I don’t have too many memories of Grade 8 there as I was coming in as an out of state student, had the very last picks of electives, put in remedial classes because of delayed record transfers, cliques and difficulty making new friends, etc. Good thing was after my Mom haggled with the principal; I was able to get into a computer class. I came into the class feeling I knew more than the teacher and knew of a few others who felt the same. It wasn’t having an arrogant adolescent attitude as much as I often felt this teacher had technophobia. As I think of it now, looking back, I wonder did she become more tech savvy or is she still stuck in the early days of technology? In 2021, you see everyone staring down at devices having more technology extending beyond our teenage imaginations and the first computers we used back in the early 1980s.
For the most part, I have more unpleasant and horrible memories from Olsen than all my other years from kindergarten to Grade 6 and all of high school. Grade 7 remains another story for another post. It wasn’t until Grade 8, I didn’t want to go to school not because I was not feeling well or wanted to avoid a test but because I truly not only hated but despised everything about Olsen. It was then I learned to skip classes just to avoid having to be on campus, around both teachers and students alike and then being confined to a dark, dreary campus resembling more of a detention center for delinquents. I was never caught skipping that year, perhaps administration knew, nobody wanted to be there. I am sure I was one of many generations who walked those same halls who probably felt those years were best looked back as the lost years, or even better the forgotten years.
My parents moved from the suburbs of Detroit to the heart of Miami at the start of Grade 7 and moved to Hollywood at the start of Grade 8. I came to Olsen after a somewhat gap year in Grade 7 (remember, perhaps a story for another post). Although suburban Detroit was differently diverse than south Florida, I knew what it was like to live amongst people of different nationalities, religions, races etc than I was. In fact, our neighbor was an African-American police officer. When we moved here and I went to Olsen, I learned what the racial divide was; with one set of kids (like me) lived far from the wrong side of railroad tracks while others lived there in an awful paint-schemed looking military barracks with sparse dried landscaping. It was the first time I felt a distinct separation of people based on differences. It was also the first time I was bullied and heckled and called Cracker and White Boy, along with other names I’ve suppressed.
My day often started with bullying in the morning when I rode the school bus. It was probably even worse than I chose to remember. I was mostly teased with numerous nicknames and with an occasional ear flick, as signaling to instigate a fight. The bus driver kept her eyes on the road and not all the horrible things going on behind her seat. She often pulled the bus over and attempted with no success to gain control of the students. I never understood how in a classroom we have one teacher for 30 students, but accept a bus driver with no other adult is expected to maintain control with 50 plus students while driving a multi-ton school bus. Go figure.
Once I arrived at school, the bullying escalated, as if the school bus bullies passed the torch to the campus bullies. Nothing makes a bully happier than seeing a new victim. Being the new kid with no friends and sitting just outside of the teacher’s peripheral vision, my desk was tipped, my ears were flicked, spitballs thrown my way, poked fun at because of my Sasquatch appearance (early onset puberty had me hairier than most - hence why no showers) and the list of bullying incidents seemed endless.
I remember Coach Nelson, the physical education teacher (can still see his evil smile when it was time to paddle someone). Did I mention how I looked like Sasquatch? He even tried to paddle me because I wouldn’t dress out for class than finally, I did dress out, but I wouldn’t shower after class. My bullies took my clothes (which were mostly made by Mom and not store bought) and threw it in the shower making me have to go back to class in my sweat drenched physical education uniform. This happened more than once and nothing was done by the school despite my mother intervening.
As I mentioned earlier, I was placed in several remedial classes. I was bored in most of my classes and my attention deficit disorder often interfered from keeping focused on the teacher’s lecture. I wish my parents and I knew what attention deficit disorder was back then, but we only knew the bad students had it and that’s what caused all the problems. My grades reflected lack of focus and boredom and didn’t reflect my actual knowledge or abilities in the subject matter. My behavior was not a problem, but if I didn’t like a teacher I would often drift off to my own thoughts, my lack of participation during class or doing homework then sum up my grade to just barely making a C average. I can only name one – maybe two teachers by name and subject who I liked in Grade 8 who kept me focused and wanting to learn. This often only reinforced my “need to be remediated” and have teachers often look at me nothing more than another delinquent rather than the student who needed additional stimulation to keep me focused.
Those same bullies, along with lunchtime bullies grabbed my brown bagged lunch out of my hand, ripped the bag open, spilled my lunch contents to the ground and then excitedly stomped all over it. After another (not sure how many) incidents of this, for whatever reason I remember the kind lady from the library saw this happen and let me eat lunch in the library from then on. She even allowed me to use the Apple computers, in what I remember was an old dusty a/v closet, until it was time to go to my next class.
I really tried to avoid using the restrooms between classes. Not only were the restrooms filthy and in need of much repair, but the most basic supplies of running water as opposed to dribbling water, working or replaced soap dispensers and disposable hand towels and toilet paper were often lacking. Paper products were often used in a contest to see how many can decorate the restroom ceiling before they fell down. I often asked for a pass to the restrooms after attendance was taken in either my class before lunch or after class. This was mostly to avoid the cesspool congregation of show offs smoking, bullies waiting for their target or to possibly meet a new one and the bold restroom flashers. I think I forget to mention an important thing missing from all the restrooms on campus was there were no partitions between urinals and even worse no partitions between the stalls or doors and for obvious reasons most teenage boys avoided using urinals.
Then it was time for dismissal and an encore performance from the school bus bullies on the way home. I often worried I would miss my bus stop not only because I was forced to sit in the back of the bus but because they resisted in letting me off when it was my time to disembark.
This cycle continued with a different set of characters throughout the entire year, even with my class schedule being changed for the second half of the year. These memories, just scratched the surface of my Grade 8 memories. I am sure if I took more time to dwell, more would come bubbling to the surface, begging to be addressed.
As I pass by the Olsen Middle School each day, I watch more of the buildings beginning to be slowly torn down. I reflect on my one year there and feel the many ghosts and skeletons it created finally being set free after several decades being buried deep within me. I can only imagine over the years, the countless others who shared and felt the same as I did, with many having difficulty setting free these memories. Either way, there is something sentimental about seeing part of your life’s journey literally crumble. All those transpired events in our lives, like it or not helped guide and mold us into the adults we are today, whether for the good or the bad of the order it still remains a part of our journey.
Now, go on, carry on and get back to your regular programming, I really don’t wish to be the only one having to battle more of the dragons in the dungeon.
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