The Bridge Within II

Throughout my high school years my academic performance devolved. I had enrolled in my high school's trade program for the culinary arts my junior year. Cooking was a huge passion of mine another way I had learned to express myself, explore the world’s cultures and champion a cause. Through my punk rock informed politics I had discovered veganism and now, not only had I become a militant animal rights activist, but I had also been pushed into new and uncharted corners of the food world. My parents had urged me to seek out the trade program in hopes that it would be a road to better align me with a more compatible learning path, however, my depression and overall feelings of hopelessness around the rest of my academic life were still slowly sinking. By the middle of my junior year I was flunking out of all of my academic classes and had no choice but to withdraw from culinary school. I dropped out of traditional high school altogether and signed up for computer based adult learning classes aimed at bridging me into an alternative high school program.

Deb MacDonald, my former principal at Nile's the alternative high school I chose to enroll in, describes Nile's population,

"I’ve always had the pleasure of working with young people who choose to follow the non-traditional path through high school. For so many young people, high school can be perceived as a waste of time. That can be due to so many other issues that they are dealing with in their personal life and going to school is not their priority. For them, it’s a waste of time, yet they know/feel it has to be done.

All have different reasons or are in the middle of situations that are too over-whelming to deal with while going into a traditional high school- 6 classes/ 60 minutes each/ 30 other students and 1 teacher. No one to seek out for even a minute or two of side conversation on the bad days. They slowly disconnect. This leads to the behaviors that help them cope- skipping, sleeping, drugs, acting out.

I believe that if I were to select the greatest commonality, it would be lack of feeling heard or understood."

Niles Community High School serves a wide array of kids with differing circumstances all of whom have fallen out of line with the traditional high school format, a narrative through which many of us shared a common thread.

Deb MacDonald goes on to elaborate on many of the common issues her former students have faced reflecting on basic needs.

"Lack of a stable home life. Fearful of not being understood. Overwhelming pressure to keep up, be the best, living up to everyone else’s expectations. I believe that as time goes on and the unique differences in people become better understood we may begin to see quicker interventions and support.

Self confidence and appropriate expression of feelings are huge deficits within the at-risk population. They don’t know where to go, who to seek out when their world is upside down. This is when they will seek out temporary self destructive coping methods.

Self confidence would be the ingredient. By the time most reach my door, the confidence is gone."

Niles Community High School was situated at the back end of a building owned by the Troy School District that housed its GED, ESL, and computer based adult learning programs. At the time it boasted a 7 classroom L shaped hallway with a gymnasium and computer lab. Entering Niles for me was a different world, a drastic contrast of cultural and economic classes clashed in an interesting milieu of adverse backgrounds. In some ways we were all alike: misfits, troublemakers, discarded youth who, in some shape or form, had been left with the ultimatum to finish high school or... good luck. My first day of class I settled down into my front row seat of 1st period literature. With my tag along copy of Friederich Nietzsche’s “Beyond Good and Evil” in tow. I proudly displayed it in front of me on the desk. For me my books were not only a conversation piece but a flag I flew. A way I chose to show who I was, what I thought I was about and ultimately to hide my inability to be completely honest with my pain through the facade of intellectualism. There was however a truth to this book, one that foreshadowed a breakthrough I wouldn't see for sometime still. While I could not wrangle my distracted wound up mind into focusing on more than three pages of the book without seemingly having to reread them again to understand and remember what they said. The passage “Whatever is done for love is always beyond good and evil,” stuck with me and it became a sort of mantra of truth and alignment that I began tempering my life to slowly. Yet, however noble this mantra may have been it did not negate the struggles I soon found myself butting up against. As passionate and fiercely opinionated as I was, the fervent anger through which my fierce political beliefs had grown out of, had one weakness. My often brittle attitude and extreme points of view, while with good intention, left exposed a painful truth, and often, I would find my extreme sensitivity at odds and in reaction with the harsh personalities, traumas and ways of being others brought to the table at our little school. The lack of regard for respect of my female classmates was one thing I could not tolerate. I found myself seething with contempt and what I understand now to be known as “triggered.” The emotional pain I felt from witnessing this blatant disrespect, whether verbal or physical, rattled something deep within me. It was almost subconscious and my intolerance for it quickly began interfering with my ability to complete my schoolwork in the classroom much in the way my ticks had when I was younger.

It was finally my senior year and my hopes for graduating appeared slim. School had begun to become a sort of treading water through a mish mash of semesters, my mediocre performance was slowly being sucked into a pit of depression. The summer before had been hard with emotional ups and downs and I found myself slowly withdrawing as my depression pulled me inward, I felt lowly, devoid of feeling, sunken in pain and desperate. As the year pressed in to fall and then winter my emotional state saw me becoming more and more recluse and isolated. I had known several friends who had used cutting to deal with there pain and in my desperate state I decided to see what it would do. My experience was less than helpful and only confused me more. Later that week tired, lonely and numb, feeling as though I wanted to crawl out of my skin I was messing around again with a kitchen knife but this time things went to far. I ended up in the ER and then was transferred to a psych unit across town where I stayed for 5 days. The experience was sobering to say the least. The amount of pain and suffering I found myself around was unbelievable, from kids much younger than me and the crass attitudes and behavior of many of the care personnel in the psychiatric unit had me alert and in a state of self-hood that I had not commanded before, polite but not afraid to speak my mind. I later would see the experience as a relief, not only sobering but a reset away from the enormous weight of a home environment that did anything but ignite the life inside of me. I remember coming home from school the day after I got out, going to my room putting on the angriest album I had, laying down on my bed and crying. It was the deepest emotional release I had had in a long time. I sat on my floor kissed my wounds, held myself, and vowed I would never hurt me again.

Although it was my first senior year and I would not graduate just yet, the spring and summer found me in a much different light. Memorial Day weekend my friend Sami and I would hop a Greyhound bus to Baltimore to a concert festival; Maryland Deathfest, a weekend long Grindcore, Death Metal and Noise music festival. We had little to no money aside from the Greyhound tickets and festival admission. This was my test to see how I would fare living on the street and I was more than confident I would pass. At the festival we met a slew of different punk kids from all over the US and Canada, bands I had been following forever and a precarious group of homeless train riders who perched outside the club. Having panhandled enough money for one or two bracelets to the festival they would each take turns slipping them on and off and going into catch a set. The night after we arrived Sami and I ventured back to the Greyhound station pulled our gear and food we brought out of the locker we had rented and found a quiet spot between a hedgerow and fence line meandering along a walking path that snaked behind the station. The next day was Sunday and we would have all day to catch glimpses of more music and walk around before we had to catch our bus back to Detroit that night. In the morning we awoke to the sound of traffic from the highway nearby and the hot morning sun creeping over the buildings to beat down on us. The Grey hound station was alive and I watched through the chain link fence from my sleeping bag as a homeless man on his bicycle rode by on the walking path eyeing me and Sami in our sleeping spot. We got up, Sami had not brought a sleeping bag so I had lent him my bag liner as a sheet for the night. He was covered in wood chips, I brushed him off. Back to the locker we went, depositing our sleep stuff and pulling out a few cans of soup. We ate and than sauntered our way back towards downtown. Passing the Orioles stadium and walking through a neighborhood of row houses before reaching the harbor. As we were walking through the harbor a man panhandling caught our attention. We told him we didn't have any money, he proceeded to ask where we were from and what we were doing in town. We told him we were in town for the metal festival, he insisted on showing us around the downtown area. Still having ample time before the show started again we obliged. He told us he was a heroin addict and had been, off and on, for years. His girlfriend, he said, was a Baltimore Public Schools teacher. He elaborated further on how horribly pervasive the heroin problem in Baltimore was. Then taking us by an old German Gothic style church he began pointing out different symbolism and telling us about there historical significance in contrast to the church. A maypole in the courtyard and its pagan origins, and several other symbols he said had been taken and used by the Nazis. It was all very interesting but time was closing and we decided to part ways. The festival was close to starting and we still had several blocks to walk before we got to the venue. When we arrived the show had begun, we had a blast. I had bought a disposable camera and took an array of different photos; the crowd outside, the bands, a stray puddle in the shape of a heart and as the evening descended the fading sunlight in the sky from behind the buildings

. My energy had waned much sooner than the day before. By noon I was hungry again and Sami and I ventured our way through the city to find a Subway. We made our way through the streets finally landing in an area near the city buildings and Mayor's office. By the looks of the surrounding businesses it appeared to be the red light district as well. We went in and got some subs, ate and headed back to the festival. I saw one of my favorite bands of the time play and picked up some merch. Evening was falling and although the festival was still roaring it was time to go. We headed back through the mostly abandoned streets, empty, with lingerings signs of Memorial Day tourism. Arriving at the Greyhound Station we caught our bus and slept through the night to the morning, albeit a few transfers.

Upon arriving back to Detroit I was floored. I had done it! On a whim, for a weekend, I had tested an ounce of what I had been planning for the past two years, and little did I know, that summer, I would turn my dream into a reality.

June came and I was rife with anticipation, having bought a radio scanner I quickly navigated my way around its programming and dialed in all the American Association of Railroad Frequencies. For the next few weeks I would ride my bike to the train yard in Pontiac Michigan to listen, practice and see what chatter I could pick up. My plans for leaving slowly began to solidify. My friend Samantha offered to take a day and drive me up to Lansing Michigan, where I had heard on an internet forum for train riders, that you could catch a bus to Battle Creek Michigan for about $10’s. There in the looming shadows of the Post and Kellogs factories I would catch my train west to Chicago.