_{*Quick Summary: The author writes about the highs and deep difficulties navigating various aspects of his schooling.*}

If there was anyone who ever hated school more than me, I’d like to meet them. I want to ask that person how they survived it. I’d pray they did it much, much better than I did. Not only did I hate school, I hate the inevitable question – “Why did you hate school?” I’ll immediately return to my go-to answer, “I just hated it.”. Much more simple than explaining it like I do here.

Socially, I was a diplomat/peacemaker type. Very shy, but just cool and tough enough to talk the bullies out of doing their bully thing, and compassionate enough to help the kids getting bullied learn how to outsmart the mean kids and stand up for themselves. Even teaching some kids basic self-defense moves when the need arose. I learned to get along with everyone, as I was a racial minority in most of the public schools I attended. Not to overplay that, but it did help me a small bit to better understand what it was like to be excluded, even while I tried hard to help others fit in.

I was regularly awarded high marks, awards, and recognition in school by the state of Virginia, and once we moved, from North Carolina as well. My test scores were always exceptionally high, but while I was a smart kid, I was still very lacking in some other ways. Looking back, I showed signs of anxiety and OCD as far back as I can remember. I was never diagnosed with either, but I certainly exhibited some signs of both.

My parents insured I was always well read, and they did their best to keep me engaged in learning. When the Reading Is Fundamental contests came up, I was always the kid that read the most books. Not because of the contest, I was already reading that many books on my own. I’d take a break from reading one thing by reading something else. I just loved to read. That led to a certain level of knowledge that helped to make the tests in school somewhat easier for me. I was a partial autodidact, so most of my education came from sources I found on my own, or things my parents provided for me. In an era before the Internet, that usually meant library books, and lots of them. I spent a lot of time in libraries.

I found the educational system I experienced was quite broken and did not respond well to kids like me. Actually, kids on the “higher” or “lower” (for lack of better terms) ends of the range always seem to get left out in favor of the majority. Perhaps it’s because schools focus on preparing us to become workers, not leaders, so those who think independently, or who aren’t able or willing to conform, find themselves on the outside looking in. I’m horrified to think how many of our great thinkers were discouraged because the school system in this country failed to recognize their strengths and teach them right where they were instead of letting them fall through the cracks.

For the first three years of school, I had good teachers. They helped find ways for me to learn more outside of school by recommending books, historical places to visit, and special courses I could attend. My parents did the best they could, always providing access to libraries, and even field trips when they were financially able. They certainly did their part, and looking back, were probably involved much more than most parents in their child’s education.

In fourth grade, I had a teacher that really liked me. In fact, she showed so much interest, my parents would let her pick me up occasionally for special one-on-one time. As standard classes didn’t offer enough for me academically, she and I would go to museums and other places of educational interest in the evenings and on weekends. Most times it was just the two of us. This was fine with me as I thought she was very nice to take the time with me, and I always wanted to learn. Unfortunately, she had other motives as well.

From my parent’s perspective, and with the times being so simple in the early 80’s, I’m sure leaving your son with his female teacher seemed one of the safest things in the world. Unfortunately, the memories I have of my time alone with her as a ten-year-old are missing blocks of time, and some important details. I remember we’d go on these trips to educational places and she’d call them “dates”, even holding hands as we walked. I learned a lot and enjoyed the trips we’d take, as that was the majority of what we’d do together. Unfortunately, I also remember times at her apartment afterwards she gave me “special drinks” she’d mix that made me very sleepy. After the first few times, I didn’t want to drink the drinks, but she insisted. I was a rule follower then, so if an adult told me to do something, I did it. It was during those half-conscious times she would do inappropriate things to me. Not being old enough to understand what was going on and being groggy, I found the whole thing very confusing. I remember enough to know what happened was very wrong.

One incident in particular, I woke up on her couch, pants and underwear around my ankles, and her head in my lap. When she realized I was awake, she panicked and made me drink more of the drink. There are other similarly blurry memories in her car, outdoors, and elsewhere. Always with one or both of us at least partially unclothed.

A more sober moment was on her birthday when she told me we were boyfriend and girlfriend. A pretty special feeling for a young boy who hadn’t had a real girlfriend yet. She then showed me a tennis bracelet in a gift box, gave it to me, and told me to give it back to her. When I did, she acted very surprised, and put on quite an act. The premise, I suppose, was that as her “boyfriend”, I’d given her the bracelet as a birthday gift. Then, I assume she wanted to “reward” me for being such a good “boyfriend” for buying her the bracelet. I remember that exchange clearly, and know now as an adult, it was confirmation for the rest of the partial intimate memories I have of her and that time. This was definitely not a normal teacher/student relationship. These visits ended after her real boyfriend stumbled across us in disgust one day. They argued, he ran off calling her names and saying he was going to call the police. She ran after him, and was gone for quite a while. It seemed like hours. I just pulled up my pants, sat in her living room, and took a nap, while the door to her apartment was wide open. When she finally came back she told me he wasn’t her boyfriend any more, but it didn’t matter because I was her favorite guy anyway. I may have been left with her once or twice after this incident, but not much more than that. I suspect she began to worry about being caught again.

Most of these memories I’ve had all along, but some I’ve only recently “remembered”. Whether all of the more recently surfaced things actually happened is surely up for debate in my mind. Even I don’t know, and I was there. I just wasn’t alert or worldly enough to put the whole picture together as a child. What I do know is that my original memories are damning enough, without the “memories” that came later.

I told no one about all this until I was well into adulthood. Partly because I didn’t remember parts of it, partly because of a level of shame, and partly because I just didn’t know what was real. Not always being fully conscious for it made this whole thing so confusing. As badly as I’d like to confront this woman and stop her today, I truly cannot piece enough of it together in my mind to bring any sort of legal action, despite knowing beyond a doubt what she did was wrong. It is very frustrating.

Back to my education – Reading ahead meant I’d occasionally impress the teachers. In some cases however, the opposite was true. I assume my fifth grade teacher hated the air I breathed. I understand some teachers are hard in order to push certain students, but that wasn’t her gig. She was mean towards me. I was polite, shy, very well-behaved, and never did anything wrong or got in any trouble. For her to have the level of apparent anger towards me was inexplicable in my little mind at the time. It still is to a degree. I do remember politely correcting her a few times on various things, so I assumed her feelings of anger towards me stemmed from that, but I truly don’t know. What I do know is fifth grade was nearly unbearable because of her. 

I experienced some big extremes in a two year period. I badly needed balance. After having a good few years in school, then having the incidents I described above, I was fortunate to have a few teachers in a row following that who helped to make things better. In fact, I got a teacher who showed me there could be a perfect balance. She showed me a proper level of appropriate teacher/student interest, challenged me to do more, and took a genuine interest in my education and life. In fact, we’re connected on social media today, over 30 years since she taught me. She made a difference, and I will always be thankful for her. Thank you Gail! You are one in a million!

So to recap, a few good teachers, a good teacher who did bad things, a bad teacher who did virtually nothing, and a great teacher who helped me more than any other. All in a brief span; all by the time I was 12-13. What it reinforced in my mind was that education would be inconsistent and up to the whims of the educators. The system simply could not be relied upon, and the best way for me to navigate that was to take control of my own learning as best I could. Fortunately, I already knew that was how I learned best and most comfortably. 

Following Gail, I was unable to do much more than average quality work. Not good, not bad, just average. The work just didn’t interest me any more. It certainly was not challenging at all, or up to my standards. I was bored and beginning to learn complacency. For me, “average” was still A’s and B’s, and I found I could earn those without studying at all. Previously, anything less than straight A’s wasn’t acceptable; it was beneath my ability and I knew it, but I began to be more comfortable with not “showing off” at school academically. If I’m not being challenged, I’m quickly bored, and I don’t do boredom well. I don’t know if I was just tired of the peaks and valleys, or what. All I know is around two years after everything settled down, I was ready to quit trying. I felt like this was inevitable and was exactly what the system wanted – to bring down the “high” performers, stomp out the “low” performers and demotivate any independent thinkers. They won a battle I didn’t even realize I was fighting. In a short period I went from getting straight A’s to incomplete marks, where I didn’t even submit enough work to get graded. I started by handing in work that was purposely wrong, but the teachers at the time invalidated it because they refused to allow me to fail that hard so purposefully. They didn’t want to give me F’s, they’d rather give me I’s (Incomplete) instead. I found the total lack of effort helped to calm my anxiety, at least until I got home and had to account for why I was doing so poorly.

Around this time, I had an incident at Catholic school where a Priest offered me alcohol and tried to get a little too close to me physically, and an incident where I ran away from school in the middle of the day. Add that up, and things were going downhill rather quickly. At home, my anxiety and anger were at an all-time high. I was dealing with intense self-hatred, out of control hormones, a tumultuous young spiritual life, and all of the normal quirks of being a teen. On top of that, my hatred and anxiety of school caused real, physical ailments every Monday. Like clockwork I was sick on Monday morning. Genuinely sick. I would have real, measured body temperature increases of several degrees I was so worked up. Miraculously, I’d feel better and my temperature would normalize once the decision was made I could stay home for the day. If you can imagine it, this happened every Monday.

My parents did the best they knew how, but by eighth grade I was a mess. The decision was made for me to be home-schooled. Part of the home-school process was testing to see what level I should be in. When the tests came back, everyone agreed I could get the next four years worth of work done in fairly short order. Some subjects I didn’t have to take any courses, as I’d tested high enough to graduate already. Not having to attend actual school with teachers and other kids seemed perfect to me, so I cooperated nicely, and wrapped up my final four years of school in a few weeks. What I wasn’t able to study my way through were the lessons in human interaction one normally learns at school in their teen years. Having been introverted and paralyzingly shy, I’m not sure how much I’d have learned had I been forced to do it anyway, but still, I lacked those basic people skills for a while afterwards. Instead of all that, I got a lot of extra time hanging around the house with my mom, my dogs, and my books until it was time to get a job.

Below you’ll see my final report card from the eighth grade. I’m oddly proud of it, and I don’t know why. For me, it should remind me of failure, but maybe that’s why I like it. Failure is good. It drives you, motivates you, forces you to adapt. The person I am today is partly because of the teachers I had in school. Some good, some bad, some average. Ultimately, the decision to not fail me from eighth grade, even though I deserved it, and allow me to pursue my own path is one I’m extremely thankful for. That was an incredible gift. Whether that was driven by the guiding force of my teachers at the time, or by the Priest just trying to get rid of me, I’ll never know and I’ll never care. I was finally free from the thing I’d grown to hate.