On a typical school day, we write. We read. We (try to) learn. But we also shiver. Our lips go blue, and our teeth start to chatter. The arctic-like chill strips away any last bit of warmth from a dreadful Monday. Today, we regretted our morning decisions: a cardigan would not suffice.
Yes, you best believe it, we were sitting in 115 Greenough. Our fingers became stiff as we located our notebooks. Our vision blurred from cold-induced tears as we struggled to grip our wooden pencils and copy down the definition of meiosis. A classmate’s voice quivered as she answered a question. She did not raise her hand. She was cold-called.
As citizens, scholars and caretakers, we are deeply troubled by our school’s temperature regulation. We transition from scorching heat to piercing cold faster than a New York minute. In the STEM wing, we experience frigidity that hinders our learning, and ultimately, is not sustainable amidst the splintering Greater Boston weather. Yet, the older areas of the 115 Greenough building hit us with an uncomfortable warm current, almost as if a sudden fire erupted nearby.
Our school regulates its temperature about as well as our current political administration regulates food prices. While we write this piece with elements of satire, we stand firm (and shivering) in our beliefs that the STEM wing feels as cold as Mount Everest’s summit.
As we go down to lunch, we are hit head-on with a chill. We see frost, people, frost. Students haphazardly swing the doors open with no respect for those sitting inside.
When we sit down at a lunch table, still donning our heavy Super Puffs, friends approach us, sweating excessively in tank tops. It is as if we are coming from two different worlds, but we are not. Within the walls of the high school lies a substantial temperature gradient. Nobody is comfortable.
School is like a canvas. Students hold the paintbrushes. Our work could shine like a beacon of light, but our hopes and dreams are snuffed out like a candle in seconds. Traversing the glacial cold and sultry heat, our minds shift away from not just learning, but from creativity.
As Warriors, we strive to wear the Brookline crest with pride. Sadly, that crest is worn underneath a down coat. as we hone our ability to weather storms that could take down the deepest-rooted of ancient oak trees. Our ultimate take: the administration loves to preach freedom and responsibility. With the freedom of controlling our school’s budget, the administration holds the great responsibility of temperature regulation.
In light of each snowstorm that hits us, as Warriors, the need is both dire and pressing to direct more attention to heat regulation. Ultimately, we are Warriors: Warriors of the cold.
Note from the writers: We will not accept any allegations that this piece was created with artificial intelligence. If two women with access to a Thesaurus who possess a natural inclination to utilize semi-colons threaten you, we invite you to rethink why you are intimidated by powerful women.
