I was born on April Fool's Day, 1982, in the Royal Victoria Hospital of Barrie, Ontario... and it's been all downhill from there.
Born second by order and quiet by nature, I had a fairly uneventful childhood. My sister Erin, a year and a half older than me, drew my parents' attention like a sharp metal pole draws lightning, which suited me just fine: I was a voracious reader, and a lover of Lego (but only the castle and pirate sets). Between the two, I lived quite happily in my own head, using my Lego sets to act out stories based partly on my own imagining, and partly on the novels I read. In my world, Boromir was a red-haired Viking dragonrider, which made perfect sense to me at the time.
I grew up gradually, as most children do. I attended Codrington Public School, delivered newspapers, waged bitter childhood wars against the other girls on my street, and took piano lessons from one of my Dad's patients. In grade 6, someone decided I was gifted, and off I went to a special program at Prince of Wales Public School, in downtown Barrie. This was tremendously exciting, for two reasons: first, the playground had a foot hockey area between the main building and the gym, and a handball/redass wall so high you couldn't throw the ball onto the roof even if you wanted to; and second, the "creative learning" approach of our classroom exposed me to the wonderful world of Wolfenstein 3D, which someone had smuggled onto one of the computers in the cloakroom. The secret pleasure of slaughtering Nazis came to an end when some idiot turned the volume up loud enough for the teacher to hear, but I had tasted of the forbidden fruit by then, and seen that it was good.
Grades 7 and 8 were by far the best of my life. I was in Mr. Holmes's class, which wasn't so much as classroom as it was an idealized version of a cool friend's basement rec room: big ugly/comfy couches, computers, and art prints filled the room, and you had to look twice to see the neglected blackboard and our small desks. I don't think I touched a textbook during the two years I was there, yet I learned an amazing amount:
1. You can catch more fish with dynamite than with bait.
2. In July of 1640, the Treasure Fleet was in Havana. No, wait, San Juan. Or was it still in Cartagena? Shit, better ask the governor's daughter again.
3. "How appropriate. You fight like a cow."
4. The hypotenuse is the longest side of a triangle, but it may or may not exist.
5. Die fluger trumped die woozel. Who trumped die woozel? Why, die fluger, of course. Question answered.
There was much more, of course - Peer Gynt, Barry Lyndon, Ivanhoe, Yugoslavia, stopping at Dairy Queen on the way back from a field trip so Mr. Holmes could buy an ice cream cone for everyone in the class - but what meant the most to me during those two years were Friday afternoons. Mr. Holmes would sit on the big couch, and we, his precocious charges, would gather around: on the floor, on chairs, on the couch beside him. And he would speak, and we would listen.
The topic varied, from week to week; the official name of that lecture period was "Hockey, Sex, and Sudbury," but he talked about much more than that. The moral implications of pithing turtles were imparted to us; we heard letters from his brother-in-law, a peacekeeper in Bosnia, about the horrors and the hopes there; he spoke of the forests of northern Ontario, 100 yards deep beside the highways, but clearcut where no-one could see. Mr. Holmes was our Colonel Dubois, our instructor in the ethics and the philosophy and the uncertainty of being human. He made me want to be a teacher. More importantly, he made me want to think, and to learn, and to question.
After Mr. Holmes's class came high school, and my slow descent into apathy and computer gaming obsession. I played Quake until 3am, argued with my parents, got into a long-distance relationship with a 19 year old from California, and generally made an ass of myself. Went to university, got arrested, dropped out, lied to my parents, admitted my guilt when they confronted me, then went to college the next year promising to do better. Which I did. For two months. Then I got my computer back as a reward, and the use of my Mom's car to get to and from school. At first, I just went home between classes to play, but I quickly realized that I could save a step - and get more gaming time - if I just didn't go to class at all.
More lying, more inevitable discovery, and this time, my parents didn't buy my bullshit: out I went. Got a shit job, found a shit basement bedroom to rent, and realized that I could play all the games I wanted since nobody gave a shit anymore. Sweet!
Except, it wasn't, really. It took me a while to realize that, but I eventually clued into the fact that Tim Hortons was not a good place to spend the rest of my working days. Made my peace with my parents, came home, applied to university again, and by the grace of whatever gods may be, I got accepted. I'm half-convinced it was a clerical error, especially after my first appointment with the program co-ordinator to discuss course selection: he asked me to tell a bit about myself, I complied, then after a pause, he asked "So... why did we accept you, exactly?"
Fuck if I know, Fred. All I know is, I'm 24 years old now, in the first year of post-secondary education for the third time in my life, and I'm going to complete a double English/Sociology major or die trying. And after that, I'm leaning towards a Master's degree, then sociological research and writing. Look for my novel on fast food unionization in your local bookstore in, say, 5 years.
Maybe 10 if I go into teaching.
Maybe never if I fuck up again.
But I won't.