Hopeful to Cynical

I'm just a regular person working a pair of jobs that don't quite allow one to live without others paying a share of expenses though I live as if separate from them. I am not antisocial; quite contrary, getting me to shut up has always been the challenge once I get yammering. It wasn't always like this, though, hard as it is to see now, I once had a thing called "hope." For purposes of ascribing a name to me, most call me "Adam." I am 31 years old, and boy, was it ever an interesting three decades or so. The first memory I can recall but whether it was real or not is anyone's guess. The crib bars came down, and a child's bed took its place. While I didn't exactly get along well with my sisters at the time, not all of life was gloomy. My mom would take me around the school my sisters attended at the time, and I'd get chocolate milk from the cafeteria when classes were in session. When people asked my age, my mom said, "Three and a Half." I don't recall much more from that age. Though it should be known, this would be the same elementary school I'd later attend. We'll call it Pressed Sigh Clothes Elementary. The reason for such a name is that the school had a uniform policy that everyone had to wear button-up shirts and formal-looking school pants provided to each student.

Aging has a way of making you forget, so I'm shocked I remember anything that early. When I was four, I was pretty much the happiest and inquisitive kid you'd ever meet. I attended a Preschool we'll call "Inconsistent Care" Preschool. Though I didn't go out of my way to bother anyone, I had a minor bully even in preschool who liked to punch people; he wasn't particularly ruthless about it. Instead, maybe he was developmentally delayed or wasn't taught not to or something. It is hard to say. I was pretty bright for my age, speaking in complete sentences and beginning to grasp concepts no one my age knew how to respond to. Perhaps it was a side effect of having scientists for parents and siblings with an age gap of 8 and one-half years. When music day came around, I could name every instrument from memory and never got a question wrong. The question was always, "What instrument is this?" we wouldn't get asked the question until they'd gone through each instrument we'd be tested on. So, no matter the order of the musical instruments, my mind knew what each was and was rewarded. My correct answers always resulted in a sticker for my name tag. I'd admittedly never been the best at explaining things for as knowledgeable as I was, so I wouldn't have known how to convey to my parents why I was proud of having a name tag littered in stickers. I just presumed they'd been told the curriculum and scoring system if one existed. One of the more annoying things about it was that we always had to sing a song before eating; otherwise, we wouldn't get seconds if we wanted them on snacks or meals, which while attempting to teach self-control seems instead a punishment for need. It'd take about two minutes to sing an inane song to the melody of that French song that translates to "are you sleeping?" like, "We are quiet we are quiet, yes we are, yes we are, now it's time for lunch now its time for lunch quietly, quietly." For snacks, just replace lunch in that song with "snack." The music sounds like brainwashing when you consider that we were anything but quiet if we were singing that. Then again, I surmise it was a decent nondenominational ritual similar to saying grace.

I mainly kept to myself when playing or preferred to stare out into the clouds when outside. While inside, I'd play with toys and try to incorporate others, but they'd invariably argue which was theirs or mine, and I'd argue none of these are ours; they belong to this preschool. There was ultimately no getting through to them, so I didn't bother much and instead chose to focus on things I thought I needed to learn. As I got into kindergarten and used preschool as an after-school thing to supplement my learning, I practiced my penmanship by printing my name repetitively. I got okay at it over time though sometimes I'd lose focus and accidentally write my first name where I intended my last name to go and where it was supposed to be.

Sadly, I didn't feel as confident when under time limits in first grade to do anything, let alone learn one cursive letter per day and try to replicate it legibly. The teacher was a lady we'll call Ms. Not Too Old. She was a very punitive teacher, unlike the one I'd had in kindergarten. She seemed to yell and scream at me a lot for anything I did wrong, though less exclusive to me, just I seemed to push her buttons more than anyone else.

Naturally, because I had such a teacher, I grew to hate school early on and was not anymore amused when I had a teacher who seemed to really like her subject so much, she wanted us to cheer about it. I don't remember her name as she hadn't mainly gained my scorn. That's the funny thing about my memory for people. I remember people by name better when I hated them for any length of time or whatever the opposite was for one who couldn't love. My second-grade teacher, she fell into neither camp. Though I remember the subject of even numbers, she had us cheer, "2, 4, 6, 8, who do we appreciate? even numbers!" Unfortunately for me, I'd just finished adapted physical education, so I couldn't get away with mouthing the words but not saying it as I'd learned to do during a Christmas concert. I didn't want to be in that concert because I'm Jewish, and I felt it was against my religion to sing such. Now one might consider me intolerant, but we sang Christian songs like Silent Night if we participated back then. I'd associated song and story with belief, and the concert was no exception, according to what I'd researched, Pressed Sigh Clothes Elementary. The school prides itself on its theater program and focuses on the arts throughout its curriculum. I'm not a parent, nor do I expect to be anytime soon, but I was curious to see what I could find out about how things are now. Anyways that aside I half-heartedly went along with it and returned to the usual coursework.

Summer vacations were decent. I got to visit many different states. One of my favorite memories was when I went to St. Williamsburg, Virginia, and participated in a Native American circle dance. We visited some exhibits, such as an old phone booth, and the show was about to begin. The host went on to talk something about the show, what it meant or something, but it bored me, so I went back inside to play with the old-fashioned phone until I saw many native Americans dancing in a circle, for the crowd came out to watch. When their dance was done, one of them, wearing a feathered hat, asked my mom something, and she turned to me as I was next to her and said, "They wanted to know if you want to dance with them." I said yes, I would, and went over to them. They got me in the line, and I was told to just follow the guy in front of me after being appropriately positioned, and so I did. I was nervous seeing the others watch me with them and still following directions as best I could. I found it fun, and it remains to this day one of my fondest memories, especially since my mom rarely let me do anything I was curious about, saying I was too little or something. For as lovely as things were for vacations, including one to Colorado where people struck up conversations with you on the street without feeling awkward, it at best made the rest of the drama of regular life bearable.

Perhaps one of the more significant turning points was in fourth grade. I was told rather bluntly by the teacher we'll call her Ms. Pawn Thyme, "You write like a first grader!" to which I replied, "I know I was hoping by staying in school I could learn how not to." I don't remember much more after that, but I got the impression I'd been a Smart Alek, but they had nothing to refute it. Truth be told, after having piles of homework because of illegible penmanship in first grade, I would have loved to drop out if that was an option, but I didn't know how to tell my parents or what could be done. Meanwhile, my meanest sister at the time could have gone to a university long before I was ever in school, and I couldn't for the life of me figure out what her insecurity could be that she'd hurt me when I didn't do everything she'd asked when babysitting.

One might ask why I went along with it? Well, when I was four, she and my other sister, who was the follower of the twins, beat me up for reasons I cannot remember and taunted me saying, "Mom's not here!" when I'd scream out for her since they were babysitting me on one of the days I didn't want to go to preschool. When they get you that young though it hurts, you begin to normalize it as just regular sibling rivalry. Life sucks that way sometimes. Don't get me wrong, it wasn't as though people didn't come by to check up on us less about anything my sisters were doing and more about my mom being the crazy cat lady of Covina. Though we had family therapy, they never asked if my siblings had ever fought with me or beat me up. If they had asked, I'd have said yes because I assumed it was expected at the time. Eventually, what led to the mental school was being framed for something I didn't do. There was this unwritten rule don't tell strangers what they cannot understand. Somehow, they misinterpreted a hilarious recollection of when I was younger drinking out of a dog's water dish as drinking out of the toilet.  I'd gotten such a reputation as a trouble maker that good behavior was rewarded by the principal. He'd always believe anyone else's word over mine. He lectured me on how unsafe it is to drink out of a toilet. Unable to get a word in to explain, I demanded to know who accused me of such lies so they'd never lie again. That's when I was transferred to another school, "Lark Go to Helen Wait before the mental one "Cortez People Attack You." Things weren't too bad overall except for the time I was trapped in a tunnel I was playing in for the duration of recess. I never played on the playground on anything I could get trapped in from that day forth. I don't remember what their beef was with me; I was just keeping to myself. However, some people liked to instigate me more actively in class, so it's possible something to do with that resulted in my transfer to the mental school.

Regardless of when I was at Cortez, people attacked you; just getting to school meant people in Elementary School, Middle School, and High School enjoyed pounding me in the head and in the gut to wind me. It was like a game to them, but I didn't understand the end goal. I was still so innocent I didn't know what gay was, so when they told me it meant happy, I said yes, which only exacerbated the routine poundings and topped it off with homophobic words and phrases that I'd rather not repeat. I have all the respect for people who actually go through hell just for being themselves. While I hope whatever caused them to be as ill-behaved as they were treated and living better, I'd not mourn them if I found out they'd met with a terrible fate.

In class, was pretty much the status quo I'm taking too long on an assignment? "Hurry up!" "I'm sorry I'm actually taking the time to learn something. I thought that's what school was for!" I picked my nose, "Go wash your hands right now!" Ours was the better-behaved class on campus with the authoritarian staff. You'd fear their wrath if loud noises bothered you. It was a sort of sanctuary amidst the more delinquent courses for sure. Still, considering we either had to be bussed in or arrange for our parents to drop us off, most of the crap happened on the way there or at home as far as violence. Still, I consider it an achievement after 4 years;

I finally got out just as my parents were divorcing. I also had a mostly uneventful near-drowning experience and eventually went to a California Distinguished School in Torrance. We'll call it "Trade School High" Because it was one of the few schools to teach vocational subjects such as web design and whose art programs were conducted to rigorous standards compared to ones at other schools. Not much of note happened there, but safe to say it was tough fitting in, especially since most attendees knew each other from the nearby middle school. Good luck getting dates to dances if no one knows you from there. That was the least of my concerns, though, as I was often bullied mostly verbally but sometimes by people physically flipping my male breasts, which had distended from a side effect of a psychiatric medication I'd been on at the time. I still find it awkward to go shirtless anywhere. One told me I belonged in a mental hospital. I was in one and was ambushed for calling someone a slob when she knocked my paper checkerboard off the table intentionally and yelled 52-pickup. Every last inmate began beating me up till I hit the ground and was left for dead; maybe I'd have shrugged off more and not had the urge to smash their head into the ground. I probably would have, too, if not for the fact I knew it'd just prove them right if I lost control, and I'd probably go back to the previously worse school by comparison. I was also hesitant to talk to anyone about my school problems or insecurities about mental health medication.

Never mind the fact I'd had two of the most influential grandparents die a year ago from when I attended, and because I'd got behind on school work, I wasn't able to participate in their funeral. Just as well, I'd have been embarrassed I'd like anyone in my family to know what an emotionally weak person I am. I went through school getting pretty good grades though major dramas at the time involved the fact I took a class on ceramics and barely got Cs on most items and couldn't build a clay model of any of the ancient cathedrals. I got a D in a class, my only one for being unable to write a travel brochure for three countries in a language other than English. I lost a web design logo contest for a Green Torrance Campaign. I believe the prize was 500 dollars at the time, which would have bought you a lot back then and, of course, the nomination for a handful of categories in Theater Arts but No award at all and the only male in attendance not to get it. I tried to just walk out without a problem but was stopped by an excited winner of it who I promptly told off, and though I took my cake slice from the after-party, I left promptly after. Looking back, I can see why I wouldn't have been very popular with the kind of person I was under pressure, but it still felt like a cruel joke all the same. The solace for it all was I graduated and won a free apple gift card for 100 United States Dollars at the grad night event held in an arcade, and there was cotton candy, dancing, games, and food for an all-night event. Such things may be that of the past so long as the Century-Twenty Virus remains at large.

I wish I could tell you that after enduring four years at a mentally disturbed school and despite a comparatively better but not ideal high school life, I went to college, got my degrees, and lived out the American Dream. I would only be telling half of the truth if I did. I did, in fact, go to college and university. I got my Associate's in Computer Information Systems and Bachelor Degree in Business Administration. Still, I work the fast food and on the side as a Quality Assurance Analyst or Software Tester as some know them. Thankfully my journey isn't over, yet but considering the current year, I'm not particularly hopeful that I'll have that happily ever after since this is no fairy tale world. While I'm comfortably not alone in my issue of underemployment, at the same time, I question what my past self would tell me if they knew I would not be a doctor when I grew up or even something that makes a livable wage to make a family. I guess the kids aren't alright after all. Even if you don't drop out and get some degrees, it isn't enough to get what one wants out of life.