School was a terrible experience for me, at least up until 11th grade. The only good time I had in grade school was Art class. The art teacher inspired me to keep drawing and making creative pieces of work, especially when I and others thought I wasn't that good. The Music teacher, Mrs. Hammond(sp?) was a hack and I’d be happy to let her know this. The Music class consisted of musical conspiracies (like those involving the Beatles) and music projects making no sense (Music Mobiles.) At one point she asked me for some songs by Elvis Presley (since I was very much into Elvis due to my father being into Elvis) so I gave her a list of Elvis songs. Once I gave her these songs (which were to help people with their mobiles) she told me she'd never heard any of the songs, and refused my help.
Grade school in many other classes were equally as frustrating. I committed my first act of stealing (that I remember) in Kindergarten. Every time we got to play in that class, every boy would go to the little box of racecars, and pick out the coolest looking one of them all. He who had that car was the cool kid at that particular play time. I never got to play with it, I was always too slow to the box (fact: I was skinny in Kindergarten. My getting fat was because of my father around 2nd grade by bribing me with pizza to not tell my mother he was dating her sister.) So on the last day of school, after we'd had our play time, I went back into the racecar box, took that little Red, sparkly car with the number "8" painted on it, and shoved it into my pencil box.
In Third Grade I had Mrs. Jacka (sp), and she insisted I was a horrible child. Kid-like fun and innocence was not tolerated by her, so every time I (and other friends of mine) were "caught" acting like a child, we would be yelled at. She was the first teacher to every call my parent at home, and the first to be brought in to talk to the teacher in person. Fourth Grade was worse with Mrs. Kirchman, a lazy-eyed moron who had the same principals as Jacka. Unfortunately for her, and perhaps me, I’d stopped caring about school/teacher's authorities over the student. I openly talked back to her, and scoffed at her attempts to censor my speech and humour. Again, parents were brought into the situation, but my mother wouldn't take her seriously because she was constantly calling home just to complain about how much of a "deviant" I was, with no ground in which to base the claims on.
Middle School was fairly horrible. In fifth grade I started taking after my father, and in the worst way humanly possible. After something I'll touch on later, I started gaining mistrust in women, and instead grew an incredibly chauvinistic viewpoint of life. This included treating all women as lower than I (be them family, friends, teachers, girls at school, etc.) and this persisted for almost until my presence in High school. One girl in particular got the worst of my horrible behavior, with me constantly harassing her and saying sexually derogatory things about her and her bum. In the later years to come, she and I would patch things up in one of my moments of acceptance. (Note: Every year or two I have a moment of acceptance. This is simply me realizing that in order for me to be a better person; I have to stop doing one thing in particular, and make amends with all of those I hurt in the past because of my actions.)
One thing good did happen in Middle school though, and this continued into High school. English. I was first given my taste of creative freedom in 6th or 7th grade under Mrs. Buri. She thought very highly of my writing style and presentation, and pushed me to continue being and doing what it was I did with a pen and paper. It was in her class I won a poem writing contest, and another small contest in which I can't remember the details. Once in 8th grade, it was time for me to have Mrs. Haak, who I’d previously had in 5th grade. She hated the fact that I could write an amazing book report or paper without a rough draft. And she often told me that in higher grades and college rough drafts wouldn’t be needed; she often contradicted this praise by penalizing me for the lack of one, though she accepted I, myself, didn't truly need one.
This was the second year since 5th grade I also met Mr. Scofill (sp.) He and I often bickered about my problem with "Conventions", and to this day I still have no idea what that means, simply because I haven't heard about such problems since 9th grade. I assume with age, my creative writing ability also evolved into something greater.
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