In high school I went through a phase where I thought attending school was optional. I didn't categorize it as "skipping" or "ditching" class. I just didn't always think it necessary to be in class in person. I'd rather walk across the street and smoke cigarettes at the café, write in my journal, or read morose poetry. Sometimes I'd manage to convince someone to while away an hour in my company. We might walk to the golf course, interview old people at the donut shop, or shop for bunny slippers. Sometimes I would just walk straight home. My mom might be there and I'd ring the doorbell. "What are you doing here, Kristin?" She would ask puzzled, and perhaps a little worried. "Don't feel well. Plus, my bra broke." My poor teenage body insisted on growing at an outrageous pace in those days. Days when my socks and my shoes were an ill-fitted match I'd just come home. Like when I tried to wear loose socks with my clogs and the socks kept bunching up around my arches and slipping off my ankles and heels. On days like that I would just walk home, socks in hand. I didn't see the point in suffering through a class or a day with bunchy socks, asymmetrical breasts, or a hankering for a cigarette. Other days I just felt like talking and not listening. On those days I would try and get a companion. Sometimes it was Ryan Markel, long time friend and fellow writer, artist, and smoker. We'd discuss the state of public education and all the ways in which it made us ill, or maybe we'd talk about sexuality and whether anyone could safely define themselves conclusively as either "homosexual" or "heterosexual". Such is the audacity of youth. Sometimes we'd plan our lives. I'd end up making millions writing commercials or singing jingles or being a one hit wonder. Ryan said he'd be happiest working in a restaurant and reading as much as he possibly could without distractions or demanding time constraints. I wanted to live in a hacienda palace. He wanted nothing more than a simple apartment. Ryan's palaces have always been fully furnished in his mind. Girls like me lack the imagination to feel secure in the mind's eye alone. I seem to require comforts the senses can enjoy "hands on". But it was fun to sit around or lie around chattering about nothing and everything all at once. Sooner or later my blasé attitude about school attendance came to a head. I had just taken a long hot shower after an exhausting half day of school. I was home. My mom knew I was there. All was right with the world. I donned my eggplant tarry robe and swirled a hair towel around my royal teenage head and stepped out into the hallway. "DING DONG!" Doorbell? Who might this be? I peeked through the peephole. No one I knew. I opened the door a crack. A short Latino gentleman in his latter fifties stood on the welcome mat, eyes greatly magnified behind thick lenses. "Are the parents of Kristin Marie Ferrell at home?" "Maybe. Who are you?" "I am a truant officer for the Ysleta Independent School District. Kristin has been truant more than ten times this semester and this is an official document explaining the legal consequences to both her and her parents…",
"Sir, excuse me, but are we in Russia? Did I miss something here? I am Kristin Marie Ferrell and I have some very good reasons for not always making it to class." "Well Miss, you may have to explain that to a judge." "Right. I'll take that document. Thank you and good day. SLAM!"
"Who was that, Kristin?"
"TRUANT OFFICER!? What kind of trick is Dad trying to pull this time?!"
Explanation: My father has a flare for the dramatic. He's been known to make a point using some very unconventional methods, sometimes involving police officers, lawyers, teachers, counselors, and judges in his dramatics. How was I to know this was legit? Well, it was. He was a real truant officer with a real legal document. My Dad must have had a tet a tet with the judge because we never went to court. He did, however, agree to attend afternoon classes with me for a few days. I never seemed to miss my morning classes so those were safely attended. I'll never forget it. There was my Dad in Algebra, Geology, and Photojournalism; my Daddy, in his tailored Texan gray suit and shiny alligator boots, briefcase, mustache, stern expression. I loved him in ways I couldn't articulate for years hence. He came to Hanks High School to make an impression on his wayward daughter: school is important. Learning is worth some drudgery, some discipline. Sometimes in life we just need to be in the right place at the right time. Do what 's right, even when it's hard. I learned those things and many more from my father. He valued education and the opportunities it afforded. I graduated from high school, went on to college, graduated with high academic honors from The University of Texas at Austin, and have been gainfully employed ever since. I owe my successes in great part to my father and mother who supported me financially, emotionally, and spiritually through my younger years. I'm glad they stressed the importance of school. I'm glad I turned out to be a pretty decent member of society, one who still loves interviewing people at the donut shop, reading morose poetry, buying bunny slippers, but one who detests cigarette smoke.
