From Here to There in 58 Years: A Slacker’s Story

​

            The setting: June, 1965. High school, senior year.

            I was in my homeroom, part of a small group of students who gathered each day before the start of classes. Every morning was the same: I’d go to the back of the room, sit behind that really tall guy, and hope I was invisible.

            J. D. Salinger’s classic The Catcher in the Rye was open on my lap, and I sneaked an occasional peek to read a paragraph or two. The book struck a chord. The teenage protagonist, Holden Caulfield, was having trouble dealing with life. So was I.

            Mr. Monroe stood at the front of the room. He was our advisor, although I don’t think he ever advised anyone about anything. I also don’t think he even knew my name, possibly because I never gave him any reason to learn it.

           Mr. Monroe droned on about our upcoming graduation ceremony, our oh-so-proud families, blahblahblah. I didn’t care about any of that stuff, especially since it was a pretty good bet I wouldn’t be graduating.

            As my high school career creaked and groaned its way to the finish line, it was clear I was not going to be chosen Most Likely to Succeed. The Don’t Be Like This Guy award was more likely. I wasn’t a troublemaker, but I had truancy down to an art form. I was cutting classes two or three times a week – sometimes even skipping full days. Still, despite my lack of initiative, I was managing to (barely) pass all of my classes – except biology.

            At the start of the semester, school administrators let my mother know they were not happy with me. They wanted me out of there, which put pressure on me to pass biology. But even if I did pass, some of my earlier school shenanigans would contribute to my still being four credits short of the forty I needed to graduate. Most kids would probably panic at the prospect of not graduating. I was simply resigned.

           Surprisingly, I’d managed to score a C- on my biology mid-term a couple of months earlier. But that grade had nothing to do with studying and everything to do with being a good guesser. This minor success was too little, too late, though. A semester F loomed.

​

A High School Carpetbagger

​

            This was my third high school. The first, my freshman and sophomore years, was run by the Catholic Brothers of something-or-other. My mother felt that religious schools offered a better education than public schools, so that’s where she sent my sister and me. The irony is that my mother had absolutely no use for religion – she thought it was bunk. One of our family’s favorite pastimes was sitting in front of the television on Sunday nights, laughing at Oral Roberts and his money-grabbing “hands-on healing” scam.

            I’d been tossed out of that first school for insubordination. The folks at the second school  – my junior year – weren’t too fond of me either, especially given my tendency to avoid attending classes. Nothing was official, but that June a teacher took me aside and strongly suggested I go elsewhere next year.

           One year later, there I was in school number three, trying to get through that biology course in one piece. The past two weeks, shelving my usual learning system – open the book, sit quietly as my eyes glaze over, close the book – I actually studied. It was too late to really absorb this stuff, but if I could remember some terminology and concepts, and make some good guesses, I had a whisper of a chance at a D-. ... 

           

This is just the start of my adventure....

Read the entire story here. 

​