Students Rule

Diaknapok -- "student days" -- is a bit of a bribe. If the children are willing to come back to school after Easter, a bit early than any of us would really like, then the school administration is willing to give them full control of the school.

And, really, it worked so well that it should happen more often.

The centerpiece of the three-day-festival over April 19, 20 and 21 was an election. Not for president or student council, per se, but for one class to be able to proclaim themselves the best class in the whole darn school. Three classes 10A, 10B, and 11B threw their hats into the ring for the prize, the key to the school.

Wednesday and Thursday, the three classes had all day to win the votes of their schoolmates with random acts of kindness and campaigning. After seeing the country in full gear over April’s parliamentary election, it wasn’t easy to miss the similarity between adult and juvenile campaign tactics. Just like the whole country, little Heves High was plastered with stickers, posters and even spray paint, all enthusiastically endorsed by the school staff.

10A is a feisty group of kids. When subbing for another teacher, I sat through one of their planning sessions. It most closely resembled World War 3 in scope, scale and spirit. I sat in a corner, fearing the loss of life or limb, perhaps even my own. I rang my little orange bell every time more than one person spoke. I said, in English, "One at a time, please."

But by gametime, 10A had solidified their act. They sponsored amateur salsa dances in the hall, a short visit by a professional singer and the traditional Hungarian "roasting of chunks of fat above a fire like a s’more, then the delicate dripping of said material onto a piece of bread." I brought one of my two precious bags of marshmallows, unheard of here in Hungary and equally unobtainable. I thought it would be a good way to form a peace treaty with a class that doesn’t usually like me. Instead, everyone said the marshmallows sucked and lacked flavor. So it goes.

But I must give them credit for the highlight of their campaign, and chance to showcase their main man: Attila. On Wednesday, the first day back from break, they assembled a giant pyramid of boxes on the front terrace of the school. It was taller than a man and wider than a car. Everyone was left to wonder until Thursday.

At midday, just as the lunch bell rang, the 10A kids started banging on a large gong outside, drawing everyone’s attention to the courtyard. There, a city firefighter had covertly dumped gasoline on the boxes and had lit the backside. Schoolchildren jaws hit the ground as the flames leapt above the boxes, almost licking at the school.

From the front gate, a firetruck came blazing in. Two masked firefighters leapt out with the fire hose, one was shorter than the other. He aimed at the disintegrating pyramid and doused the fire, drawing heroic cheers. When the fire was out, he lifted the mask. It was Attila. He smiled, bowed, and shouted "Vote for 10A!" in the crazy language that they understand around here.

11B’s campaign tactics were mild in comparison. They simply offered room service for three days, darting in and out of classrooms to offer food and drink. Another day, they held a karaoke contest and an arm-wrestling tournament. They held beauty pageants and dancing contests in the gym. I was roped into both. I won the beauty contest, but not the dance-off. So it goes.

The winning class, though, were the kids of 10B. Their secret weapon? As simple as turning the school attic into the hippest spot in Heves for three days. A working bar, even if it was dry, and a subdued atmosphere carved out of a bland storage space. Snacks and a live deejay were served up during each ten minute break between lessons. Even after school, kids would linger in the "padlacs" café, and 10B would cater to their every move. I’m not gonna lie, I did conduct a class or two in the attic.

Friday was the capstone. No classes all day, and we didn’t have to show up until 8:45, so I moseyed (?) to school a little later than usual. Halfway there, I heard a strange pulsating. Vaguely rhythmic. As I got closer, I made out the sound. A marching band.

Like a Hungarian kid is drawn to the thump of disco music, I was pulled toward the sound of the band. As I rounded the corner, I saw an amazing sight. A parade in little Heves. Five majorettes. A ten-piece marching band. And all my 10A, 10B and 11B students.

I’m not modest. I walked straight into the middle of the pack like I belonged there. Struck up a conversation in German with Klaudia next to me, and began to wave.

Heves turned out for the parade, even without floats or candy. Moms and kids in strollers, old people walking around the town, everyone stopped to smile and wave. They closed the streets down for us, police officers safeguarding our slow crawl down the main street. There was a giant farm thresher behind us. I’m glad he saw the humor in the situation, otherwise we all could have been reaped. Needless to say, I was downright giddy walking in the middle of an Eastern European parade.

And Friday evening, the diakbal, a dinner and dance for kids interested in shelling out a couple hundred forints for a nice evening. All week Kriszti had been insisting, in German, that I dance with her and the other teachers on Friday. I would do any dance that Kriszti wanted me to and when I heard it was the Twist, I agreed double time. The afternoon before, I’d ripped her up from her seat in the crowd to be my partner when the children demanded that I enter the dance competition. I thought we were a good couple. The judges didn’t agree.

I didn’t even balk when she handed me a green skirt, polka dotted with all the colors of the rainbow. I had just enough cross-dressing over the course of six summers of camp for this to make sense, anything to make the students chuckle.

We snuck into the kitchen before the show, warming our bellies with liquor safely out of sight of the kids. In Hungary, I assure you, this is normal. We heard the Twist in the main room, and dashed on stage.

Safe to say, the kids roared when they saw me among the ten skirted ladies on stage. The ladies had given me a quick blush job, I’d pulled my increasingly long hair back with a rubber-band-headband, and Kriszti had lent me a red elastic top. My flip-flops broke at the first twist of the Twist, and I kicked them off to dance barefoot. When we took to the audience to find a dance partner, I asked Herr Direktor Kerek Laszlo. He seemed legitimately taken aback.

Quite the festival, student days, in a Hungarian high school. As I stood on a balcony overlooking one of the events between classes, I shook my head and started to think to myself. I’m rather embarrassed to admit the actual statement that first popped into my head.

"Wow, this is like a foreign country or something…"

Perhaps, folks, I’ve been here in Hungary for too long.