Confessions of a Once-Rebellious Teen
Victoria Fann
March 26, 2007
When I was fourteen, I was one of those teenagers parents and teachers hate. I was arrogant, disrespectful, and bad-tempered; I cut school, took drugs and disrupted my classes at school; I hitchhiked, hung out with my friends, obsessed about boys, and listened to loud, raunchy music.
That was over thirty-three years ago. My friends and I didn’t carry guns. Never crossed our minds. Our behavior alone was enough to intimidate people. Our absences, our rebellion, our drug use, our Go To H--- attitude, were all part of a statement that said, “Hey You! Wake Up! Look at Me! I Need Help!” We didn’t want to be lectured, told to behave, threatened, manipulated or put down. We wanted someone who cared and who would understand our feelings.
Was I a bad kid? Not really. I was angry and lost. My peers and I were acting out because we felt that we had entered a war zone. We were only doing what we did to protect ourselves from our perceived enemies. No longer children, we began to challenge the adults who were mis-managing our lives.
We discovered if we pooled together, we would have a stronger defense. We knew that if someone’s father beat them or threw them out of the house, or someone’s mother was dead-drunk or crazy, we could turn to each other. It was not a lot of comfort, but it helped. We became experts at forging our parent names on absentee notes, late excuses, and report cards. We mastered the art of stealing, our sticky fingers lifting money from our parent’s wallets and liquor from their cabinets. Some of us learned to shoplift. We didn’t see anything wrong with it. We were at war. We did what we had to do.
We rarely, if ever, got caught. Parents and teachers often see what they want to see, and in my case, my parents wouldn’t have believed me even if I had come right out and told them what I was doing. They were too preoccupied with their broken marriage and their work to focus on my whereabouts or activities at any given time.
My high school was no better. With 1700 students, and a building intentionally constructed with few windows, it was pretty bleak. The staff was particularly clueless. When required to exercise any control over us, they over-reacted and became mini-dictators, threatening and bullying us to get their way. My teachers were tolerable, but they seemed oblivious to how I felt; like Star Trek's Vulcans, they were heavy on the logic, but totally in the dark about the emotional range of teenagers.
Overall, my freshman year was miserable, and my high school records reflected it. On my final report card, I received an F for fourth marking period in Physical Education, collected more than my share of Cs, and racked in a total of forty-five marks for tardiness and absences.
It was just the wake-up call my parents needed. The following summer, they made plans to send me to a smaller school where I would receive more individual attention. On top of that, we moved to a new neighborhood, invested in some counseling, and made a commitment to put our lives in order.
These changes saved my life. I quit poisoning my body, I quit lying and stealing, and academically, I soared. It wasn’t long before I earned a scholarship, made the National Honor Society and began attending college classes. This upward trend has continued into my adulthood.
But the ending could have been a lot different, and in fact was, for a lot of my peers. Some of them died or disappeared. Some are so drugged out, they probably wouldn’t recognize me. Others have done time in prison. Still others are reclusive or crazy.
I was given a chance. That’s what kids need today. Because they’re angry and confused. They don’t think we care. They think we don’t know how they feel.
But I do. I remember. I remember how meaningless school seemed, how unimportant being nice was, how foolishly adults behaved. I still feel that way sometimes, especially when I hear how parents and teachers are treating kids today.
We can’t send every kid to a new school, but we can change the role public schools play. In fact, we must. If a family system is failing to provide the support a child needs, (broken households having reached epidemic proportions) then it is up to the community--specifically the schools--to offer kids a chance to get the support and guidance they need.
Something’s got to give. The system didn’t work thirty-three years ago when I was in high school, and it’s much worse now. It is becoming more war-like everyday. I could easily have been one of those violent kids you read about today, if I had been born fifteen years later. But instead, I am a parent, and a citizen of a country filled with violent, angry children.
What can we do? Speak out. Make noise. Talk to parents. Let the schools know “We're mad as hell and we're not going to take it anymore.” Write to politicians.
Most importantly, tune into kids. I mean really tune in. Listen to their music. Read their magazines. Watch their movies and television shows. Check out their favorite hangouts and video games and Internet sites. Find out what they're really thinking about. Listen and observe and be there. Try to understand them and see life from their perspective. You might learn something.
That was over thirty-three years ago. My friends and I didn’t carry guns. Never crossed our minds. Our behavior alone was enough to intimidate people. Our absences, our rebellion, our drug use, our Go To H--- attitude, were all part of a statement that said, “Hey You! Wake Up! Look at Me! I Need Help!” We didn’t want to be lectured, told to behave, threatened, manipulated or put down. We wanted someone who cared and who would understand our feelings.
Was I a bad kid? Not really. I was angry and lost. My peers and I were acting out because we felt that we had entered a war zone. We were only doing what we did to protect ourselves from our perceived enemies. No longer children, we began to challenge the adults who were mis-managing our lives.
We discovered if we pooled together, we would have a stronger defense. We knew that if someone’s father beat them or threw them out of the house, or someone’s mother was dead-drunk or crazy, we could turn to each other. It was not a lot of comfort, but it helped. We became experts at forging our parent names on absentee notes, late excuses, and report cards. We mastered the art of stealing, our sticky fingers lifting money from our parent’s wallets and liquor from their cabinets. Some of us learned to shoplift. We didn’t see anything wrong with it. We were at war. We did what we had to do.
We rarely, if ever, got caught. Parents and teachers often see what they want to see, and in my case, my parents wouldn’t have believed me even if I had come right out and told them what I was doing. They were too preoccupied with their broken marriage and their work to focus on my whereabouts or activities at any given time.
My high school was no better. With 1700 students, and a building intentionally constructed with few windows, it was pretty bleak. The staff was particularly clueless. When required to exercise any control over us, they over-reacted and became mini-dictators, threatening and bullying us to get their way. My teachers were tolerable, but they seemed oblivious to how I felt; like Star Trek's Vulcans, they were heavy on the logic, but totally in the dark about the emotional range of teenagers.
Overall, my freshman year was miserable, and my high school records reflected it. On my final report card, I received an F for fourth marking period in Physical Education, collected more than my share of Cs, and racked in a total of forty-five marks for tardiness and absences.
It was just the wake-up call my parents needed. The following summer, they made plans to send me to a smaller school where I would receive more individual attention. On top of that, we moved to a new neighborhood, invested in some counseling, and made a commitment to put our lives in order.
These changes saved my life. I quit poisoning my body, I quit lying and stealing, and academically, I soared. It wasn’t long before I earned a scholarship, made the National Honor Society and began attending college classes. This upward trend has continued into my adulthood.
But the ending could have been a lot different, and in fact was, for a lot of my peers. Some of them died or disappeared. Some are so drugged out, they probably wouldn’t recognize me. Others have done time in prison. Still others are reclusive or crazy.
I was given a chance. That’s what kids need today. Because they’re angry and confused. They don’t think we care. They think we don’t know how they feel.
But I do. I remember. I remember how meaningless school seemed, how unimportant being nice was, how foolishly adults behaved. I still feel that way sometimes, especially when I hear how parents and teachers are treating kids today.
We can’t send every kid to a new school, but we can change the role public schools play. In fact, we must. If a family system is failing to provide the support a child needs, (broken households having reached epidemic proportions) then it is up to the community--specifically the schools--to offer kids a chance to get the support and guidance they need.
Something’s got to give. The system didn’t work thirty-three years ago when I was in high school, and it’s much worse now. It is becoming more war-like everyday. I could easily have been one of those violent kids you read about today, if I had been born fifteen years later. But instead, I am a parent, and a citizen of a country filled with violent, angry children.
What can we do? Speak out. Make noise. Talk to parents. Let the schools know “We're mad as hell and we're not going to take it anymore.” Write to politicians.
Most importantly, tune into kids. I mean really tune in. Listen to their music. Read their magazines. Watch their movies and television shows. Check out their favorite hangouts and video games and Internet sites. Find out what they're really thinking about. Listen and observe and be there. Try to understand them and see life from their perspective. You might learn something.
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