My first year of high school in 1983 took me for a wild ride. Yet, a fourteen year old, clueless to the future, could never be grateful.
Foreign-born but grew up awkward and eccentric, out of place, out of time. In my first week, trouble. Diagnostic essay: I write a porn story. Right away. Dean's Office. Expulsion? Suspension? Out of Honors Program. Stripped from the very start. I should have known better. Played by the rules of war. The old slag, what a hag. But everyone loved her. She did her job. She taught.
Yes, I lost my stature, my position as smart, little Asian student. English became boring. Except no one noticed. Because nobody cared. As I made friends, I learned not to be a fuck up, end up at Wintersburg. Really, how I survived my first year, freshman year, I don't know, I can't say.
Of course, I nearly died from drugs at a party. They were drugs that I brought. Fucking "Bloody N-**-**", that's what they were called. Speed. The red and black capsules I took.
How I drank schnapps and beer, smoked weed, took speed, threw up and nearly overdosed. I may exaggerate, but I was a burnt match, useless to everyone. Gain a reputation at a football party and get teased forever. How the fuck did I know the rules of engagement. I didn't. This was war!
Shallow, dumb teenagers bully other students since they don't give a damn. Compassionate teammates? No, I ran cross country and track. I liked football. However I was small, skinny, not tall, but light. Eight-stone Flying Squirrel. Only I was trouble. Always getting myself in trouble with the law. Of course, I needed help but my older brother and his fraternity left me helpless to find my way through the minefield of school in the eighties.
If I knew then...but no, life doesn't work that way, in reverse, so to speak. No, I was lost to God and all humanity, an Indian outcast.
Nineteen Eighty-Three. I lost a testicle at Sunset League Finals. And I came in eighth place. In the ER, doctors stitched me up, good to go. My teammates visited. Nothing could destroy me. I felt like I was cursed. I recuperated. Even if I could know, if I could understand, but no one could help me. Track next year was horrid. I was afraid to run. We all ran long distance. Even if I could choose a different race, hurdles, short distance, anything... Everyone sucked it up. Some of us ran better than others. I lost heart. Nothing made sense. Not home. Not school. Not life. Nothing. I learned how to be bad.
Except I did badly at being bad, not good, but not Hollywood bad. If I did one thing right, dressing up as Gandhi at school for Halloween. Gandhi was the closest I would ever achieve as wholesome acceptance. However, I was not Gandhi at a party seducing Minnie Mouse. Yes, I said the wrong thing to her friend the next day and she dropped the burnt match.
Try as I might, I failed with women my own age, I was a pariah. Homely, not yet handsome, if in my mother's eyes, I gave up on dating. Really, I was awkward, eccentric, in my head all of the time, thinking. Even philosophers learn how to talk, to chat, to discuss with others. Everyone had problems but some talked with their friends, their families, or a priest.
Trouble was, I was smart as a scholar, but dumb when it came to people. Only I couldn't trust anyone, no reason, none that I knew, at least. Of course, I became drawn to punk, The Sex Pistols, The Clash, The Damned, Buzzcocks... Kings of the Wild Frontier, we dreamed California within California.
Moronic to rebel against the sun and surf, the beach lifestyle, the waves. England had the music. What did we have to hate? The Eagles and Joe Walsh?
Fourteen years old, angry at the whole fucking world, bourgeois economics. Only, I felt repressed but didn't know shit yet about psychology. Really, therapy is for people with problems, but I didn't know that.
Ask me if I'd return to teenage rebellion, to hating the whole world.
With all my ups and downs, my success and failures, I drank and smoked dope. I learned to cope, with what, I didn't have a clue, but forty years later... Learned to steal alcohol and drink with friends at the community center. Despite my parents trust in me, I stole from them, I drank as my dad drank.
Riddled with Catholic shame, I became bitter and confused with their rules. Inventions of the mind, rules and regulations, all I knew, punishment. Discipline, the flipside of fucking up, getting my mind on the right path, eventually would come, decades later, training for my fourth marathon.
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