As all of my family members and close friends know, my family moved to Nevada during my middle school years. Not only did we move to Nevada, but our family moved to Las Vegas. That's quite a difference from small, rural Dowagiac--a town that was only twice as big as my new high school's population. This is truly where my writing started to make a difference.
Upon my quest into the big city--which, even for a thirteen year old, was quite an experience, I rapidly discovered that my magnet high school would expect more from me than ye ole' Dowagiac High School. That's not to say that Dowagiac doesn't expect high standards from their students, but let's be real. While freshman year was about adjustment--schools, life, love, and public transportation (which is a story in itself), my writing spark gently, slowly started to ignite.
As Sophomore Year began, I was dealing with a lot. My much, much--old enough to be my father--older brother fell ill with diabetes--sugar, as he often refers to the illness. He was in and out of the hospital. Having not experienced the illness of a close loved one since before I knew what an illness truly consisted of, I was scared. There was no manly way to put it. It was pure fear. Unfortunately, the buck failed to stop there. Somehow, in my young, adolescent mind, I came to the deduction that my brother was going to die. Wow, that feels good to get off the chest. Dear reader, you are the first to know that's how I felt. I hid it from my mom, my dad (although being 2,000 miles away, it was not difficult), and definitely my brother. While my brother's health scare was enough to send me into an institution (not of higher learning, either), my self-diagnosed (but oh, so real) anxiety started to activate. Not only was I worried about my brother, but I started feeling severe feelings of being alone. I truly felt alone.
My first school years in Nevada did not go according to the grand plan I had. I planned on having a myriad of friends that would follow in my quest to learn all I could about Sin City. Anything but that occurred. The real story went a little more like real life. Coming from a school with a graduating class of 140 into a school with a graduating class of at least 750, I was in for quite a shock. For a great while, no one noticed me. When I say great while, I mean months--not days and weeks, but months! For a teenager with an ego (we all had them), eating lunch by yourself, walking home by yourself, and not going to school dances for fear of not being asked to dance, feels like the end of the world. Slowly, as fate would have it, things changed. I became quite popular in some circles. Oh, how some prayers should just go unanswered. Garth Brooks made a song about that, did he not? My classmates started noticing me. They quickly figured out that there was something different about "Michigan," as I was often called. Hell, I cannot even remember telling anyone where I was from right away. Who knows. Maybe I had an illuminating sign on my head that said "I'm from Michigan. We eat deer, squirrel, and some of us try to fish all year." In a nutshell, I was considered to be nothing like a true Vegan, Vegasite, Las Veganista, or Valley Boy (Las Vegas was dubbed "The Valley, after all).
Realizing that I had to get out of the funk that I had been in for quite some time, I started to write. Upon being placed in an advanced English class, I was forced to write. Now, I’m not one of those religious fanatics that can quote the chapter or the verse (another country song, is it not), but I am absolutely sure that my placement was some sort of divine intervention. After all, it was a last second decision that placed me in Mrs. McCoy’s classroom. Mrs. McCoy, a lady of mid-fifty, was all about teaching students how to better themselves through writing. Now, she was no Nancy Atwell, but she definitely incorporated various writing workshops into our class. Often, Mrs. McCoy would give the class a current event to write about. While writing about these events, she would often hold Socratic seminars to discuss how our writing was fairing. On days that the class had finished its writing, we were treated to a classroom discussion on the topic at hand. It was always nice to be able to hear the classroom’s stance on various issues stemming from marijuana usage to whether or not all schools should adopt block scheduling. That was the thing about Mrs. McCoy, she always made it a point to relate our writing back to applicable issues that we, as students, were experiencing. Though, we couldn’t spend the entire year talking about drug use and rappers, Mrs. McCoy ensured everything from The Crucible to Langston Hughes’ s poetry was enlightening and thought-provoking.
On a more personal level, Mrs. McCoy was there for her students. During a time in my life where there were few places that I felt completely safe, Mrs. McCoy’s classroom always remained a safe haven. In the process of aiding me with whatever trouble of the day that I had, she would often refer me to various bits of literature. After I read the literature provided, we would discuss it until I reached the message that she wanted to portray. It was no fantasy world, I had many disagreements with Mrs. McCoy, but like a second mother, I knew she would always be there. Mrs. Cynthia L. McCoy, I know you have retired, but if you are reading this, I cannot begin to thank you for the difference you made not only in my writing but in my life.
Upon my quest into the big city--which, even for a thirteen year old, was quite an experience, I rapidly discovered that my magnet high school would expect more from me than ye ole' Dowagiac High School. That's not to say that Dowagiac doesn't expect high standards from their students, but let's be real. While freshman year was about adjustment--schools, life, love, and public transportation (which is a story in itself), my writing spark gently, slowly started to ignite.
As Sophomore Year began, I was dealing with a lot. My much, much--old enough to be my father--older brother fell ill with diabetes--sugar, as he often refers to the illness. He was in and out of the hospital. Having not experienced the illness of a close loved one since before I knew what an illness truly consisted of, I was scared. There was no manly way to put it. It was pure fear. Unfortunately, the buck failed to stop there. Somehow, in my young, adolescent mind, I came to the deduction that my brother was going to die. Wow, that feels good to get off the chest. Dear reader, you are the first to know that's how I felt. I hid it from my mom, my dad (although being 2,000 miles away, it was not difficult), and definitely my brother. While my brother's health scare was enough to send me into an institution (not of higher learning, either), my self-diagnosed (but oh, so real) anxiety started to activate. Not only was I worried about my brother, but I started feeling severe feelings of being alone. I truly felt alone.
My first school years in Nevada did not go according to the grand plan I had. I planned on having a myriad of friends that would follow in my quest to learn all I could about Sin City. Anything but that occurred. The real story went a little more like real life. Coming from a school with a graduating class of 140 into a school with a graduating class of at least 750, I was in for quite a shock. For a great while, no one noticed me. When I say great while, I mean months--not days and weeks, but months! For a teenager with an ego (we all had them), eating lunch by yourself, walking home by yourself, and not going to school dances for fear of not being asked to dance, feels like the end of the world. Slowly, as fate would have it, things changed. I became quite popular in some circles. Oh, how some prayers should just go unanswered. Garth Brooks made a song about that, did he not? My classmates started noticing me. They quickly figured out that there was something different about "Michigan," as I was often called. Hell, I cannot even remember telling anyone where I was from right away. Who knows. Maybe I had an illuminating sign on my head that said "I'm from Michigan. We eat deer, squirrel, and some of us try to fish all year." In a nutshell, I was considered to be nothing like a true Vegan, Vegasite, Las Veganista, or Valley Boy (Las Vegas was dubbed "The Valley, after all).
Realizing that I had to get out of the funk that I had been in for quite some time, I started to write. Upon being placed in an advanced English class, I was forced to write. Now, I’m not one of those religious fanatics that can quote the chapter or the verse (another country song, is it not), but I am absolutely sure that my placement was some sort of divine intervention. After all, it was a last second decision that placed me in Mrs. McCoy’s classroom. Mrs. McCoy, a lady of mid-fifty, was all about teaching students how to better themselves through writing. Now, she was no Nancy Atwell, but she definitely incorporated various writing workshops into our class. Often, Mrs. McCoy would give the class a current event to write about. While writing about these events, she would often hold Socratic seminars to discuss how our writing was fairing. On days that the class had finished its writing, we were treated to a classroom discussion on the topic at hand. It was always nice to be able to hear the classroom’s stance on various issues stemming from marijuana usage to whether or not all schools should adopt block scheduling. That was the thing about Mrs. McCoy, she always made it a point to relate our writing back to applicable issues that we, as students, were experiencing. Though, we couldn’t spend the entire year talking about drug use and rappers, Mrs. McCoy ensured everything from The Crucible to Langston Hughes’ s poetry was enlightening and thought-provoking.
On a more personal level, Mrs. McCoy was there for her students. During a time in my life where there were few places that I felt completely safe, Mrs. McCoy’s classroom always remained a safe haven. In the process of aiding me with whatever trouble of the day that I had, she would often refer me to various bits of literature. After I read the literature provided, we would discuss it until I reached the message that she wanted to portray. It was no fantasy world, I had many disagreements with Mrs. McCoy, but like a second mother, I knew she would always be there. Mrs. Cynthia L. McCoy, I know you have retired, but if you are reading this, I cannot begin to thank you for the difference you made not only in my writing but in my life.
