Back in twelfth grade, we performed a play in school. It was an old Greek anti-war piece (the Iraq War had just started, and emotions were running high), and we put a lot of effort into it. For the introductory scene, we thought we'd do some grotesque war images, and we used whatever kinds of weaponry were available to us - a baseball bat, an axe, and a classmate of mine had two old, non-functioning carbine guns from the First World War. We went to the parking lot and got them from his car. Two mothers stared at us, shocked, and asked: "What are you doing there?" The first amok run at a German school ever had just taken place maybe half a year ago, and before that people had thought of such things as an exclusively American thing. You can imagine that people at our small and extremely well-to-do school were over-cautious. We explained to them that we're using them for a school play, and they let us go. Later on the way, the janitor saw us, smiled and said: "So it's starting here too, huh?"
Why wasn't he alarmed? Because he knew us. And that's the morale of this story: If there was actually some kind of relationship between pupils and school staff - including janitors - maybe such things wouldn't happen. But they do, because schools are too big, people are too afraid of each other and the role of schools as a social environment is being ignored.
Why wasn't he alarmed? Because he knew us. And that's the morale of this story: If there was actually some kind of relationship between pupils and school staff - including janitors - maybe such things wouldn't happen. But they do, because schools are too big, people are too afraid of each other and the role of schools as a social environment is being ignored.