As I began assembling thoughts for this entry, I realized that it might be on the longer side for a host of reasons. The most noteworthy is because while I intended this series to go year by year as thoroughly as possible, I still found myself forgetting odd details. As a result, I am going to be sticking in random stories that might be better designated to sophomore or junior year. However, I feel that they’re all valuable to better understanding my high school experience. Another reason that this will run long is because a lot ended up happening within a one-year calendar. In fact, I’m not sure we’ll get 10 pages (!) into this entry before we actually start September 2007. However, I find that everything is essential in the grand memory book.
As a starting point, I wanted to mention that junior year didn’t have the most ceremonious ending imaginable. While it produced the best year of Visions, it was also the most miserable English class that I ever took. As someone who didn’t form great reading comprehension skills until their mid-20s, I found myself feeling discouraged about pursuing literary interests. I was resenting the classics and using creative writing to air my grievances. Long story short, it was so disastrous that not only did my parents wonder why I wasn’t pulled out of the class, but I ended up taking my only summer school course in my entire pre-collegiate academic life.
On the surface, this sounds like a miserable use of my time. I would have to wake up during the summer and walk all the way to school just for an hour of what felt like busywork. Everyone else was doing summer stuff, like maybe going to the beach or traveling out of town. I was confined to this building, unable to really escape and have those few months of release.
However, it ended up having adverse effect. When discussing the theory as to whether fate and destiny actually exists, I’d argue that it was necessary for me to fail that A.P. English class solely to meet Joe. He had transferred to Millikan and was one of those people I didn’t even know about until I arrived in that classroom. I want to say that I sat behind him, or at least near him. Our teacher, Romo, was keen on group work, so we eventually found ourselves paired together on something.
If this was something like Math or Science, I’d imagine it might’ve been a bit more miserable. However, because English is a very interpretive subject, we were encouraged to make up our own ideas. As a result, we had a freedom that made that summer a lot more tolerable. Joe was the type to write comic essays complaining about how Seinfeld’s airplane food joke was bad. He was also keen on doing impressions of celebrities like George W. Bush and would often recite the plot to Reno! 9-1-1 or Beavis and Butt-head while we were standing around waiting for the day to get going.
Something clicked immediately. For the first time in eons, I had “that person.” I’m talking about the type who made going to school fun. You were going to have the teacher say, “All right, pair up!” and we’d immediately look at each other. We knew that no matter what happened, we’d be there together. There’s a casualness to Joe that I’ve missed since. He really knew how to get you through the day. He was reliable and, from my perspective, a really good student. We were allowed to be creative in part because there was trust that we’d still do the work correctly.
I both have no story about summer school and an infinite pool of ambiguous memories about being there. I remember everyone was so casual with Romo that at one point we discussed the recently released Rush Hour 3 (2007) and asked why we found it funny given that it was just the same thing over and over. There was another day where we had free play and some students brought in an X-Box and Nintendo. When we played Halo, Joe had one controller and said, “Hey, let Tom play!” I should say that I’m not any good at first person shooters and need to see my figure running around. As a result, there quickly became a joke that everyone was doing better than me because I kept dying. I fared better at Super Mario World, though that’s because I had a copy at home that I played until, again, I found a level that I struggled on for hours until I quit the game.
When I wasn’t in class, there were a handful of things I did to begin transitioning into my potential college career. With every incoming senior student, you have this hope that there would be a smooth move into the next phase of your life. I never did research. I think that I met with my counselor to look at options. Given that I was a journalism student, there was emphasis on which colleges would best serve my interests. I couldn’t tell you what all the schools in the area were. I only knew that I didn’t want to go to Long Beach City College, which was entirely because it had the reputation of being high school 2.0. You were basically going to see everyone there. For reasons that have since escaped me, something about reliving the previous phase of life always felt like a bad move. I did it from St. Cornelius to Millikan and I would into college. Even now, I can confidently say that I have never had a class at LBCC. I have been a student at every other community college in the area, but never that one. I have been there for events, but never once stood in a classroom and pulled out a pen and pad.
Another way I was encouraged to start looking at my future was being assigned to do a job. While I had spent most of my youth working for Fun Services, the Mid-2000s came with an unceremonious parting of ways between my father and grandfather over what I’ll just call “egos.” He had jobs, but I think there came a point where he did more freelance work to pick up some extra money.
There were two noteworthy ways I was involved. Because he knew that I was obedient, I would tag along to stock Red Box machines. In hindsight, I was terrible and screwed up more than a few machines by inserting poorly. There were certain perks to being a Red Box employee. The idea was the company would send you the discs the week before released publicly. From there you would go to the various locations based on paperwork and work a system to insert them one by one through the return slot. The code of ethics suggest that you’re not supposed to quality test the work at home, but it was always tempting when the new Adam Sandler or Will Ferrell movie came out. You had a day or two before they were to be submitted, so carpe diem.
There isn’t much to this story. After a few years, it faded from our job rotation. However, because of an inability to ship large portions of the discs back, we ended up owning large quantities of films released between 2006 and 2009. They stayed in my dad’s garage until he moved, at which point we took out what we wanted and placed the remainder on the curb with a “Free, take as many as you want” sign. Within five minutes, it was gone. Hope they like forgotten b-movies.
The other work lasted much longer and may be given more due diligence in a later entry. For now, I want to generalize about the job of the “mystery shopper.” While I think it’s since become more of a popular way to make additional income, it was a common career between both of my parents. The two fields that we were mostly in were grocery and theater checks. The idea for both was that you’d go into a specified location and perform a series of acts requested by a company to see how they would respond. Maybe it would be to find a product or judge the discourse at checkout. They were minor things that were supposed to reflect professionalism. Whatever happened, we were to report it to the company online and get a check in the mail.
Theaters tended to have more diverse options. Most of our emphasis was on “trailer checks,” which I performed for at least a decade. The idea was to sit among the crowd and capture their reaction to trailers along with chronicling order and, in certain cases, the specific prints. This sounds wonderful until you realize that for certain new releases you were seeing the same trailers six or seven times a day for several weeks. We’d also set up various standees which ranged from quick four-board fixes to very complicated matters. Because one venue didn’t have room for standees, I used to have an unassembled The Dark Knight (2008) standee in my closet until I had to get rid of it when my dad moved.
These were careers that would evolve as I entered college and needed part time work. In 2007, it was mostly a side hustle that provided many benefits. On the one hand, grocery checks often meant we got food relatively cheap and at theaters, we were often getting access to entertainment options to fill in time. My mom reportedly dislikes Dreamgirls (2006) because she had to spend the entirety of Christmas Day at a theater getting reactions. The money’s also nice.
I think it helped because 2007 was around the time when I had a personal cinematic renaissance. I was beginning to be considered as “The Ebert” solely because I would see a film and write up a few words on Myspace. Somehow my opinions were deemed more important even though they were always off the cuff and not always insightful. At the Movies was still a formative show that introduced me to a lot of work. I was also keen on Rolling Stone Magazine and while I recognize that people don’t like Peter Travers, I think his association with a magazine I read religiously meant I was more likely to trust his word.
But 2007, specifically the summer, was the moment when I discovered Judd Apatow. While I’m aware of the previous success of The 40 Year Old Virgin (2005), it wasn’t until Knocked Up (2007) that I became a fan. My mother and I decided to see it on a whim, and it felt revolutionary. Here was comedy that felt more like improvisation. Watching Seth Rogen mix pop culture references with this perverse sentimentalism was jaw-dropping. Having it be in a large ensemble meant that I was finding different things in the corner of the screen to love. Some have accused Knocked Up of being too sitcom-y, but I think my fascination has kept me from fully seeing that as a bad thing. By the end of the summer, Superbad (2007) came out and rocked my world even more. It was my final high school year, so the idea of this film marketed as “formative” and “instant classic” only helped to endear it more. It was also during the period where I began going to midnight screenings every few months with friends, which I am saddened to see disappear.
As one can guess, I began to retroactively discover the rest of his work. Because he was renowned as a producer, it helped me discover other directors and writers along with various comedians. By the time that Funny People (2009) came around, I would’ve considered it, in early 2010s speak, “My Avengers” because of how many people I admired from it. I became such a fan of Rogen that when I got invited to see an early, incomplete version of Kung Fu Panda (2008), I wrote in the comments “more Seth Rogen.” It was also the summer of The Simpsons Movie (2007), which meant a lot to me as someone who up until the early 2010s hadn’t gone more than a day of my life without seeing an episode. I also went to an advanced preview of Hot Rod (2007), which I’m saddened wasn’t as beloved by others.
But to backtrack a little bit, there was an emphasis on me reaching legal work age and there being a need to form skills. Along with the various careers I mentioned, I also was part of a program that I’ll just call “summer internship.” I forget its official name, but it ended up being a great way to pass the time. It was something the city of Long Beach did through a job help organization. At the start, we’d show up to “The Building” where meetings were and have one or two hour discussions of job training. We were all teenagers, so I had a weird mix of people I met there. One guy that I sat next to was a big fan of Insane Clown Posse and claimed that his dream was to be a porn star. He said that without hesitance. Good on him, I guess.
I can’t speak to the quality of the other applicants, but like everyone else there was the “good” and “bad” students. I want to say the teacher spoke fondly of me and appreciated me putting in effort. I never heard any stories, but it was obvious that the bad students slowly faded away. I got my reward for completing the work and had something that I’m still proud to have on my resume.
Over the summer of 2007, I was an employee for Long Beach Opera. From what I researched, they were a fairly renowned opera group that did innovative theater. At the time, their latest achievement was doing a production of Orpheus & Eurydice at a pool. Over the course of that summer, I was assigned to help with a production that included Michael York. I never met York nor was he ever at the office while I was there, but it made me feel like a small part of a bigger machine.
It was in Downtown Long Beach, which meant that I was often given the task of running down the street to feed the parking meter for my boss/superior that I’ll just call Christine. She was a nice woman who was very direct. Because I was young and not the most coordinated, I made a lot of mistakes ranging from trivial to something frustratingly stupid. At one point I accidentally printed 40+ pages of unnecessary documentation and didn’t know how to stop it. I was also keen on looking up Wikipedia pages of old comedian quotes at the time and would use it to amuse myself during business hours.
The good news is that I was an efficient employee. However, I wasn’t exactly looking at anything at the time in a “long term” manner. While I did my work, I assumed that it was simply an internship. Maybe it resulted in me sometimes not being as forward-thinking as I should’ve been. Part of my regret is getting to the end of the tenure and telling Christine to her face that I wasn’t coming in on Monday. It was more because I took the comment a bit too literally of “When do you want to start?” She was likely being cute and trying to offer a job in a clever way, but my rejection was mostly from not understanding the prompt. I would try and ask for a job post-graduation, but by that point it was too late and they sent a polite rejection letter.
But I enjoyed the time there for as short as it was. I was assigned to research and documentation. By the end I was scanning documents and uploading them on the computer. There was another employee, another nice woman that I’ll call Jane, who took me to the nearby Pinkberry for a going away treat.
On one particular day, Christine had a meeting out of town. She decided to have me tag along. Only the catch was that I wasn’t going to said meeting. She knew that I loved The Simpsons and one of the 7-11’s along the way was participating in the cross-promotion with the film. It was turned into a Kwik-E-Mart. I’m grateful that she allowed me to go because it ended up being a wonderful time. I got a specialized pink donut along with a few cheap novelties that still sit on my shelf. I talked to her about how Grampa reminded me of my own.
From there, I was stuck in the area until she returned from the meeting. I would go to the Carl’s Jr. across the way. For reasons that don’t fully make sense, I ended up having a very social outing. When I first got there, it was a fairly empty late morning day. I’m sitting there and this guy with a newspaper sat at the exact same table as I did. He began talking to me and joking about the old Saturday Night Live sketch about “Da bears.” His exit was just as abrupt but sticks in my mind because he chose to sit with me in fairly innocuous fashion.
Then after some time, this random older Black woman began talking for what was probably an hour or two. She was very friendly. Some of her stories talked about growing up in the 80s and how things had changed since then. At another point, she talked about how she loved the Boyz Shop song “Party Like a Rockstar” because of how it made fun of rock stars with the “totally dude” lingo. I shouldn’t say that there’s much to the discourse that was fairly eventful, but it’s one of those moments that in hindsight makes me wish I was more social and able to engage with people because there’s interesting individuals on this planet. Christine picked me up and was very confused by the camaraderie we had formed.
To shift the story, these weren’t the only people that I have met in a fast-food establishment. Because I took bass lessons, my dad often spent an hour at the neighboring McDonald’s. At some point, he found himself engaging regularly with two people. Edie was an older woman who drove a red car. She was a friendly regular who was a welcomed mix to the company. With that said, one day she stopped showing up and everyone assumed that because of her age, she had passed away. Without any confirmation, I can only assume that it’s true. After 17 years, I’m more willing to believe it.
Then there was Greg. His story was that years ago he worked in Hollywood on various films including Lethal Weapon 4 (1998). He liked to walk around in a cap with superhero shirts, specifically Superman or Incredibles logos. He wasn’t short on stories and would recount his many relationships over the years. He saw my dad as a way of feeling “connected” to family. I don’t fault him for feeling that way. My dad can be friendly if he likes you. Even if Greg was the type to want to sell homemade props on Amazon and try to convince us that midi files were cool, he had this charm that was great in small doses. However, my sister didn’t like him and was put off by the idea.
The story only builds from there. While I think this was actually after later details in this story (it might’ve even been in 2008), I place it here for clarity. At some point, I arrived home late one night to discover that Greg is sleeping on our patio. My dad claimed that things had gotten progressively worse for him. Whatever he had just gone through, it was driving him to suicidal ideation. He was always homeless, but something about that moment felt especially bleak. My dad being the type of person he was, offered him a place to stay.
That final detail informs how I saw his time between us. Because my dad had allowed my sister’s friends to stay with us for long periods without my consent, I began to resent having house guests. I never got to feel “alone” in the world and it had a detrimental impact on my early 20s. I felt like I was much more irrational and because I didn’t feel like I had time to get space, I acted out.
I’m not saying Greg was the worst offender. He was a productive guest whose graciousness was evident. He wanted to do chores and provide dinner every now and then. He wanted to make you understand his respect, and I’ll always appreciate that about him. With that said, I do regret that because of timing, I did act out poorly towards the end of his stay and it resulted in me saying goodbye in a way that I’ll just call hostile. I’m not sure if he’s mad at me.
But for a long time, he was a wonderful person. He was even more into film than my dad was, so he’d burn me DVD’s of random movies. He exposed me to a lot of art. When I had my driver’s permit, he was my passenger. Without him, I’d argue it would’ve taken much longer to get my license for a few reasons. Bless her heart, but my mom was a klutz behind the wheel and we ended up driving up a few curbs. She wasn’t that bad for the most part, but every now and then her lessons were a bit confusing.
Meanwhile, my father wasn’t necessarily the person who should be teaching anyone to drive. Before we were too far into lessons, he had this terrible idea to grab a knife and stick it underneath my arm. The idea was that if I began to drift, he would poke me. I guess it worked for him, but it only made me panic. It would get to the point where we’d be driving and he’d forgo any lessons and cautionary calming down in favor of argument. For someone who prided himself on being an efficient driver, he failed to pass along any meaningful lesson. It once got so chaotic that I almost drove straight into a bus. For those wondering, nothing happened. Everyone is fine.
But I owe a lot of my driver’s license test passing to Greg. Because he was visually impaired, I was often assigned to help him run errands. It’s where I picked up various tips and actually felt calm behind the wheel. We’d have conversations and just get to feel normal. He liked to make the joke “Left turn, Clyde” while pointing. He liked to occasionally pull on the emergency break. I’m not sure if it was because he thought I was going too fast on a turn or if it was genuinely amusing, but it was his gag. In every instance, it was done safely even if it was still jarring.
Again, this doesn’t really happen until the end of my school year in 2008. I came to the realization that my days of being commuted by my parents to school was about to end. I would need my license if I wanted to get anywhere. I was not a fan of the bus and needed some self-sufficiency. Before then, I had to get through my senior year.
With all of this out of the way, it feels like the perfect time to finally get into the school year. Again, because I have forgotten the odd details here or there, I will be including older stories as well.
One of the stories I forgot to mention prior was a math class I took either in my sophomore or junior year. With all due respect to the teacher, his lesson plans were maybe the least memorable part of the class. I liked to sit towards the back of the classroom, which meant that I ended up sitting next to a group I’ll just call “the delinquents” for reasons that will make sense in a minute. Another reason is that he loved to listen to the radio, specifically the classic rock station KLOS 95.5. As a fan of The Mark and Brian Show myself, I was keen on getting there early after morning break just to hear odd bits from the end of the series.
Unlike Strader who knew to shut off the radio once the final bells rang, this teacher wasn’t keen to do so. I ended up telling my dad about it, who was at first amused but quickly became disheartened. He learned that a reason I sat towards the back was to drown out the teacher. It was never played at deafening volumes, but it was loud enough to compete for your attention. The only time I really feel like he turned it off was when a student reported that somebody stole his belongings and they had to have staff come into check every bag before apologizing to everybody on their ways out.
Back to the delinquents. There had to be at least three of them. Much like how I had spent my final day of Freshman year following random kids around that were tagging the school, I attracted people wanting to welcome me into objectionable behavior. Part of me thinks that it’s because of how I look. I’ve always been self-conscious of how my voice can be slow and I always appeared tired. People have mistaken me for being high and would refuse to take “I’m not” as an appropriate answer. Some guy at a restaurant once asked me if I got high and I’m sure it’s because he thought I knew where to get a spliff. At another point, I was in a class where these kids liked to bully me by saying I looked like Andy Milonakis, which really got under my skin. It was a harmless kind of antagonism, but it still hurt.
But the delinquents were an odd bunch for a few reasons. They would have full conversations during class without being reprimanded. They weren’t always clever. Sometimes it was just the type of mundane planning that you’d do while waiting for the bell to ring. Anyway, there came a point where they became bored by regular discourse and decided to amuse themselves. They would ask to borrow my phone and call chatrooms where they pranked the various people. I never did it myself, but I’m surprised that they never got caught and the teacher never took my phone. If there were any charges made, my parents never brought it up. I was mostly amused by this strange phenomenon and it became ritual that they’d call on my phone for reasons that I wasn’t entirely sure of.
This must’ve been my sophomore year because I can’t recall whatever the other math class was. My only knowledge is that I failed the first semester of that one. As a result, I ended up having to take half a semester learning about graphs and points or whatever. Given the history of math being my most difficult subject, I’m not surprised by this. However, any chance of passing is a miracle. Thankfully, every teacher since has been more professional than the guy who doesn’t stop students from using their phones and listening to the radio.
To shift things slightly, I want to focus on one individual I would be remiss if I didn’t talk about a little. On the surface, Marco would appear to be one of those Mexican stereotypes. A random thing he liked to do is find his friends in the hallway and whisper, “Fuck Chivas, Holmes.” Whenever I was next to him in science class, he would talk about how his hero was Eazy-E and that he found the South Park movie funny. A few occasions found him arriving late but still early enough to be considered “present." He’d lean over and ask me if he smelled like marijuana. When I’d say yes, there was disappointment in his demeanor as he turned his attention to class.
Marco was a good kid otherwise. We liked talking to each other and joking about whatever. He seemed to be more enamored with hip-hop culture than me, but otherwise we found small things to amuse ourselves. One game he like to play involved us punching knuckles until one of us quit. Given how wimpy I was, I’d often give up after the third punch. He had a good heart and never did anything malicious from what I could tell. We liked each other. However, things quickly spiraled by the end of our time in high school as I want to say he impregnated a woman.
Another student I want to highlight is Henry. He had long hair and his eyes had that look of either being too tired or too stoned. I met him in Glose’s class one day and he immediately took a liking to me. This was because somewhere in our conversation I mentioned that I KNEW who Pink Floyd was. I didn’t actually share an opinion, but I think he took my awareness as a sign of approval. Ever since he’d just see me around campus and give me a head nod and a smile. One of his defining moments was when he walked around during lunch with a guitar trying to sell it. The catch was that it didn’t have any strings on it.
There was a kid who actually walked around playing guitar during lunch. He had real metal kid energy. His name was Sam. I’m not sure if he had a small amplifier, but I want to believe you heard him coming like he was in Mad Max or something. He was one of those cool nomads who often interacted with my groups. Then again, it might’ve just been because I had trouble believing he had a stable friend group that he talked to for more than 10 minutes. Still, Sam was cool and the great anomaly wandering campus bringing music to the masses.
One of the highlights of showing up to school early was finding Joe. If we got a good 20 minutes in before the day started, I knew everything was going to be all right. I got to hear him run through the various bits. Some of them were just TV recaps, but every now and then he had these weird monologues where he talked about riding motorcycles back and forth to Northern California or growing marijuana in his garden. I can’t be sure how true these stories are because there was something exaggerated enough about them. Still, he had a way of keeping you interested in his banter.
It helped that we shared an English class first thing in the morning. Having worked through Vann and Glose, it was exciting to finally have Underwood. While I hadn’t mentioned him before, he existed in the periphery for at least the last two years. He’d show up to Visions poetry readings and do this piece about the need to “sound the alarm.” It was energetic and well-rehearsed. It made you feel like you shared something in common. Even if they were your superiors, they still connected to you on more trivial interests.
Underwood made me three for four in terms of English teachers. Even then, my A.P. teacher was Cathcart and I liked her in journalism, so it’s hard to rate that properly. Underwood was a fantastic teacher who really knew how to appeal to students. My one contribution to his class was using “feasible” as a noun and really impressing him. Otherwise, he was another one of those who encouraged you to do creative projects. I remember one point me and Joe did a project on obesity and called it “The Grimace Truth.” He came up with a picture that had a woman looking into the mirror and seeing the purple monster looking back at him. We also had another bit where we parodied “Detachable Penis” and I sang “That’s fifteen dollars” in the background. It was a real fun time.
It was also where I got to read “Into the Wild.” While I disliked the film, I found some things interesting about the literary version and found it to be a compelling exploration of the self. Our other major reading assignment remains notorious in my mind. It was student-selected and we all came in with options. I chose to recommend Anthony Kiedis’ “Scar Tissue” which sounded cool to me, but I could tell by the wide-eyed stare in Underwood’s eyes that he was immediately going to shoot me down. We eventually landed on James Frey’s “A Million Little Pieces,” which had to be solely because Oprah Winfrey had recently put it on her book club.
When I say I hate “A Million Little Pieces,” I mean that I hate “A Million Little Pieces.” I went down to Borders and picked it up. As an 18-year-old, I was already presumptuous about what type of writing was considered good, but Frey’s style was really grating. I found very little redemptive about how he assembled a sentence. It should be said that I am not against the idea that it was falsified. If he was a good writer, I can forgive anything. However, Frey’s style was so juvenile that I felt like I could’ve done better… and I knew nothing about drug rehabilitation. By the time I got to a page about him having dental work down without sedation, I was ready to check out. He was under so much pain and yet he felt the need to include the line, “my dick was hard.” I get what he’s saying, but I was so pissed off by that point that I put it away and never finished it.
I get the impression the assignment was slowly dropped because I can’t recall anything ever coming of it. I ended up talking to Monroe about the book. He was in theater and someone I subliminally resented because he was in my A.P. class the year before. I should say that there’s nothing wrong with Monroe and he seems very likable. It’s just that we were never in the same circles to an extent that he felt more substantial. Still, I felt tempted to give him my copy of “A Million Little Pieces” because he seemed enthusiastic and compared it to “Catcher in the Rye.” With that said, he will come up again and I promise it’ll be a lot more enthusiastic than this exchange.
Jumping around, I want to briefly mention that my previous post was on Visions. This includes a thorough discussion on why I felt disappointed by my senior year as a member. Having built up a report with the group, it was unfortunate that I was out of the loop for a lot of significant decision making and was usually among the last of the core group to know what was going on. I did feel respected and welcomed by everybody, but in terms of assembling the magazine, it was a far cry from where I was a year ago. Given the high of junior year, I was especially underwhelmed with the direction things went.
However, I was in charge of several organizations to the point that I didn’t have enough space to feel left out. I will briefly touch on yearbook. While I had been there the year before, I think senior year was where I got to do some serious editing and helped to shape everything. One of my involvements was getting the theater page to look good. For whatever reason, I was really into blocky designs at the time, so I had some disagreements with other students on how it should look. Still, we found a compromise that I think still looked good. I’d come in after school every now and then to do work, and it was a bit awkward. There was someone who had a four-track CD that played on a loop going from this moody ballad to an upbeat reggae song. I couldn’t figure out why it was the only thing we heard for an hour, but it made him productive.
Another thing that’s underrated about yearbook class is that because of how things were designed, we often had a lot of downtime. When we weren’t working on the computers, a lot of us were just sitting at desks watching whatever movies were brought in. It was social hour, especially after the final proof was sent to the printers. Every now and then we’d get stuck with side conversations. I remember watching episodes of The Office on Kyle’s iPod and not really enjoying it. Kyle was the talented member of the group as he really knew how to work Photoshop to his advantage. You could tell which pages were his because they were often leagues better.
Kyle was a friendly guy and someone who factors into the next part of the story. I feel like I might’ve been an awkward fit with him. He liked to play acoustic guitar and I would occasionally try to sing along very poorly. It reminds me of a scene from Inside Llewyn Davis (2013)… and not in a flattering way. I was probably a doofus for ruining his cover of High School Musical 2 songs. With that said, he was one of the students who had a senior project and chose to make an EP. This included a cover of Johnny Cash’s “Ring of Fire.” He sang it at a Senior Night event and I think he did a really good job.
Another time in yearbook class, I remember getting stuck in conversation with someone over who was a better rapper. To really provide context of when this was, we were comparing Kanye West’s “Can’t Tell Me Nothing” to Lil Wayne’s “A Milli.” It was my first time hearing the latter, which made it an interesting debate because one had better production but worse lyrics. It was a weird time in music. It was also a weird time for yearbook because around that time someone brought in a bootleg of I Am Legend (2007) which was still in theaters. Glose was nervous the entire time. It was an amusing situation.
Across the way was some teacher that I never took, but would play a small role in the following tangent. I mostly knew him because the previous year he helped Glose move everything down the hall and reassemble the yearbook classroom. He was a nice guy.
Apparently, he was also part of a class that was going to attend a college fair night at Cal State Long Beach in The Pyramid. He wore a funny hat so that his students knew where to find him. Because my sister was in his class, my dad forced me to attend and try to find anything to get from it. I should remind everyone that I was at the point mentally where I would just show up at the end of the school year and pick the first college that wanted me. I walked around and get those pamphlets, but nothing really stuck.
Whenever things were slow enough during yearbook, Glose would allow Kyle and I to head on over to journalism class. Because of me being there for three years, I was by seniority assigned editor-in-chief. This meant that I not only edited more, but I had to help with layout and be present at meetings. I often missed lunch in other to get things done. As a result, I met a lot of great people. Along with Kyle, there was Kenny and someone I’ll call Diane. The core group was always there working through things on weekly leading up to deadlines.
I’ll admit that my involvement was an odd fit. I don’t know that I published a lot of articles. However, I was a big member behind the scenes. I could do everything regarding design and making everyone else look good. With that said, we were the type of newspaper to feature interchangeable articles about whether cracking your knuckles was healthy every other month. When they were printed, I would help distribute them, which is the only time I really got to talk to Wood. I never took her classes, but she was another one of those on the fringes of Visions to the point you were at least familiar with her.
One of the only things that I found disappointing about that year’s journalism staff is that we had a younger group that was non-committal. There wasn’t going to be any experienced people the following year because our promising talents, Jayden and Dewey, were both rejecting offers to take up the mantle. They were our strongest writers and really knew how to write captivating prose. I don’t think they were simply taking journalism for credit, but I have no idea why they wouldn’t be up for the positions.
Because he mentioned it in my yearbook, I should mention that one of my regrets was an early experience with Kenny. In general, I tended to describe people by the vaguest of features. I was more insensitive about it in my teen years. He recalled somebody asking for him and I said “talk to that black boy.” I understand why Kenny was offended. I don’t believe we had this intimidation between us, but I wasn’t the most eloquent. It took several months for him to realize that I was just saying dumb things and wasn’t the type of person who uses “boy” in a problematic way because they want to hurt someone.
Much like my lunch friends, the journalism group became one of my active friend groups that I hung with outside of school. It’s through them that I met America. One of the first reactions I remember with her was her saying, “I want to wear the gold.” She must’ve seen me at Visions because I had one reading where I talked about Will Ferrell and she was quoting Blades of Glory (2007). As time went on, we became closer and would hang out more. She would even invite me over to her house to watch Sex and the City. For a time, it felt like we would be friends well after high school. However, after a year or two, we went our separate ways. I am unsure if it’s because of an unflattering evening with my father or not, but it does feel like things slowly fell apart from there.
Something I find strange about revisiting memories from that time is how my mind remembers them differently from my writing. As someone who rarely felt sexually attracted to people, it was strange how many Myspace blogs – which would’ve been at least accessible to my immediate friend group – were dedicated to me contemplating and building a sense of deeper relationships around certain people. On the one hand, I never believed that I dated these people, and yet my teenage mind seemed to think the fact that I liked being around them meant that I had a crush on them or was expecting something more conventional in the relationship department.
It makes no sense because I was never disappointed by the fact these were entirely platonic and only existed for fun get togethers. To me, having friends was more important than any deeper feelings. Even kissing wasn’t considered. With that said, I had to wonder why the narrative was being built and making this feel destined. Why was my writing contradicting my instinct?
But I still liked America. Maybe I was a bit too erratic at times for her, but we had a nice balance. I am willing to believe she is one of those who simply faded away because we became busy with our own lives. Still, I did enjoy visiting her at her job at the yogurt shop. We’d go see Adventureland (2009) or hang out at Panera for a quick catch-up. She tried to get me into The Killers’ album “Sam’s Town” when I mentioned that I loved “Hot Fuss,” but I never could get there.
There were a lot of good times with that group. Part of me is still unsure if I sabotaged something or not, but that’s a discussion for a later entry. For now, I was happy to have all of these small friend groups to fall back on. Life was not getting any duller.
Moving back into school, I want to touch on economics class. There’s not a lot that’s significant about the class in my memory. It was a noble attempt to make us think about housing and finances post-high school, but I can’t recall anything about our main assignment other than visiting websites where we calculated hypotheticals. Before class, we’d have the TV on watching the news. It’s where I learned how to double the time of our clapping by shifting the fingers to the palm and flipping them back and forth.
The other thing that I recall about the economics class is that we watched a handful of documentaries. There were two that feel prominent. Given its popularity at the time, Super Size Me (2004) felt like an adequate commentary on the fast food industry. However, the one that more spoke to me was Jesus Camp (2006), which looked at ultra-religious families sending their children to church-based camps. It was horrifying and reflected a lot of uncertainties I had around faith at the time. If one documentary has stuck with me from that era, it was that one.
I should also say that this was the class where I first met Paige. There was another point where she visited yearbook class and cornered me with Eva. She chose to paint my nails, which I willingly allowed and found very enjoyable.
What’s weird is we weren’t exactly close and yet she’s one of the figures who seems to have stuck around. On Facebook, she’s given me advice on how to take better pictures. Sadly, because I am not the most coordinated and have limited access as a solo mission, I haven’t taken a lot of her advice. Still, she seems to be doing very well for herself.
Which is interesting because she was very much an overactive teen who liked to make a fuss over things. At some point she’d make jokes about dead babies or laugh about how the drummer of some punk band was gay. I’m pretty sure she once told an abortion rally that she was a mistake. She wasn’t afraid and there was something admirable about her. She was both erratic, but had this sense of composure that made you believe she would land on her feet. I want to say she imbibed, but that would be more an idea than a fact given my faulty memory.
Our paths would more directly intersect in 2008 when the economics class was switched over to psychology. The teacher decided to have everybody interview each other and provide feedback on what they learned. I got to interview Paige, who mentioned a variety of things including that she liked That 70’s Show. Other than that, we rarely talked. I remember her talking across the way with the gay kid. Whereas there would probably be more “subtle” gay kids at the school, he was one of those flamboyant types who really had a manicured look. One day before class, Paige and him was talking about this new YouTube video called “What What in the Butt.” A nearby jock got mad about it and yelled at him. It wasn’t the quietest of fights.
My experience with the gay kid was rocky. I think there was a part of him who was nervous and untrustworthy of me because I hung out with students who were bigots. They opposed gay marriage and didn’t want to imagine two guys “doing it.” However, I think he was conflicted because I did show signs of allyship. I had written a poem about cross-dressing and would wear nail polish. I hung out with people who were more liberal-minded. Once or twice he’d give me a head nod as he passed me. I wouldn’t say we were close, but I do feel like there was an odd mix of tension and hospitality that existed in those brief moments.
Another reason that I have conflicted feelings about myself at this age is because I do notice that I had the notion of wanting to say things to say things. Maybe it was to appear normal or the opposite. However, no moment hurts me more and makes me hate my younger self more than this.
At some point, I’m sitting in psychology and there’s this kid next to me. He was Samoan and very nice. Whenever I’d walk around before school, there would be a big group of them hanging out playing hackysack. I felt like you had to really mess up to lose their trust. And with only one word, I felt like I ruined a lot.
I forget what the conversation was. I was speaking so off the cuff that I wasn’t controlling what I was saying. In 2008 certain taboo words weren’t entirely criminalized. If anything, they were still used in very derogatory sense as jokes. So when I ended a statement by telling this kid “Fag!” less as a direct comment and more a button, I realized that words had consequences.
For the rest of my life, I have his face changing before my eyes. It was one that had smiled at me every day since we met. This was an innocent, childlike smile that was full of sunshine. Suddenly, by saying “Fag!” I was watching his soul deflate. His smile dropped and you noticed a pressure inside of him alter. Suddenly, there was a sense that I let him down. Calling him “Fag!” likely struck a nerve that I had never intended to. Ever since, I have regretted the choice to say that word so impulsively. It was without malice, but what version of “Fag!” in 2008 doesn’t have some malice? We weren’t close enough for it to mean anything but the negative one.
He never talked to me again. Even when I’d pass the Samoan group on campus, I never felt comfortable being welcomed by them. Part of me wonders what would happen if I approached them and said hello. Given how protective they seemed, I had to believe that they’d take his side (deservedly) and lock me out. Maybe I’m just interpreting the moment differently, but all I know is that my lesson was that language has meaning and I shouldn’t just use words to use words.
This was also the class where I learned that I was an INFP. For whatever reason, having that indicator of my identity made a lot of difference in how I perceived myself. As much as labels arguably don’t have deeper meaning, words do have a way of simplifying ideas and making them accessible. This was a great example of it.
I only had to take math for one semester. Once it was over, I got to do something else. Glose allowed me to be her teacher’s aid. Because of where I was mentally, I wasn’t willing to take it seriously. While I helped pass out work when necessary, I was often in my own corner just doing nonsense and distracting the class. I’d do leg exercises and just try to break free of boredom. I’m grateful that she put up with it, but I do realize in moments like that that I had a long ways to go before I would be taken seriously in any capacity. As it stands, I was also dancing in journalism class, so I had that reputation building.
For the last high school class that I want to discuss, let me touch on Art. On the one hand, it’s another class that I should’ve taken at the start of my journey. However, it’s another discussion of fate. Was I meant to take it this late for a specific reason? Despite being in a circle of artists who had a great easiness around expressing themselves, I struggled to make pictures that were desirable in any meaningful way. I wasn’t known for my drawing. I’m still not.
So I get to the art class and I find myself surrounded by four people. The least memorable was someone I’ll call Vicky. She was friendly and nice, but it was clear she had no interest in being my friend for longer than that class. Another kid I’ll call Freddie. He was one of those shy students who usually had the hood pulled over his head and spoke in hushed tones. He liked playing Maple Story and when he found out I had seen Thrice live, he asked, “Did they play ‘Deadbolt’?” In all honesty, he seemed like a good kid though far from being social enough to fully warm up.
The next was someone I’ll name Jose. He was Mexican and dressed like a greaser. Even within the limitations of his uniform, he was able to form the style. The thing is that he was nice to me, but a certain moment struck me. Much like my previously mentioned error, I wasn’t willing to just let a moment die unceremonious. I wanted to see how things developed even if it might produce unwanted consequences.
So Jose at some point brought up the question, “Are you gay?” Whereas most, especially in 2008, would run away from that question out of fear for greater reputation, I chose to answer with a simple “Yes.” This immediately lead to him venting his own insecurities. He never avoided me after that day, though there was a sense of initial skepticism. His idea was that he feared gay people because he didn’t want to run into them in a dark alley. Part of me became relieved to know that when the teacher approached, she said that it was okay to be gay. Somehow we got past it, though I’m sure he still was quietly homophobic. If anything, that speaks to a level of tolerance that isn’t common in later decades.
I think another thing about answering that question so confidently was that I wasn’t sure that was true in myself at the time. I mostly said it to see how he’d react and try to navigate a response that I’d otherwise never get. On some level, I do think that queerness always existed in me and I didn’t like living in conventional ways, but gay was always a weird description for me. I wasn’t in a Will & Grace or Sex and the City way. I wasn’t toned abs or lispy. I had nothing stereotype-wise to go off of. I simply wanted to be queer and wasn’t sure what lane to travel in.
But I’m grateful that the teacher was so welcoming of a gay student. It spoke well of late 2000s politics in the art class world. Then again, she provided interesting lectures. She introduced us to Banksy and street art along with the masters of the classics. Even if I don’t remember a lot of the lessons beyond how to draw perspective, I do remember one time she brought in the CD that Banksy released that was Paris Hilton saying, “That’s hot!” for 30 minutes. She made it a contest for every class to see how far they can get before turning it off. We managed to be the only ones who did. It happened so abruptly that nobody noticed it was over.
And now, I save the best for last. Just as it felt like I wouldn’t meet any more people who would be there for the rest of my life, enter Crystal. She was a Freshman. An odd duck who took a quick liking to me in art class. While she drew much better than I did, we found a lot to joke about as we got through things. I was a terrible artist. The teacher hated how I shadowed and nothing I did was really that good. I don’t know if I’m “I’m the kid that made them put the C in art” levels of bad, but I wouldn’t be held up as the model student. Meanwhile, Crystal was there complimenting me and trying to make me feel better.
The thing about Crystal is that she liked me so much that it went beyond school. I would be at the bank or Target and then suddenly she’d run up and hug me. We’d get together throughout the years ahead and it would always be a wonderful time. On one occasion, we went to the midnight screening of Pineapple Express (2008) and formed a bunch of inside jokes that we shared online. We texted Juno (2007) quotes and talk about whatever was on our minds. She would eventually move to Hawaii and, to be honest, I have small regrets of not attending her going away party. I miss her a lot because she was always interested in what I was doing. In my yearbook, she would write, “never change,” and I wonder if I have lived up to that.
To conclude the yearbook talk, I want to go back to Ethan. While we went on our own paths, he was one of the few constants going back to Freshman year. We somehow kept seeing each other. There was a sense of being antagonistic to the point that maybe we were annoyed at each other, but I recall in my senior yearbook him apologizing for being an ass and saying that he thought I was a good person. I found that quote randomly on a dark day and it immediately cheered me up. I shouldn’t say I am that close to Ethan, but we still keep in touch loosely. I did see him play Richard Nixon in a comedy show about a decade ago. We were allowed to throw rubber tomatoes at the cast, and I nailed him in the face. There was a chance that I almost ran into him at a friend’s funeral, but I could only find his name in the ledger.
Shifting towards end of the year things, I want to touch on a moment that meant a lot to me. The spring musical was Fiddler on the Roof. My sister was one of the men dancing during the bottle dance. You probably couldn’t recognize her for obvious reasons, but I remember people being like “She looks so scared.” I was often the middle person and had to deliver dinner to her during rehearsals. I didn’t get to see much of the show that way, but I did eventually get to go when it opened. People were laughing at the school previews because they had chosen to do “If I Were a Rich Man” which was the motif used in Gwen Stefani’s “Rich Girl.” Given the level of maturity, it’s easy to see why people were laughing… and not about chasing chickens.
Anyway, I would go on to see the show four times. It was one of the first pieces of theater that I connected with. Maybe it’s because of how little I was exposed to or that I knew half the cast, but I was amazed with everything that happened. Monroe was chosen to play Tevya and he would receive a scholarship off of that role. He was amazing and really knew how to hit high notes. Even if it’s just a bunch of teens trying to play old people, there’s something fun about seeing this story come to life with such heart. The nightmare scene in particular had some dazzling work done that really used the stage well.
I think it helped that at its core, Fiddler on the Roof was a show that spoke to the human condition. It was a story of family and trying to find tradition in a changing world. It was old but also comical. Also, every song was so good (except “Miracle of Miracles”) and it made me wish that I had that talent. Given my general curiosity with Judaism at the time, it was also made me feel welcomed into their art and see something that was more than kitsch. It was beautiful, sprawling, and a great example of what I was most excited to see outside of Millikan’s walls.
As mentioned, there was also Visions Night. I forgot how much I talked about in the previous entry, but it was a great send-off. I am grateful for my time there, even if it was clear that Kendall and Paul were going to be the engineers for the following year. With that said, I remain unbothered by the idea that it changed into something that was less appealing to me. It’s supposed to be reflective of the students, and we had a very successful year. On some level, I’m still sad that the element of alumni returning hasn’t been kept up throughout the years, but at least it was during my time in this small, symbolic and meaningful way.
Prior to graduation, Millikan decided to hold random celebrations for the students. This included a full carnival where we wandered around and listened to goofy Top 40 like Lil Jon’s “Snap Yo Fingers.” On another occasion, we got to attend a magic show where they played a song so corny that it’s somehow been in my head for 16 years despite only hearing it once. It’s something like, “Abra cadabra is what you say at night…” I’m not complaining about the school putting in effort to reward the students, but it was such a hokey time. Also, it made leaving school afterwards awkward because it made you realize how much closer to the end you were but unsure of how to continue your day. We’d end up loitering around nearby listening to Cara complain about her parents in flippantly casual ways.
Before I fully say goodbye to school, I want to touch on an event called Mr. Ram. The idea was that seniors would get up and perform a talent show in order to win the arbitrary prize. To quickly touch on a student I haven’t mentioned yet, there was someone I’ll call Quigley who did a comedic dance to swing music with his mother. Quigley was a very likable kid that I never had a bad thing to say about. I want to say Norm was also there playing songs and playing along with the hollering crowd as it got into more “visual” talents.
However, the one thing that I liked the most was seeing Dylan one last time. He had been in a dance show a few years prior dressed as Nacho Libre doing a dance to Sugarhill Gang. His grand finale was dressing up as a mermaid and singing The Little Mermaid (1989) standard “Part of Your World.” I’m sure it was seen as funny, but I saw it as sweet and moving. I always imagined that if I did something like that, I would do drag and sing Madonna’s “Papa Don’t Preach” or something. I never had the courage or the voice to not make it a complete trainwreck. Even then, Dylan singing as a mermaid was inspiring in its own odd way.
I forget who won, but I’m thankful that I took the impulsive decision to attend. I think there was something about being a senior that inspired me to give new things a try.
Before I touch on graduation, it would do me good to touch on everything else that has been going on.
For starters, 2007 was the ticking clock. I won’t get into specifics, but it was about the time that my parents began to take divorce considerations more seriously. There was promise to make things official by the time that my sister graduated in 2010. However, it was not a well-kept secret. The efforts to make it look like a stable family were falling apart quickly. Sometimes I saw Gina more than my mother in a week. Given that I couldn’t drive yet, I was still reduced to seeing mom when she put in effort to see us.
She has told me many times that one of her disappointments about my high school years is how uninvolved she was in them. While she was there for some of the moments, she wasn’t exactly active in a way that made you feel like she was a witness to your achievements. In some ways, the years to come involved a lot of atonement.
The other major thing that I haven’t really discussed is that around early 2008, we were told that we would be moving. In the middle of the school year, I would come home and pack boxes. While my dad hunted for a nearby house, I had to recognize that part of the time I’d spend having fun would be spent moving furniture from place to place. By the end of the school year, I was sleeping on a mattress on the floor in my new room. It was still close enough that I could walk home afterwards. The pathway allowed me to interact with a crossing guard who was very friendly and became confused when he saw me going to school later than usual during the end of the semester. It would take some time for the house to feel like a home. It would by college, but by the end of high school, it just made some things feel more disjointed.
Given my comprehension skills, it would make sense that what follows happened to me and only one other person in my friend group. For graduation, Millikan had a strict dress code especially for the AMAB students. We were told not to wear shorts. While women’s skirts could be above knee level, it was a strange attack. As a result, I had to travel all the way to the bleachers at Veteran’s Stadium and trade my shorts for my grandfather’s pants. By the time I got back, I was so mad that I was bending the mortar board. I no longer wanted to be there. I didn’t care about getting the diploma. There was so much anger in that moment that it’s a miracle that it would pass. Still, the starry eyed quality was already broken.
Graduation was never my favorite thing. I keep trying to tell myself that these events are meaningful, but there’s only one that really amounted to much for me. It’s the commemoration speeches. As a mediocre student, having the smart kids rise to a stadium of applause only makes you feel dumber. However, the commencement speeches were often either inspiring or so trivial and on the nose that you could’ve written it the night before. Who needs to say that you should follow your dreams? Show me the path.
I’m not mad about the graduation as a whole. However, I became so overwhelmed by the slight of not wearing shorts that I decided to take one last jab at the staff. On the way up to the stage, I decided to roll my pant legs up in an effort to make it look like shorts. It wasn’t fully successful, as one came running down while I looked out at the crowd. I’d like to say it is a grand sight, but it just looks like a lot of people looking at you and you have no idea if any of them care.
The one moment on the field that I felt had any meaning was when Vann found me in the seats and gave me a hug. He declared “We did it!” and it felt like a poignant way to bring the moment to an end.
The issue is that any hope of the farewell feeling sentimental was undercut by the fact that it was a bunch of students basically walking out without any sense of order. Once you got through the tunnel, it was pure chaos. Families were waiting in random spots and nobody was sure where anything was. It took me at least 10 minutes to find my group.
However, in the process, I did find Crystal. Another reason that I’ll always admire her is because of everyone I knew at Millikan, she was the only classmate who thought to get me a gift. I still have it in my collection along with a hairclip she gave me. With a note saying “Your Eggo is Preggo,” was a burned CD full of songs she felt were meaningful. A lot of the options seem a bit goofy by today’s standards, but there is one that now makes me feel sentimental and think of her every time it comes on.
For whatever reason, the song that stands out on that compilation is Death Cab For Cutie’s “I Will Follow You Into the Dark.” I don’t know if she intended it to mean anything, but something about it felt comforting. Maybe she would be there in the dark with me. I couldn’t say. Though, for what it’s worth, she’s still there somewhere in my life having her own joyous experiences.
I wish that I could say everything from that was meaningful. However, it went from being this joyous individual achievement to a reminder that I’m one of hundreds, possibly thousands, waiting for the next phase of their life to start. I want to say that the following day I went out for a celebratory lunch with family. Kudos would come rolling in over the next few weeks. By the following month, I would have my driver’s license and begin planning a life beyond my previous codependence. So much was going on at once, and I had no idea what to expect.
I’ll conclude by saying that senior year was a massive sendoff that may have not lived up to every expectation, but gave me enough to look back fondly on. I don’t think that I’m one to believe that I peaked in high school, and yet running through all of these thoughts makes me realize that they were much better than I had perceived. As it stands, there’s probably a lot I haven’t included or truncated into irrelevance. I’m sure in time more memories will come forth and fill that space with new enthusiasm.
I was hoping to get to this point and say that I had some grand final revelation of what it meant to be a high school student. It’s definitely nostalgic. I look back fondly on a lot of it. However, what is the greater message? I think it’s probably that I need to stop and appreciate the little things more. So much happened and I got stuck in so many situations that I can’t get back. They didn’t seem great at the time, but they spoke to some need for unity. The world has changed so much since then, and I miss so many of the names I mentioned. It’s bittersweet what times does. With that said, I’m happy to report that things do get better. Maybe not immediately, but as I approach the end of my teens, I prepare for the road ahead. Whereas this one felt more focused, I fear the chapters ahead won’t be as clean cut. They’ll be messier and maybe lacking the finality that a high school diploma has.
But first, I must announce one thing. The year is 2008. I have gotten my driver’s license. Maybe reluctantly, I have decided to attend Cypress College after visiting it for one of Millikan’s debate team events that I didn’t attend. Instead I walked around and admired the campus where I’d spend the next few years. How many? Well, that’s where things get messy.
But first, I want to take a break from school and talk about someone I felt like I learned a lot from, though maybe not always in ways that leave me with good feelings.
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