My education experience thus far has been horrendous. In all honesty I, in no way, shape, or form, wanted to be attending school again. The entirety of my school career so far has been nothing but stressful and full of memories I care not to relive. School was decent until about 3^rd grade, so you can imagine why most of my memories aren’t pleasant. The real nightmare was high school. I was that incredibly weird girl, Goth, heavy eyeliner and sat in the back of the class, pale as a ghost, refusing to say a word even when called on.  After a while I just skipped class all together or if I did attend I slept through the entire blessed event and just moved from class to class like some kind of zombie woken from the dead. Amidst severe social anxiety which crippled my ability to participate in most student activities, I was unimpressed with my teachers and guidance counselor’s inability to help me. This eventually led me to give up on the institution of school completely, determined to boycott society’s need for a formal education and eventually dropped out. I got a job and later enrolled in Job Corps to attain my GED. This 17^th year of my life would prove to be a tumultuous one. The only shining moment I can remember from school is one English teacher, who inspired me more than I would realize for the next eight years.

I’ve always been the type of person who had no problem speaking their mind if I felt strongly enough about something. All through my high school career I never had a passion for much- except writing. I always loved being able to express myself through written word. The first person who ever noticed me as being anything other than a delinquent was my sophomore English teacher, Mr. Barlow. He was a tall, lanky man with a down-to-earth perspective of total acceptance and always supported our creative freedom. I had made it poignantly clear to anyone that tried to know me that I was on a mission of solitude and not to be disturbed. Mr. Barlow saw right through this facade. “Wake up, Rebecca. Class is over. Let’s have a chat,” Mr. Barlow said as he called me to the front on this particularly dreary Thursday afternoon.

I groaned as I grabbed my backpack, slinging it over one shoulder and nearly buckling under the weight. I proceeded to the front of the class as everyone else left, snickering as they noticed once again “that girl” was being called to the front for sleeping through yet another class. It turns out Mr. Barlow was offering me a chance to raise my grade with some extra credit. Boy, did I need it. “I’ve noticed you’re having a tough time. Tough times usually make for a good read. Write out your life story and I will grade you on it,” Mr. Barlow said as he assured me, as many people had before, “life does get better, just keep on keepin’ on.” Not wanting to appear too hopeful, I rolled my eyes and left the room but that thought stuck with me, “life does get better.” Something about the way he had said it, so normal, so human; I hadn’t believed teachers were human. I suppose I figured them for some kind of alien species sent to us from another planet, led here to destroy our lives, or perhaps some kind of robotic race programmed to do away with all teenagers or die trying. This teacher was different though, he gave off this vibe of hope. In a world that had done nothing but bring me down so far, hope was a foreign concept. Little did I know over the next couple years I would rely on this new state of mind to get me through some incredibly hard days (and especially nights) during my journey across 39 states.

Somewhere between New Orleans, Louisiana and Beaverton, Oregon I had a moment of clarity where I realized that nothing was as it had seemed when growing up. I began to see the world for what it really was and it wasn’t the pretty picture I had once dreamt of as a child. This existence really was just as big a letdown as I’d always come to know, but in way, this was unbelievably comforting to find out. Much of my 17^th year was spent riding the Greyhound. As I sat, staring out the window at the ghost town that was Beaverton, a fellow traveler approached me. She was mid 40’s, graying curly locks and a distinctively pungent aroma of old lady perfume, “Mind if I sit here?” she asked. I shook my head and moved my now tearing messenger bag from her seat. “You can’t be older than 16. Who are you riding with?”

“No one. I’m on my own. And I’m 17,” I stated in a matter of fact way.

“Awful young to be all alone. You must miss your family,” she said in a way that made me think of how much I really did miss my family.

“No, I’m fine. Just doing some traveling. Back to my music now,” I said, putting on my usual I can take care of myself front. I turned my music up louder to drown out any further questioning. She set her bag in her seat and exited the bus. I pulled out my notebook and made note of Beaverton: Subway, gas station, gift shop full of items that all contained some kind of beaver emblem stamped on them, and some of the worst cooking I’d smelled in miles but at this point I would have eaten anything. The woman was gone for a few minutes only to return with two sandwiches and two waters. Handing me one of each, I assured her I was fine and she insisted. I proceeded to devour the entire thing and drain half my water, knowing I should save the other half because it was going to be a long bus ride. After two and half days I’d finally had food again and my stomach didn’t feel like it was preparing to digest itself--this woman was a godsend.

My traveling went on for months, bouncing from one place to the next. Arriving at one place only for some family member to tell me they were sorry but rooms were full and sending me back in a different direction. Somewhere around Denver, Colorado I conceded with the masses, I need to write a book or something because this was getting ridiculous. Alas, it was just a passing thought but, nevertheless, one that stuck.

“We’re going to be making a stop, there’s some folks who missed the bus. This could take a few minutes so please remain seated and do not leave the bus as we are on a busy road,” announced the driver over the intercom as he proceeded to exit the bus and assist the two passengers in loading their bikes in to the compartment below. Peering out the window I could see the driver reciting the “rights and responsibilities” of Greyhound customers to the newcomers. I sat looking out the window praying--to whatever Gods may be listening at that moment--for the two, what appeared to be incredibly smelly and disheveled, bikers to please pick another seat and not the two that happened to be right next to me amid a half empty bus; and would you know it, they both sat right next to me. Who knew that it would take being 2,267 miles from home to begin to have some inclination as to what I was meant to do with my life.  

            “Mind if we sit here?” asked the older biker, who did indeed smell terribly. I suppose riding miles in the hot sun through a mountain didn’t do anything for you but contribute to a certain malodor. I would later find out he had ridden from Idaho so his funk was to be expected.

            “Nope.” I said, trying not to smirk at the ridiculousness of the pair’s biking shorts with matching shirts. It turned out they were father and son and they had come from Los Angeles. They took a plane to Idaho and were trying to bike all the way to Denver to meet family. As I talked to the man I realized he really wasn’t so bad. He told me his story and how he was an avid bicyclist and a journalist and I told him my story in return which, needless to say, left his jaw on the floor.

            “You need to become a writer. Write a book--do you write?” he asked, looking at me stunned, as if I had just shot him in the foot.

            I chuckled, “Yes I write, quite a bit now, actually. Being on the road so much even for just a few months has brought me so many new experiences, I try to make a mental note of each place so I don’t lose track of them all in my mind.” He asked if he could read any of my writing and I said he could. After perusing a few pages, he slammed the book shut, I thought for sure he must think it terrible and was about to tell me to never mind his last statement.

            “..L.A. Times. I work for the L.A. Times and this is some of the best writing I’ve seen, especially from someone of your age. I really think you should pursue this as a career,” he told me. “Look me up, I’ve written books and write a segment at The Times. When you’re ready someday you give us a call.” He wrote down a name and office number. Stan Waldorn it read.