My memories of the schoolyard are so different and as kaleidoscopic as the many cities in which I’ve lived.
OSCAR ESCRIBANO Playwright, Spain
In every one there was that informal atmosphere, of breathing, of a shelter from those classes that were eternal when the spring was near. The conversations and, with them, the secrets exchanged in every corner of those halls. Girls played to be visible behind those desks that favour invisiblility. We, the boys, wanted to be invisible and play basket- ball or eat our snack.
My schoolyards covered a lot more than the established spaces for the break, it was the street near the institute, the sidewalk in front of it, where we tried to mix up with the rest of the people that wonder around the city, even the bar next to the school where we could melt with the busy environment of people having lunch.
My schoolyards where, above all, full of light even on rainy days. We hurried every minute of that time to do what we really wanted to do, what we liked, what made us vibrate. The sound of the bell turned off that light, and walking through the corridors we said to each other: “OK, we’ll carry on tomorrow”
