May 30, 2002 Today I became aware of a phenomenal occurrence that has not happened in the last six years: I received my grade report and got straight As. Needless to say, I am positively reeling right now. It is similar to how I did in November of 1995, when I received my report card for the first marking period of sixth grade. That glorious occasion was the only other time it happened, since I am not counting getting As in summer and winter classes. Once again, maintaining my focus and displacing potential derangement with diligence has proved lucrative. This does not yet mean I can transfer to any college I want, but it does mean I have a 4.0 for the semester, and a cumulative GPA of 3.95.
In junior high, there was always that one pesky B or C in math or whatever other subject which bore the brunt of my malaise. I told myself grades did not matter until high school, which was potentially true. When my high school report cards did not have Incompletes all the way down and notes from teachers concerned with my attendance, they were littered with Ps and Fs. The administration determined it was a good way to sweep me under the academic rug and protect the lacking interests of their prized teachers. I cannot recall ever having a grade point average before UCC, because my grade report was never complete. Always missing something somewhere, my progress never seemed to fall within measurable boundaries. That, and I was often too sick to care. When combined with clinical depression, it was not exactly a recipe for success. Not only did something in my genetic fabric prevent me from sharing the goals of the adolescent masses, I had a chronic illness to deal with. It is safe to say things are better now.
These past two weeks have been fantastic, or any other positive adjective I rarely use. Taking down and rearranging the ads, posters, and other stuff on my walls, I made room for five new collages. I started diner-hopping again, without coming home disgusted by how awkward I was, only privy to the fact my hair and clothes smelled like cigarettes I never smoked. Over the last few months I have been compiling my poetry, surprised to discover I have around forty-five poems I consider decent. Most of them are new, and not on the site yet. Perhaps I'll see to fixing that sometime soon. Even so, I feel a scruples of idleness swirling around me. I sit here feeling like I should liquefy the New York Times and pour it through a hole in my brain, write my memoirs before I turn eighteen and everything blurs together, do something undone, make and publish new discoveries. When I was working all the time, my anemic paycheck spoke over desires to create something meaningful and learn beyond the textbooks. Now they are louder than ever, and I feel like a complete and total slacker for having made a decision I did not and do not regret.
Spanish class starts on Monday. From there, I will attempt to absorb an unfamiliar language in three weeks. It will be three and a half hours of my morning, four if I walk there and back. My afternoons and evenings will be all mine to learn Spanish, if not do what I mentioned in the previous paragraph. It's funny; my class ends on June 20, roughly a week before I would have graduated, had my guidance counselor not been driven to make my already difficult life a living Hell. Of course I am not bitter. Success is the best revenge. I have straight As instead of Passes and Fails, and she... is still a high school guidance counselor who mispronounces the word "language."
Yeah. So there!
