Continued from here The Story of Me. And yes there are 5 more parts to this.
School started. To this day I’m not sure how we got myself signed up. But we sort of located the nearest school and I think mostly using our hand gestures explained that we would like to partake in this fine institution of theirs to which they handed me a schedule and advised to come back on a given day. The school was your typical public Brooklyn high school. And it is typical for me now, but at the time it resembled fenced off premises for starting off criminals. And I am not exaggerating in this case – we had to go through metal scanners every morning under the kind and watchful eyes of the security guards that were also ever present on every floor. In all fairness, I don’t think they had actual weapons. Also, I was not a witness to any murder or live shooting, so I guess you can call that a victory for the public education in New York.
I hated that place with a passion, but soon enough I found like-minded individuals and we started skipping classes together, so it all became better. Until, parent teacher nights came and I would get exposed for my irresponsible behavior, get in trouble, undergo some sort of punishment, and continue skipping classes until the next parent-teacher get-together. This would become a sort fun cycle all throughout high school. Arguably, not exactly fun for my parents who were running out of ideas for punishment.
Regardless of how it may come across, I actually had good grades and finished high school in a medicine inclined program, with honors. After which I had a great background for becoming a doctor, which naturally I refused to do. Because that would be too predictable. In all honesty, I’m just afraid of blood and I think that is sort of a big no-no for when you’re a doctor.
But I’m skipping through my troubled teenage years too fast. And troubled they were, as I went through all stages of exploration from blond, make up wearing tootsie girl to all black, anarchy rules, hard metal chick. In other words, I was a true joy and pride for my parents. Or quite the opposite. Either way, we managed.
By this time I picked up on English which made school even easier. I also picked up on smoking which doesn’t make anything easier and is actually just an expensive habit. But I refused to integrate and hung out exclusively with Russian-speaking, immigrant childs as myself, which conveniently Brooklyn had plenty of. To which I am paying with my Russian accent to this day that clung to me and doesn’t seem ready to let go. Ever. Which in return confuses people who sometimes give me helpful tips about life in America and seem utterly confused when I say that I was sort raised in Brooklyn.
Life is messed up like that. But wait there will be more to come.
P.S. Well, of course this calls for a high school picture.