpic, there was also a level of dread. To be fair, Mira was a communist. Typical old-fashioned Melbournian Croatian. Reaching the entrance, I pushed the door open and walked down to the 2nd classroom on the right, briefly gazing at the artworks and science projects adorning the clinical-beige-painted walls of the hall. The art rooms, where the smell of paint lingered, were full of low-budget high chairs and plastic-covered tables that ran the length of 4 rows. It always unnerved me that a place that caused me such apprehension was simply a day school.
“Lela, you got the gender wrong again, išala is feminine, and you wrote išao, masculine.” Andrew’s voice bounced off the ceiling as I entered, slotting in between Tabi – a new girl – and Jacinta, my long-term friend. In grade 7, our teacher changed to Andrew Mcdonald, a fellow mud blood (half Aus, half Cro), who actually had a grip on reality. Unfortunately, said grip on reality too often involved talk of conservative politics with my peers who still couldn’t think for themselves. They were infuriating mirrors of their parent’s beliefs. “Haha, she identifies as a boy.” Marin – a person I had a deep loathing for – interrupted, sneering. The class, excluding me, laughed. An ache in my head started to bloom. “Wouldn’t pass with the VCE examiners.” Andrew jokingly said, “Welcome Ana”. “Heya” I replied, settling into my seat and shifting my attention to the worksheets presented before me. “I am honestly going to kill myself if we have to listen to these idiots all day.” Jacinta declared to the table, earning chuckles from us all.
2 hours of padaži (declensions) later, everyone was weary. “Why are cases different between languages? Honestly, Latin makes so much more sense than this.”I grumbled. “Shut up nerd.” One of the boys, unsurprisingly Marin, called out. I let it go. “Marin, ever tried not speaking?” Jacinta jabbed.“As if he has the brains to do that.” I piped in.
“Bitch.” Nikola casually threw at me, nothing more than a routine insult. Jacinta guffawed.
My heart stopped and salty liquid pricked my eyes. Never have I been called that, not like this. Marin meant it as the outdated slur it was. I attempted to keep my swagger up, turning my silence into aloof irritation towards him. “Women like you should just stay in the kitchen, stop being pains in our sides.” Andrew heard this time. “Marin, c’mon, you’re better than that.”
“You really think so? He called me a Bitch.” I drawled, keeping an air of haughtiness while trying to make a point. I hoped Andrew would do something, anything, to reprimand him. “He wouldn’t be that stupid”. The girls, my friends, gave me a look. “You and Marin act like literal siblings.” Tab remarked, smiling. Her comment earned approving mutters from the rest of the posse.
My throat constricted and I swallowed my breath down, unsure as to what to say. Heat closed in on me, flushing my cheeks. I needed out of this classroom. I fought against the tightness in my chest – show any emotion, any hurt from Marin’s words, and I would be ridiculed. I opted just to give them a smile, saying “I’d rather be dead”. Andrew had gone back to correcting Branko’s work. The bell went an hour later, 12: 20 exactly. 5 minutes passed, and I was in the car, urging my dad to drive. A lone tear weaved down my face, and my sobs quietened, as not to let on to my misery. I often thought to myself teenagers are artists in hiding emotions. No more for that dick. I whispered to myself. You will not let this affect you. I couldn’t stop the next tear though, or the others. I desperately tried telling myself I was stupid; unreasonable. My hopelessness peaked as I envisioned glimpses of my classmates’ futures. Jacinta, Tabi, Eva, Lea, already internalising fucked up gender politics… My baby cousins, getting used as punching bags. They’d accept it; expect it. My mum’s denial of my wish to live in Croatia flashed through my mind. I abruptly found wrath and contempt at the culture – my culture – which taught them to roll over, the society that allowed it. Croatians here, my mum had once told me, are not like our family. Not like Križevci. I prayed that that was true. The pressure continued to swarm my body, causing my hands to tremble, and tears to rage.