A Fool's Journey

by Ken Kusactay

You hate school. Your parents don’t care so why should you - they never even asked you what you want to do with your life and why it matters. You don’t care, but you don’t know that you don’t not want to care. There’s this lingering feeling of nausea from the great indifference of life and the tomorrows shrouded in smoke and mystery and immediacy. You never had a teacher who cared. You were always able to raise hell and won over everyone by making the teacher cry or quit or make a scene. Then you enter the 10th grade and meet your English teacher who seems like a complete asshole. He’s mean and calls people out and publicly roasts them. You laugh. Oh no, he’s looking at you, but you weren’t paying attention. You hate him for putting you on blast, but he helps you through the problem while making fun of you. You hate him. You think you hate him. The next day he makes you do something called “Deconstructing the Learning Objective” where you have to break down this sentence and explain what exactly the class is supposed to learn that day. Oh shit - you knew exactly the purpose of the exercise and you deconstructed the learning objective correctly. He asked the class to give you a round of applause - you hate him; you think you hate him. Oh shit - he noticed you laughing at his jokes and because of that he brings you into the lesson -- this time you know exactly what he’s talking about. How the fuck did that happen? You answer the question correctly; he thanks you but still proceeds to roast you in front of the class. He’s funny - do you really hate him? Yes. You are failing four out of six classes, which is a miracle because this time last year you weren’t passing any. Your dad calls you a useless piece of shit almost everyday and that’s the most attention you get from him at any point. All your mom does is cook and clean; you’re never hungry but never emotionally satisfied either. You lock yourself in your room and play video games and become bored. You flick through your phone and become bored. You chat on social media and become bored. You can’t stand this life. The purgatory of adolescence. With nothing left to do, your eye starts drifting toward your backpack where that asshole’s homework assignment is. You realize but don’t want to admit that the story we were reading in class was actually pretty good -- what the hell is she going to do with that coat? You take out the story and are enthralled by what happened. You laugh out loud then catch yourself laughing out loud and hate that you let yourself laugh out loud, from something that came from school, from someone who’s an asshole. You can’t explain it, but the next day you are actually looking forward to English class. You deconstruct the learning objective before that fat fuck calls on you. Before you even realize, you’re raising your hand when he asks for a volunteer to deconstruct the learning objective, but he doesn’t call on you (asshole). “The fur coat is a symbol of her sensuality and her infidelity,” you explained. Where the hell did that come from? Your fat, ugly, stupid teacher smiles and asks you to elaborate. “Well, in the beginning of the story, she described her husband in such platonic terms in contrast to her lover later. It is a symbol of infidelity because she cheated on her husband and a symbol of sensuality because the reason she was cheating was because she was missing that aspect of her life that only her lover could fulfill.” Your teacher called you brilliant. YOU! brilliant. Your dad calls you a piece of shit and your teacher calls you brilliant. You ignore this comment (compliment), but smile in secret. Then Sheyla and Kevin begin rambling on about something called commodity fetishism or some bullshit like that and you see how happy your fat, ugly teacher gets and you hate them, and you shut up for the rest of the period. What’s the point of all this? You wonder why you participated--you never participate!. Why did you start now? The bell rings. You begin packing up -- somewhat sullen, entirely irate, perplexed, perplexed about being perplexed. Then. As you begin walking toward the door you hear your teacher shout out “Hey, Junior! Can you come here for a second?” What the hell does he want? What the hell did you do? This is probably the only time in your life when you’ve never actually antagonized your teacher; when you were trying not to be a fuck up; when you were making an honest attempt at being some semblance of a decent student, a decent human being--so why does he want to talk to you? “I was doing a gradebook check and noticed that you’re failing most of your classes. Can you explain what’s going on because from my experience I know you’re an incredibly intelligent kid, which is why this confuses me. You’re better than this.” Why the hell does he keep calling you smart when you know you’re a piece of shit. “I don’t know--schools not really my thing. And besides, this is way better than I did last year.” He yells at you. There you go, now that’s more like it. You can’t count on anyone--you knew this but you lost sight of this--you thought there was a glimmer of hope that someone actually cared, that someone actually gave two flying fucks about you, that someone didn’t think you were a piece of shit. Then, he roasts you and you laugh and you hate that you laughed in front of him, so you leave without letting him have the last word, and you think you’re satisfied. “Qué quieres comer mijo,” you don’t care and wished your mother would just ask about your day instead of what to cook. You’re not hungry and instead repeat the words your teacher said over and over in your head “you’re better than this” where did he get that impression from? You hear the slam of the door and you know your father is home, so you slam the door to your room and cry and scream into your pillow. With every inhalation, you descend further into the hell of ennui and being, so instead you exchange them for long bouts of exhalations that you believe will expurgate your demons. You pass out and enjoy that wonderful aperitif to death--sleep. The next day, you almost get suspended. You like the feeling of making people laugh because you think it means that they like you. So, when your physics teacher, Mr. Botros, asked you to fill up his water bottle and instead of clean, filtered water from the office you go to the bathroom and fill it up with toilet water, you get all the laughs you were looking for and become a legend. The principal explains to your mother that this is a suspendable offense. She cries into her palms and you feel nothing. She explains to your principal that she’s lost control of you and she doesn’t know who you are or what you’ve become. She explains how she loves you and feeds you and clothes you. You hardly know this woman; she is more that clandestine roommate that only appears in the kitchen for meals than she has ever been a parental figure. Then, that stupid, fat fucking teacher appears in the meeting without warrant and begins sticking his crooked nose into places it doesn’t belong. “I heard what happened and I’m just as disappointed as everyone else is…” Great. Add insult to injury--asshole! Why not extend the suspension to expulsion at this point? You hate him and you hate this fucking school. “...but I don’t want you to suspend Junior. That’ll go on his permanent record and it’ll be harder for him to get into college…” College? This boy is crazy if he thinks you’re going to college--fuck, you can barely make it through high school. “Instead, I have a proposition. Junior is failing most of his classes and is acting out. Let him serve an indefinite detention with me so I can help him get his grades up.” Ahhhhh, heeeeeeeell no! This great well of fury mounted in you and all you wanted to do was punch him in his fat face. You’d rather be expelled than serve detention with him. Romo agrees and your mother thanks your English teacher for intervening. At home, your father yells at you and throws stuff around while your mother sobs defenseless and useless into her apron. You don’t so much stand defiant, as you do completely numb to it all. Whenever your father succumbs to violent paroxysms of anger and hate toward you, you’ve learned to disassociate yourself from that situation and drift away into some pleasant fold of oblivion. He took away your phone and video games, so you have nothing to do. Your mind meanders around dark corridors and through torrential thoughts that drench your spirit, making it saturated and heavy. You stare at the ceiling because there is nothing left to do, but the more you do that the more your hate foments, and all you want to do is punch your father and your fat, stupid, ugly teacher in their face. You throw your backpack across the room and the book we’re supposed to read in English class comes flying out. You ignore it. But then, having nothing left to do, you contumaciously pick it up and begin reading it. You’re enthralled and forget that you’re angry at your father, angry at your teacher, angry at the world. The next day, you say nothing to your teacher and nothing in class. You knew every answer because not only did you read the assigned pages, but you finished the whole book. But you would never let anyone know--let alone him. You’re supposed to have lunchtime detention with him, but you ignore the terms of the agreement and eat with your “friends” in the lunchroom instead. No way he’s going to give up his lunch to babysit you! But there he is, in the lunchroom, surveying every student in search of you. Shit, he found you and begins yelling voraciously. You seem to have that effect on people. But as we start walking back to his class, he starts cracking jokes and roasting you. This boy must be bipolar. You laugh, but don’t hate yourself for laughing, and are confused about why you don’t hate yourself for laughing. Each day he helps you with your classes by yelling at you and cracking jokes and roasting you. You’re confused by why he’s wasting so much time and energy on a piece of shit like you--he must be a loser. You ask him to stop yelling at you so much, and he is genuinely surprised by the statement. “Honestly, I didn’t realize I was even yelling. That’s just how we tawk in NY,” and you laugh and you roast him-- the Ocki way. You come during lunch to get your grades up while he stuffs his fat face with food that he never offers you any of; instead, he asks you about yourself, about your family and friends, and for some reason you don’t feel hungry. You tell him about your pugnacious father whose favorite pastime is yelling at everyone and anyone at any given moment, and your provincial mother whose idea of maternity is cooking and cleaning. He, opens up about his parents and the kind of life he grew up in and hearing his story you realize that your life isn’t as bad in comparison. You begin wondering whether you really hate him anymore, but don’t let yourself let go of that hate entirely because from your experience you cannot count on anyone. In the blink of an eye, the semester is over and you have all As for the first time in your life and you feel good about yourself and about being in school. Your English teacher tells you how proud he is of you and keeps calling you brilliant. A strange feeling of joy and gratitude washes over you but you do not let yourself show or enjoy it. Academic success, someone being proud of you, joy and gratitude--all these things were not only novel but entirely alien to you before Mr. K intervened that fine day when you became a legend at school. That day, you left school feeling good about yourself for once. You walked home slowly, noticing for the first time just how beautiful the marina where your school is, enjoying the soft breeze and radiant sun blowing kisses to you, the sweet smell of grilled meats from the taqueria by your bloq, and the sounds of cars drifting across concrete pavement around the bend. That day--something changed in you. The tectonic plates of your soul had caused an ontological shift in you and you no longer felt angry and full of hate. The next day you are excited for school, excited for English class, but are not confused or ashamed about it. You go to Mr. K’s for lunch as per usual, and he tells you that you are no longer required to stay with him because you have straight As, and that he’s proud of you, but you don’t want his pride, just his support. You feel a slam of the door and in turn you slam the door as you stomp out his room with clenched fists, ears burning as the blood surmounted your head, and a heart full of rage. You stew in the lunchroom with “friends” who claim that they’re glad to have you back, but not once ever reached out to you whenever you needed them for support. All of a sudden, you look at them and they are different--other--residing in that space and time when getting laughs and failing classes were top priorities. They say horrible things about Mr. K, egging you to join in and share stories about what an asshole he is--but you have nothing. You understand that you’re angry not because Mr. K will no longer support you but because you finally realize that you don’t hate him--you know you don’t hate him--and feel uncomfortable and perturbed by this newfound knowledge and disposition because never in your life did you assume that you’d like school, let alone a teacher. “Oh shit, it’s K” all your friends put their heads down in fear and the hope that Mr. K would not notice us. He marched toward you berating you in front of your friends who tell him to chill and stop yelling to which you turn to them and say “He’s not yelling, that’s just how they talk in NY.” --