(in the true spirit of The MonarchofMidnight, this post will keep expanding, so do feel free to come back and check up on any updates as frequently as you wish :D)
(With around ten months left till I myself am an IB-Student embroiled in it all, perhaps this wasn’t the right time to bring this whole thing up but ehh; anything to fill up my posts xD)
Now to briefly explain what IB is; short for International Baccalaurate Diploma Programme. The final two years of high school; equivalent of the A Levels, baccalauréat in France, etc.
I’ll begin by stating that my critical opinions about the IB-Diploma Program begin a whole two years ago; a foot out of what I’d enclosed myself in: an impressionable Eighth Grader open to all paths with an almost backfiringly open-mind. I’d always had a fancy for thought and divergence (but that’s something for another post xD – all in good time, of course) and by then, I’d began thinking a little broader, past my teenage life, which I then decided, would be anything but indifferent or previously seen in someone else.
The night that I first stumbled upon the IB Learner Profile (See: Obvious Image) grâce à posters all across classrooms and corridors in school, my boundless thoughts drove me to pose my arguments to my mother, with a very minuscule sense of bravado, considering that my father himself is an IB Teacher. I’d went to her, stating that these qualities, although seemingly positively inclined and harmless, came with taglines stating that these were “required” qualities for an IB student, which was made up to be the high school termination of the highest esteem, acknowledgement and prestige.
Of course, everyone is entitled to their own, completely u
nique interpretations to absolutely anything and I saw this “requirement” as a systematic protocol, the image I’d formed was like standing before a gateway of the last room(the end/exit of high school) before I could jump out the window into the wider, open world (if I survived the fall, of course xD) and being pulled apart, cut up, severed, pressed hydraulically and put back together in a mixture that did not differ from the way others before me had walked and those after me would walk through that door.
like a system ^
And it’s no secret that system and indifference and routine are things that inhabit the finite space on the list of things I hate. Well, to put it lightly, my mother was quite intimidatingly unamused: “Thank God your father wasn’t here to hear that”.
Now back to the image of the suppressor; in fact the visualization
I’m going for here is of a complete firearm, in all its threat, poetic beauty and of course powers of disillusionment.
Picture the developmental/preparation stages of an individual’s life; schooling, education, learning from parents/peers/elders/*insert absolutely anything you like because it’s a perpetually-growing list*: When one is (consciously or against their knowledge) in a fascinatingly impressionable state. That’s the gun as well as the wielder, who directs the point of its cross-hairs’ focus.
Please forgive and ignore the fact that it’s very evidently Shutterstock
It’s what fires one through the zephyrous troposphere of their often vacuous lifetimes, towards a target; pseudonymmed an ambition, a purpose.
You getting an idea of what I’m going at here?
So that’s your rudimentary base, that has aimed and fired you at an epitomisingly (in)humane and materialistic goal; a Point of Promised Satisfaction, Success and Repose. Heck, it still sounds a tad appealing. *disgusted*
Where does the title fit in here? Note: A suppressor or silencer is an attachment to the nose of a gun, muffling its flash, noise and sometimes range. Now that’s the latter stages of school education and this is where the whole part about IB’s “requirements” shaping endowments shine through. It’s a Suppressor, a Silencer. And a masqued, alluding one at that too.
Right now, some of you (if anyone is at all reading) may be wondering, “What is his point? That no one has a choice and we’re all heading towards predetermined cusps?”
Well broaden your perspective, take a (actually, the more; the better) step back.
Sometimes the nose is aimed into the free skies. Emphasis on ‘free’.
Sometimes, a gun is fired not not in accordance with its conventional purpose (jejune, trite), but with the aim of creating something exotic, obscure and unfamiliar: Anarchy.
Fired to make some noise.
To shift attention.
To shift Paradigms.
To instill domination and discomposure.
To make a statement.
To act as a symbol.
A symbol, an idea that, when carried; becomes a shield, even a battering ram.
Take a moment to look away from the screen or read all that again. Let it all sink in.
Why were you fired?