the id, the ego, & the single misfiring brain cell

I'm not the CEO of a Fortune 500 company--nor do I ever wish to be. Doh. I'm military but...I will never make colonel, either. I have no desire to do what is necessary to make that cut: the politics, the extra activism, or even the time in service. I am not whole-heartedly devoted to my career to the exclusion of all else (which is all too often what I've seen in colonels and above). I may never make lieutenant colonel, even, and if I don't, I'm cool with that, too. It'll just make my "decision" easier. 

As it is, I can retire in less than 3 years, and by my math, we'll be fine even if I don't pick up a post-retirement job. And in three years, I'll be almost 49. Not bad. Not bad at all. 

I'm thinking about this because I was chatting for a while with Chris today. Chris and I were together a long time ago, back when Jesus was a boy. We became good friends again--because that's what we began as--about a decade after our breakup. There was a lot of pain on both sides of that divide, but we're both happy to be back in one another's lives. I was telling her, and I'm telling you, that she is the reason I decided to pursue something more than retiring as an enlisted person in 16 years.* (Had I done that, I'd have retired as a disgruntled Master Sergeant, no doubt, seven years ago.) 

* Which I probably would have, considering that active duty military life was the best opportunity that I ever got. It paid better than anything I'd ever had and it provided full benefits and an early retirement, etc. I didn't plan to leave. 

Chris couldn't believe that I wasn't going to college. I mean...college was practically free. She started classes--I remember helping her with her papers--and I languished. After a while, though, her encouragement and example got me to allow my enlistment to end and to go to college. I didn't just power through then, of course. I was a kid and I bounced around for a while before settling down into college proper, many years later, thanks to Barbara, who encouraged all I did and paid for a lot of it because she loved me and believed in me. I perhaps sell Barbara short in my memoirs, come to think of it, and that isn't fair. She is as much to thank for my education as Chris. 

Anyhow, in my discussion with Chris, she commented that she had recently run into her Junior Varsity basketball coach from high school, and she now knew the principal she had to thank for sticking up for her when everyone else was trying to kick her out of high school (she was a hellion, apparently). I suggested that when she writes a thank-you note to that principal that she tell her what she's done with her life, because I'm sure that lady will be proud. Then I mused that I think my teachers would be proud if they knew what I'd become. 

All except one, whom I live to prove wrong every single day. 

When I entered my senior year in high school, I needed 1.5 credits to graduate. That meant that I needed time-fillers, pretty much (I wasn't into overkill). I had to be there for a whole year just to take American Government* and I needed, of all things, the half-year of Health. Otherwise, I just needed a good excuse to leave the campus early. Enter DECA. 

* Thanks to Claire and Mel for getting me through this, and making me laugh the whole way. 

I had to look that up, but I'm sure that was the club. It stands for Distributive Education Clubs of America. There was a class connected to this. I don't remember what they called it. When I wanted to take the class, I was told that there would be a yearly and a monthly membership fee for the club. I said ok. I'd be working. 

That was why I took the class. They would release me at around 10:30am to go work somewhere. I'd have the money, of course. The only bills I had were those for my truck note, insurance, and gasoline (yeah...I bought my first vehicle and paid all the bills at 17; it was an easier world then, maybe). 

So I "joined" the club, which had monthly meetings. I went to the first meeting and decided I was unimpressed with the club. Kids were being taught to be "better retailers," which meant trying to push sales on people who weren't interested and such. They actually had contests about this. Nationwide contests. They also boasted that they were the "largest high school club in the nation." 

Well...when kids are required to join and pay dues if they don't want to hang out at school all day when they don't have to, yeah. 

So after the first meeting, I decided I wasn't interested in being in the club. 

I've never been much of a clubber, to be fair. Mostly, I don't get the concept. Maybe I'm just a loner. 

Anyhow....after going to one or two club meetings, I decided I didn't want to be in the club. At that point, I stopped going to meetings and I stopped paying dues. I continued to do well in the class, however, and continued to do well at work. At some point, I was told I had to pay all the monthly dues at once since I'd missed a payment. 

There were two teachers at Nacogdoches High who taught this course: my teacher and Mrs. Kendrick. I can't for the life of me remember my teacher's name, which is a shame because she was delightful, supporting, and professional. Mrs. Kendrick led the charge on DECA, and when she discovered that I wasn't paying dues, she decided to take the peer pressure route. 

Hahahahahahaha. Right. Against me? Puh-lease. (Yeah. I was the same person then, except I had more energy and more fire in my craw.)

She had my teacher write my name on the blackboard, along with Melanie Baxter's. Melanie had also chosen to stop paying dues. We were in the same class, good friends, and we had solidarity. 

The first day we came in and saw our names on the board, I asked why our names were on the board. "Because Mrs. Kendricks [our teacher never got the other teacher's name right] wants everyone to know you didn't pay your DECA dues."

I said, "Cool." 

So day after day went by with our names on the board. Presently, Melanie's name went away. She'd decided to pay her dues and escape the limelight. I understood, but that simply isn't how I'm made. One day, I came in and my name was no longer on the board. I walked up, picked up the chalk, and wrote my name on the board. My teacher stopped me--in front of the class. I announced to them that I didn't want them to think I'd buckled under pressure or changed my mind. I still had definitely not paid my dues. I was not interested in DECA. Nothing had changed. 

With that, I sat down and my teacher erased my name. Class went on. 

I thought it was over. Silly me. Any teacher who would attempt to use peer pressure to force a high school student to comply was capable of other things, as I was soon to learn. 

There came a point where our class was massed in with Mrs. Kendrick's class to watch a film. I was into this film. It was about teenage suicide and such. Instructional, you know. In the middle of it, someone told me I was wanted in Mrs. Kendrick's office. 

I didn't want to abandon the film, of course, but I went. Mrs. Kendrick closed the door, sat me in one of those silly right-hand-only student desks, and asked me when I was going to pay my dues. I blinked at her and said with some surprise, "I'm not." 

She said, "You knew that joining the club was a requirement for joining the program."

I said, "I joined the club. I'm no longer interested." 

This was not a good answer. She lectured me on our agreement--which I contend I honored--and on myriad things, most of which I don't remember because I was just sitting there wishing I could get back to the movie. At one point, though, she said something I'll never forget. She said,

You'll never amount to anything, ever, because you buck the tide. You don't go along with everyone else, and because of that, you will amount to nothing. 

I wish I'd had a tape recorder. I seriously wished I had one in that moment. I couldn't believe that a teacher--a role model--was telling me I'd never do or be anything because I refused to go with the crowd. How absurd. And disturbing. 

At the end of our interview, Mrs Kendrick told me that I'd better pay my dues or my grade would suffer. I stood and said, "Is that all?" She dismissed me. 

I went back to the movie. The teenagers were already dead. 

After class, I went directly to my counsellor's office. I knew him well and had a good rapport with him, a very nice, approachable, well-educated black man whose name I also don't remember. I asked if I could come in his office and have a discussion. I'd never sought out a counsellor before, and he knew me to be a, well, an honor society inductee. I sat down and told him all that had transpired the half-hour before I walked into his office. By the end of my story, he was livid. He said, "If anything--anything--happens to your grade in that class, you come straight to me. OK?"

I said yes sir. Of course. I was pretty sure, when she'd made the threat, that she was just wrong. He'd just confirmed it. I thanked him for his help, shook his hand, and went to work. 

Nothing happened to my grade. I graduated in the National Honor Society, probably much to Mrs. Kendrick's chagrin. Matter of fact, I never told my folks about this incident until I was around 30. It just came up in conversation. My folks were a bit shocked that they'd never known of it, but frankly, it never occurred to me to take it to them. I'd had it all under control. 

They'd taught me to do what was right no matter what, and I did. That was the end of the matter, as far as I was concerned. 

So when I look upon my life now, what with a respectable career where I've actually been promoted and gotten chances I wouldn't otherwise because I buck the tide, with a wonderful mate who loves me even when I mess up, with a beautiful home and wonderful friends and so many awesome experiences and travels and all the education (ongoing), I look back on that exchange with Mrs. Kendrick and I think, 

fuck you. 

d