I'm gonna live forever
I'm gonna learn how to fly
I'm gonna make it to heaven
Baby remember my name

Starting in seventh grade, I went to a performing arts school. I was excited because I just knew it was going to be like Fame. And it was like Fame if "like" means "a totally bootleg version of". You see, not only was the school not in a cool city like NYC, it was in the deep south. So picture the southern version of Fame. And there weren't hundreds of cool students. There were TWO hundred students, from grades seven to twelve - so about 30 students per grade. Now we have the southern, miniature version of Fame. Do you see how UNcool this is becoming? We went to school in a warehouse, literally. The classroom walls were more like cubicle walls because they didn't go all the way to the ceiling. As you can imagine, there could be no loud talking in the building because you'd disturb everyone else. Needless to say, having class during a thunderstorm was an exercise in futility.

There were a number of “unique” people but they weren’t cool or witty or zany like on TV. They were just weird. There was the non-gay guy who insisted on wearing skirts, and I don’t mean kilts either. There was a set of gay twins. One majored in writing and the other in dance and that one insisted on wearing leg warmers ALL THE TIME. Of course, there were the obligatory cliques. With only 200 students, you would have thought everyone would have gotten along, at least with the people in your grade. There were the commuters vs. the boarders (students who weren’t from the area lived at the schools in a “dorm”). Then the dancers thought their major was more difficult than everyone else’s. Then there was always beef amongst the dancers for the coveted Nutcracker parts. It was a weird little world. I asked my parents to send me to public school but they said I quit too many things and made me stay for the rest of junior high.

All the students went to their arts class for third period, which lasted close to two hours. Everyone called the teachers by their first names. Well, everyone except me. I couldn’t wrap my head around calling adults by their first names, no matter what anyone else did. Being a bit of an introvert, I never said much during arts class. Here I am 11 years old – by far the youngest in the class (and the school) and you want ME to critique some 17 year old’s writing? I think not. Eventually our teacher took notice of the fact that I never said anything and enacted a requirement that everyone make at least two comments during each class period. The first day of the new rule, I was nervous when he asked what I thought of the poem that had just been read. I was trying to think of something, anything even reasonably intelligent to say…but I couldn’t! I figured asking a question would get me off the hook. So after much contemplation, I asked - Can you clarify what you meant when you said “I tasted your breath”? The class burst into laughter then there was an awkward pause when they realized I was serious. Finally some kind soul explained it meant that the two people had kissed. I was mortified – my naiveté was evident for all to see. Those were an interesting three years. It was okay toward the end but, boy, that first year was a doozy.