The American Drop Out

It was the third week of my junior year of high school in South Florida. The intense summer heat and the sun beat against the windows in my first-period Marine Biology class. Sweat slithered down my spine as the teacher droned on about blue whale anatomy. But this sweat was not conjured by the melting August day outside. This sweat was pure anxiety. I white-knuckled the edges of my desk, my heart racing as I tried to control my rapid breathing. The familiar black cloud of doom formed above my head as my eyes darted between the clock and the classroom door. As soon as the bell rang, I raced out the door and didn’t stop until I was at the nurse’s office.

My “not feeling well” excuse granted me the get-out-of-jail pass I had hoped for. As I waited on the concrete bench for my grandfather to pick me up from the car loop, a sudden summer storm gathered in the sky, and clarity settled over me. I wouldn’t return the next day or the day after that. I knew then that I wanted to drop out of high school. For the first time in two years, I felt the knots in my stomach loosen, my heart slow, and my breathing calm. 

Once safe behind the closed door of my home, the doom returned. This time, it wasn’t the dread of going to school. It was the uneasy feeling of knowing I would have to tell my mother I wanted to drop out of school. People in my family didn’t drop out of school. We were a working-class family that toed the line and did what society told us to do. Go to school. Get a job. There were no alternatives because alternatives were never part of our lives. There was one way to learn, and that was public school. We trusted those in power to know what was best for us and to take their assessments of our abilities to be true.

I shouldn’t have been a high school dropout. I loved to read and write. I was told from a young age I was bright and articulate. An old soul. I loved to learn and create. One summer, I even read every book in the children’s section of our small-town library. The librarian told me to move on to the adult section because she had nothing left for me. That’s when I fell in love with Stephen King and realized I wanted to be a writer. My favorite assignment in school was in second grade when we were asked to write a short story. I “borrowed” the plot of my favorite teen thriller, “Chain Letter,” by Christopher Pike. It brought me a visit the school psychologist.  Rather than feel ashamed or deterred, the whole experience only fueled my passion for storytelling.

But I hated school and was a dismal student. I did everything in my power from kindergarten to that fateful day in Marine Biology to get out of going to school. Stomach aches, headaches, phantom pains, made-up twisted ankles. I hated school because I was not very good at learning the stuff my teachers taught. I was terrible at math and always placed in the remedial groups. To my shock, I was never put in the higher-level reading groups, though I would inform my teachers of my voracious reading habits at home. I always forgot to do my homework or turn it in, and I found the school day extremely boring, and I wanted to crawl the walls from the tedium.

I wouldn’t learn I was considered gifted until I went to college. It may be hard to understand how a high school dropout went to college and earned five degrees - even more astounding, ending up as a teacher! Part of my anxiety about school was that I loved to learn, and as much as I wanted to be a writer, my desire to be a teacher was equal. My two favorite movies growing up were “Stand and Deliver” where Edwards James Olmos teaches poverty-stricken students calculus, and “Dead Poets Society” where teacher Robin Williams inspires a bunch of jaded prep boys through the power of poetry. I struggled to make sense of my love for all things learning, writing, and reading with my deep hatred and failures at school.

 I spent the whole day and night preparing my argument that I would present to my mother the next day on why I should be allowed to drop out of high school. I wrote my points down in the college rule spiral notebook that was intended to house my math class notes. Though my decision to drop out came quickly during Marine Biology class, it had been a long time coming. I had attended class only sixty days out of one hundred and eighty in my sophomore year (I still am not sure how I got promoted to being a junior). During my days spent sitting in my rocking chair, gazing out of the window on the days I stayed home from school that year, I began to think that there had to be a better way to reach my goals than the misery of school. The thoughts had not come organically to me but were inspired by a story my freshmen English teacher had told our class.

Ms. Giles had told our class early in the school year that she had dropped out of high school. The news was a shock because here she was, my English teacher. I knew that took years of college to achieve. High school dropouts were losers in my family (and in the community). They were poor students who didn’t care about learning or succeeding. Maybe they did drugs and were “bad” people, too. But Ms. Giles didn’t seem to be any of these things. She was bright and funny and really seemed to love the same things I did. She was the first one to implant the idea in my brain that some people dropped out of high school as a way to take charge of their learning. She confided in our class that she had dropped out because she knew it was not the right fit for her. Then, she went on to start college and became wildly successful. 

Her story was surprising at the beginning of my freshmen year, but it didn’t instantly click with me and my own situation. Years later, I would be diagnosed as clinically depressed, which was a major factor in my educational experiences. Depression can make it hard to see things clearly when you are in the middle of it. But as I stewed in my own misery, her story echoed in my thoughts. It would take nearly another year for me to build up the courage to drop out finally, but my argument was clear by then. I wanted to drop out so I could go to college. I’d get my GED, attend community college, and then transfer to a university. I would redeem my lackluster academic career and become the writer and teacher I had dreamed of being since I was a child. If Ms. Giles could drop out and do it, so could I.

In addition to Ms. Giles's story, her encouragement of my writing was also a key factor in my learning journey. She was the first teacher to tell me I had a writing talent and that she was impressed with my ability to tell a story. For ten years of school, not one teacher had ever told me I was good at anything, that I had a gift. Her words gave my dreams legitimacy, and I felt I could become the person I hoped to be. As much as we try to tell ourselves that other people’s opinions of us do not matter, we know they have incredible power over us deep down.

My decision to drop out came with the typical assumptions that most people make about dropouts. Was I on drugs? Had I gotten pregnant? Was I hanging out with the wrong crowd? Some in my community found it hard to believe that I wanted to drop out so I could go to college. I couldn’t defend my choices based on my depression at the time because I hadn’t been diagnosed yet. I was lucky that my mother and grandfather, the two most important people, supported my decision. But I also faced cruel gossip and speculation from others I called friends and family.

 The worst humiliation was the day I was required to return to my high school and have each of my teachers sign off on my “dropout” form. There was no alternative then, such as having it digitally signed. It was easy to sense my teachers' harsh, silent judgment of me just from their cold gaze as they reluctantly signed the document. I heard whispers from former classmates as I stood at the front of each class, waiting for what seemed a lifetime for each to add their signatures. Snickers filled the hallways as I slunk from class to class. No one offered compassion or kindness. Not one asked me if I was okay. The one that hurt the most was my chorus teacher, whom I admired. Instead of trying to understand, he joined in the gossip and ridicule with my peers. For years after I dropped out when I would run into a former classmate from the chorus, they would ask me if any of the gossips was true and if they had learned such lies from my chorus teacher.

Thanks to Ms. Giles’s bravery in sharing her story with our class, I found the courage to take charge of my own learning and forge my unique path to reach my goals. I went on to community college and excelled, earning a full scholarship to Florida International University. It wasn’t until one day during the final semester of my undergraduate degree that I realized the powerful impact of Ms. Giles St’s story and her encouragement of my writing. I had just returned home from attending a creative writing workshop at FIU. My writing professor for my creative writing workshop had left me a voicemail that I still remember, word for word, to this day.

Hi Sarah, I just finished reading your short story, and I wanted to give you a call and let you know how impressed I was. I think you’ve got it, kid. I’d like you to meet with me during my office hours to discuss your writing.

You’ve got it, kid. That one sentence from a bestselling, admired writer/author/professor was like being picked for the NFL draft. I realized I was shaking as I listened to his words. I must have replayed the message a thousand times. Ms. Giles’ words echoed in my mind as I processed that my professor thought I had what it took to be a writer. Me, the high school dropout.

Now, I am a professor, a writer, and a mother. I see that many paths of learning lead to our goals. I also know that being a high school dropout doesn’t mean you must fall into one of the stereotypical categories that society assumes. I also know the power of a teacher’s words and how important it is to empower and encourage our students. Empathy, compassion, and a willingness to support students go a long way to helping them reach their dreams.