We grow more partial for th’ observer's sake.”
-Alexander Pope
When I arrived here as a preppy, pre-pubescent child, I knew nothing of true camaraderie and love. I also knew nothing of the ineptitude of reality’s institutions. One thing I did have, however, was a great mentor in the form of a towering, blonde-haired prefect who would go on to teach me all that is valuable in life; from appreciating good spirits to experiencing spirituality through a Hendrix solo. At the very least, I expected a friendship to form. Instead, I learned the beauty of observation.
Subsequently, there was something which I noticed on my first day that I still notice every single day, even four years later: the toils which five hundred boys endure thrice daily in the servery are, in fact, a perfect metaphor for their lives, indeed all life.
But the act itself is nothing without the proverbial sheep – they eagerly graze on our campus, ironically with an obsession for grazing on a field called ‘meadows’ (or at least cheering others on as they do it). But no matter the form of the sheep, whether black or white, regardless of origin, they all flock to a single location at a single time for their bodily nourishment.
For the food of this institution is both its most highly criticised component and its most readily consumed one. It is our commodity, our primary resource and, while it is intended to be distributed equally, it instead corrupts with the power of oil and gold. Open the dining hall and all decency succumbs to the powers of our societal dynamics, like sunlight to an eclipse.
Oftentimes, I stand back and, as a tribute to my mentor’s memory, I observe. Cocooned in the triangular spread of hardwood and marble, amidst the clouds of musty vapour, I witness the plight of the Michaelhousians…
Most obvious is the omnipotent hierarchy. Like demi-gods, senior individuals part seas of their subordinates, finding the front of the line. Periodically, an educator slithers through like a shark amongst guppies, but, regardless, the ‘food chain’ does its namesake justice – biggest invariably at the front. Even as a younger man, it occurred to me that this reeks of irony. It mirrors the conduct displayed by the parents of these affluent boys, for despite law and illusions of equality, those privileged few with money and power are as much the brutish matriculant of the world as their very sons are here.
But amongst peers I see an even more ominous brand of gastronomical foreplay. A queue of juniors push and shove. They, for me, are our greed-driven desire to beat the hordes – a prelude to the perils of capitalism and the principles of a societal death race. Seniors are worse still. Many a time, I have watched with disappointment as agendas are achieved under the pretence of politeness - a casual invitation from an aspiring prefect to his potential elector.
There is one final divide, however, for three types of man are defined daily. First is the commoner. He steps forward, nonchalantly accepts his slops of bland main course, thanks the chef and traipses off to a table. Nothing fills his mind save for the present. He is the accountant, the clerk and the clergyman. Second is the one who aspires. He smiles, humbly accepts the food and its homogenous aroma, and timidly dishes up his daily greens, before weaving through to a table where he will sit somewhat detached. He is the entrepreneur, the politician. Thirdly, there is the dreamer. He appreciates the existence of the food, sees the miracle of the chef’s consciousness, navigates to a carefully selected bench where he can appear miserable to outsiders, whilst discussing idealistic philosophies with his rare equals.
All the men which I have seen glide through these doors fit into one of these moulds, some fit into many. But as the onlooker, I myself can never fall into one. I am the randomly generated exception who is as misunderstood as the hidden workings of the kitchen – an incomprehensible cacophony, blinding white walls, distant behind the counter. In reality, I am nothing more than a transient observer, an outside witness to the murder of thought and culture under the dusty rafters of the very place which they formerly called home.
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