Life’s a Party, Until Reality Bites
My Journey from High School to College
originally written 2014
Navigating the hidden curriculum of high school became the focal point of my adolescent education, although the last lesson took almost a decade to understand (I was blinkered with the myth of the American Dream well into graduate school).
Each semester of high school was like making my way through one of the nine circles of hell. After successfully performing this sacred rite of passage, I was among the blessed (just barely), those who would venture on to the Purgatorio of college. So called "higher education" was a magical institution where immature souls waited for ascension to the mythic bliss of professional purpose and economic independence (although these heavenly rewards prove perpetually illusive to most).
The secular comedy of schooling in America marks a profound human transformation, second only to death, albeit for many, much more protracted and painful. I survived, of course, but it wasn't easy.
Entering high school as a sophomore in the lowest ranks of hell, I thought the torture would last forever. I endured a year of humiliation and ostracism at the margins of the savage circus, making few friends, but keeping up my grades. Although home school was a joke, I soon realized that the academic lie of high school was an even worse masquerade.
Classes weren’t challenging. Homework was simple. Cheating was rampant. Maybe half of the students actually did their own homework, but that wasn't saying much because a trained monkey could also accomplish most of our assigned academic tasks.
There were a hundred ways to cheat on an assignment or a test. The easiest and most brazen way was to get the teacher’s answer book and write down the answers in advance. In some classes, that wasn’t very hard. Most students cheated in some way each week.
I managed to pull a B+/A- average without much effort. I cheated some of the time but not often. Hell, most assignments and tests were so easy I didn't need to cheat! Most of my friends earned respectable C averages by doing nothing at all. Literally, they did nothing at all and still managed to pass classes!!!
High school was an academic joke and it seemed our teachers were oblivious, or they just pretended to teach, probably both. In some classes, we simply sat around, socialized, played cards, and gambled away our lunch money.
My friends and I eventually graduated with a diploma. This piece of paper certified not an education earned, not even a social milestone, but simply our ability to successfully play a silly institutionalized game called "high school".
Any effort or enthusiasm in the classroom was against the unstated teenage code of honor. We were proud of coming through this institution no smarter than when we came in. For most of us, what was really significant about these years were the positive social experiences of popularity and partying. We refused all notion of adult responsibility in our drunken denial, as we spun around in circles having fun.
Conformity was the key: dress a certain way, engage in subtle rebellion, poke fun at teachers, and slowly earn the respect and trust of peers. While I didn’t make many friends as a sophomore, I did manage to impress the right people, acquiring scores of powerful acquaintances and the scorn of several teachers. This earned me a ticket to the popular crowd by my junior year.
At the age of seventeen, I was born again – no, a different kind of “born again.” Like a religious conversion, I was baptized into a new community. I was now a “cool” kid.
I had ingratiated myself with the varsity soccer team as a member of the summer tournament squad. I was a dedicated player and I loved the game, but I hadn’t had the luxury of premiere leagues, private lessons, and expensive summer camps. Despite trying very hard to officially qualify for the regular varsity team, my skills were not advanced enough, and I was too old for junior varsity. However, I still played whenever I could and I became fast friends with the entire soccer team.
These friendships opened the doors of my social existence and defined the course of my life for the next two years. I took a new identity and lived a vibrant life, rising from the lower depths of hell to become popular. I had been invited to dine at the table of teenage kings - well, princes at least. As in most high schools, true royalty was reserved for football players and the cheerleading squad. My life shortly transformed from a state of awkward exclusion to become one big party.
As a newly ranking member of the popular class, I pledged allegiance to a pantheon of teenage pagan gods: athletics, intoxication, fornication, rebellion, and general mischief.
We were determined to unshackle ourselves from the slavery of childhood by subversively, often illegally, engaging in certain rituals of adulthood. The primary technology of teenage rebellion was alcohol, the golden nectar of liquid courage and affability. Alcohol has long been used by mystics, divines, and pleasure-seeking fools. It breaks down inhibitions, brings on feelings of general wellbeing, opens the doors of perception, and allows for the spontaneous release of emotion and energy.
As underage drinkers the most difficult task was acquiring this magic elixir, but it wasn’t too hard. We sometimes used older siblings or even permissive parents. More often we befriended newly minted adults who still liked to party with minors. Less frequently, friends would purchase fake IDs or inherit a sibling’s old license.
Another option existed for some, like me, who looked old for our age. On more than one occasion I simply walked up to the counter and purchased small quantities of alcohol without any questions asked. Some daring acquaintances actually stole booze, often through the backdoors of supermarkets, but at times they just picked up a six-pack and walked straight out the front door. Getting alcohol was not too difficult, neither were drugs. I had several friends who were petty drug dealers.
The most challenging aspect of underage partying was finding a suitable venue for our Dionysian revelries. Drinking or smoking pot with a small group in a backyard, in a car, or in a parking lot was the easiest way, but one had to be careful not to draw too much attention. Agents of the adult world were everywhere. Police were a constant fear. Our premature push into the adult world was criminalized, and otherwise mildly mischievous behavior was enough to earn a rap-sheet.
Secluded public spaces were the best option for drinking. It was easy to hide. Parking lots or parks worked well, but these locations were often easily discovered. Sometimes we would go into the woods outside of town, telling our parents that these excursions were “camping” trips. But most teenage drinking and pot smoking is done at house parties, usually when parents are away on business or vacation.
I wasn't a drug person, although many of my friends were. I didn't try marijuana or other drugs until college, but even then, I always preferred alcohol because pot made me sleepy, and other drugs made me a bit paranoid. I'm sure all the alcohol I consumed as a minor destroyed more than a few brain cells because I don't have many memories of all the endless parties. It’s one big blur. This time of my life all blends together.
I have several hazy memories, mostly when something outrageously funny or serious occurred: stupid pranks, fights, bloody body parts, girls, and sometimes near-death experiences. I know I had a great time, for the most part, but details aren't there. Some of the most notable highlights involve near death experiences, close encounters with the law, and experimenting with sex. Of course, teenage sex is mostly unremarkable in its splendid awkwardness. I remember the feelings of fear and anticipation more than the sex itself. There was also dancing, laughing, broken bottles, fights, beer bongs, drugs, and much else I won’t speak of, including wrenching my guts out and many nights passed out in random places. I know I had many wonderful experiences during these years. I just can’t remember most of them.
Looking back at our youthful stupidity, I am amazed that more of us did not get arrested for underage drinking, public disturbances, drunk driving, or more serious offences. At several points many of us came close to dying, some in automobile accidents, some from alcohol poisoning, and some from ridiculously stupid behavior.
Leaving early from a party one night, I got lost in unfamiliar hills and stopped at the side of the road because I saw a shoe. Flashlight in hand, I realized that a friend’s truck had driven off the road and rolled over a hundred-foot embankment. I managed to climb down the hill and stabilize the two boys, one of whom had broken his arm, while the other had punctured a lung and was coughing up blood. I put flares on the road and flagged down a vehicle of strangers that happened to drive by. The ambulance arrived over an hour later and I had to help the paramedics haul the gurney up the embankment. Luckily, they both survived.
Another time my friends and I were the lucky ones. We were in a truck drinking while driving around the mountains not far from town. For some reason my friend lost control of his truck, we slid over the embankment, and down the side of the hill. We happened to crash into a tree, which caught us from falling over a cliff to our certain death.
There were countless other times when in a drunken haze we drove our cars, played with guns, jumped off bridges, got in fights, rode bicycles down a flight of steps in the house to fly out the front door. On occasions such as these, and many others, my friends and I dumbly managed escape – from detection by the police, from destruction of property, from dismemberment, or from death. It was all a game to us, although quite serious in its consequences.
We look our lives lightly. Believing ourselves to be invincible, we acted as if we would live unscathed forever. Not all of us did. We had a dangerous attitude and it caught up to many of us, myself included. One by one, we began to fall victim to our karma.
Some damaged themselves, some died, some were arrested, some become alcoholics, some addicted to drugs, and some dropped out of school. The funeral of a high school friend is perhaps the worst. I remember going to three. My fall didn't come until my sophomore year at university.
Unlike many of my friends, I had the grades to go to a four-year university right out of high school. However, I couldn’t afford it. Instinctively I knew that college was a necessity, but I didn’t have a clear focus on what to do with my life, and I didn't want to take out a bunch of students loans only to waste my time in a directionless haze.
Besides, I was still having too much fun with friends in my home town, many of whom were still in high school. Luckily there was a community college at the northern end of town. Close to a quarter of my senior class enrolled after graduation, adding to the scores of other high school graduates from previous years who also attended. We joked about the community college being an extension of the high school. For the most part it was. I had actually already enrolled as a high school student because I took “advanced placement” classes. These were dual enrollment courses earning both high school and college credit. When I graduated from high school, I was almost done with my first year of college.
That fall I enrolled as a full-time student at the community college. But even going to this second-class institution was not a done deal. My parents made it clear that they could not help pay for college. I had only a thousand dollars saved up from my manual labor jobs. This paltry sum wasn’t even enough for a full year of tuition, books, and living expenses at cut rate community college prices.
But a stroke of luck came my way. During high school we had moved into a mobile home in a trailer park at the edge of town. It made perfect economic sense for my cash-strapped family, but I was embarrassed as hell because of the obvious connotations between trailer parks and the stereotypical “poor white trash” that tended to live there. However, this source of embarrassment was fortuitous because the landlord offered a thousand-dollar scholarship to the best qualified graduating senior who lived in the park. That scholarship paid for most of my freshman year at the community college. The rest came from a federal work-study grant, which enabled me to get a job on campus.
So, outside of classes, I worked part-time at the chemistry lab cleaning, washing dishes and mixing solutions. It wasn’t a dream job. I was also working about thirty hours a week as a manual laborer, doing construction, landscaping, painting, and janitorial work. I was able to pay for tuition, books, and modest living expenses (I was still at home), while saving money for university. But even working over forty hours a week at two jobs was not enough to secure my future.
The atmosphere of community college was liberating, but not really challenging. It was like high school, but without nannies supervising your every move. No one cared if you came to class or failed. Academics were a bit harder, although still relatively easy. More concentration was required, but one could earn Bs without much studying at all. May professors obviously didn't care about students or professional standards, and some were outright corrupt, like one anatomy professor who gave my friend copies of the test in advance because he happened to like professional automotive racing (my friend was a professional racer).
Skipping class, being late, or not turning in assignments were no big deal. Instructors exuded apathy. Nobody made any effort to teach. Nobody really cared, especially the students. But the freedom of this environment actually masked a looming danger. Many of my friends were failing at least one class. Some never left the community college, many eventually dropping out.
I came close to failure myself after a couple of bad tests; however, I managed to increase my effort and earn Bs and Cs for the first three semesters. I was working full-time, weightlifting, coaching soccer, and partying like a rock star at least two or three nights a week, going to school, and trying unsuccessfully to focus on my future. This frenzied pace would continue to define my life for the first two years college, but eventually it became unsustainable. Some aspect of this equation had to be sacrificed.
In order to be in college, I always had to work. This was a simple fact of my lower-middle class life. I worked around thirty to forty hours a week for all four years of my undergraduate studies, combining work-study on campus with part-time jobs off campus. During my eight years of graduate school, I would often combine teaching assistantships with part-time or even full-time jobs, often working more than forty hours a week on top of a full load of classes.
But even with working, the little I earned did not come close to covering all the costs of college and living expenses. I had to take out federal and institutional student loans almost every year I was in college. By the time I graduated in 2007 with my third graduate degree, I had over $75,000 in student loans. I mortgaged my future to educate myself, hoping that someday I would be able to use my skills and knowledge to find a stable, good-paying job and eventually become debt free – or at least to have a positive net-worth.
Working during college took its toll on my academics, but social activities proved to be the most corrosive element of my life. After a year in community college, I was accepted at a state university in Oregon as a sophomore with a major in Athletic Training. My father was an occupational therapist. I loved sports, especially soccer. Heath care was a booming industry with long term job prospects and high salaries. This major seemed like a natural fit, yet I struggled with chemistry, I didn’t really like anatomy, and I hated math.
I was your typical American undergraduate: high ambition, no practical understanding of professional standards, academically ambivalent, and expecting an easy road to future success. Of course, this is not a recipe for achievement. I started to slip into failure.
At the university, I was living far from home, sharing an apartment with friends from high school. For the first time in my life, I was free to live as I wanted, but within limits. I was constrained by the demands of school and the confines of my poverty. I had been demoted from my parents lower-middle class status to the ranks of the working poor. It took the first year at university to find a balance between freedom and responsibility, first tipping heavily to the former before edging more towards the later.
For most teenagers, college is more of a social experience rather than an academic experience. For my group of friends, it was a hedonistic paradise of unrestrained pleasure and experimentation. I spent the first six months at university drinking as much as possible, smoking massive amounts of weed, and going to parties four or five times a week. I was more interested in girls than grades.
Often my friends and I would declare holidays in the middle of the week, cut class, and stay inebriated for days at a time. This drunken debauchery seems to have become the primary purpose that many young Americans associate with college. I have few memories of my sophomore year (is this a reoccurring theme?), outside of a surprise visit by my prudish parents the morning after a raging party and their stern scolding – I’ll never forget that! It was an exciting time of irresponsible youthful exuberance, but such a life style cannot be sustained. A rude awakening was looming.
By the end of my second term at university, I had failed several classes, I was on academic probation, I had been cut from the competitive athletic training program, and I was broke (drugs and alcohol can be quite expensive). I was at a crossroads and I didn’t know what to do.
The consequences of freedom had fallen like a hammer, smashing immaturity and youthful delusions into jagged shards. I was paralyzed for a time, not sure what to do with my life. At the same time, some of my friends were dropping out of the university, either downgrading to the local community college, going back home to live the parents, enlisting in the military, or entering the labor market full-time. I didn't like any of those options.
Since high school I had found freedom from restrictions, which enabled me to transgress youthful taboos and experiment with adulthood. But this freedom came barbed in consequences that I could no longer avoid.
For the first time I was failing at life, falling helpless into a nameless abyss. I remember reading On the Road by Jack Kerouac at this time and feeling the same desperation: "The raggedy madness and riot of our actual lives, or actual night, the hell of it, the senseless nightmare road. All of it inside endless and beginningless emptiness. Pitiful forms of ignorance...This can't go on all the time - all this franticness and jumping around. We've got to go someplace, find something." (1)
At the end of my sophomore year at university, I vowed to make changes. I would take control of my life. I would party less, get another job, and take academics more seriously. I would choose a goal and use my existence for some worthy cause. I would "go someplace" and "find something."
But go where and do what? I didn't know.
I was personally and academically stuck in a directionless drift. As I took a couple months to reexamine my life, I enrolled in literature and history courses to repair my grade point average. This proved to be a fateful turning point.
In forsaking an aimless freedom from restriction, I found the freedom to be. But what did I want to be?
Taking my life in my hands, I moved forward, stepping for the first time towards deliberate living. I worded hard at constructing my self, searching for direction, and then building a way forward into life.
(1) Jack Kerouac, On the Road (New York, 1999), 241, 108.