On my quest to get all the books home that I purchased on my trip to the Northwest, I discovered some relics of my past. Since I needed another suitcase for the flight, but had no use for it beyond that, I asked my parents if they had any old duffel bags that I could have. They directed me to their airplane hangar (aka enormous storage unit, aka where inanimate objects go to die). After climbing up a ladder and finding an appropriate bag, I spied an old briefcase with duct tape over it and my name written on it. Upon opening it, I discovered one of my old essays (as shown above) among other many other treasure troves:
1. A poem to my friend’s little brother Ezra that I wrote about 20 years ago and whom I actually saw for the first time in about ten years on that trip. He is now a successful, handsome man (but thankfully still a bit devilish, which makes him so much fun).
2. A letter from my “sophomore,” a girl in boarding school that I was her older “sister.” She was tall (5’10), blonde, beautiful, painfully funny, and clever. In her note she asked about my summer, talked about her trip to Mexico where she practiced her Spanish, mentioned that one of our classmates was about to give birth (a 15-year old girl who lost her virginity to a Chippendales dancer, got pregnant and subsequently asked not to return to school), rattled off her list of the advanced classes she was planning on taking in the fall, and ended by saying how much she missed me. She signed her note as she always did, “Stupid.” She killed herself about ten years ago – after a nose job, failed relationships, and issues with her father.
3. There were also piles of my writings, letters, photos, programs from plays I was in, as well as a stack of “commendations” and “demerits” that I received in boarding school. I had shown some of these to my friend years before that I found elsewhere (they are everywhere – I had quite a few) and he marveled that I actually got commendations for doing exactly what I was supposed to do. “I thought you got these for doing something extra or special? How is it that you got rewarded for NOT getting in trouble?” he asked, as he read some that praised me for making my bed all week, or not cussing, or just being generally agreeable and not rioting. I showed him the list of demerits – uniform violations, profanity, being loud in chapel, falling asleep on the chemistry lab table, and my favorite: tampering with the hall light fuse board so I could stay up reading after lights-out. I didn’t have an answer for him.
When I first saw the forgotten Wuthering Heights essay I burst out laughing. Not because of the actual essay but because where I am now. It is a miracle I ever went to college, let alone graduated from high school. To save the long explanations and violin strings, I did not really have any guidance toward any kind of higher education, and expectations of me achieving in any kind of academic way were extremely low. I am still not sure why that was. I know it wasn’t because anyone thought I wasn’t capable, but perhaps the adults around me couldn’t see anything beyond the conventional track. If you weren’t on time, in your seat, doing exactly what you were told, you were… well, hopeless. Any detour or resistance meant failure. If you failed to prescribe to their set of rules your destiny lay in fast-food preparation. And they did not have to do anything to enforce this philosophy; I would learn my lesson on my own.
It was never my intention to blatantly disregard the rules (and it never is) or ever in any way disrespect anyone, however, if there was an opportunity to take a more interesting approach, I did it – and it quite often resulted in disaster: suspension, kicked off of various sports teams, and almost being permanently expelled. But when it worked, it was fantastic and interesting and I not only learned a great deal, but had an intense appreciation for those who let me try something different.
But I had to ask. And I had to fight. And I wonder if I just made things more difficult in my quest to make things more stimulating. I will never know. Or did it just prepare me for more difficult challenges that lie ahead?
In a recent conversation with a dear friend about some mutual turmoil she said, “I always roll over and take it, at least you fight.”
But it’s still hard to know if your way is the right way, when your first instinct is to always come out swinging – even in the softest metaphorical sense. There must be some middle ground, right?
And then I think of Ezra who had some very very tough times and emerged triumphant. And my sophomore who didn’t. And maybe it was the fight in them that made the difference.
So while I view some of my younger transgressions with a mixture of horror and humor, for whatever reason, I am glad that they came from somewhere honest.
School starts next week and I am looking forward to it. I have an equal mix of anticipation and anxiety. I will be in the mix of PhD students who are PAID to go to school. Paid to go to school, how wonderful is that? And I know in the traditional sense they are much more advanced than I am. But I also know that I have done a lot of work on my own, and hopefully this “outside-the-classroom-work” will benefit me. Because I do look forward to the classroom work, and while I will continue my work on my own, I am thrilled to be able to merge the two. Finally, a compromise.
And for the record, I got a C+ on that essay. So maybe I have learned my lesson, after all – or maybe I am just getting better at getting away with things. I don’t know. I am just grateful there is still some fight in me left. No matter how exhausted I might be.
