Brain Drops. Jeannie Tyrrell

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      Chapter Two

      Leaving Home

      I received a different kind of blow to the head while I was attending school. I mingled around campus for a while, made friends, and I managed to enjoy myself outside the escapism. But the addiction still held a strong grip, and I slowly continued to split myself more and more into two. The landlord that I lived with passed away unexpectedly. My mother called me and told me that my bear-wrestling, jewelry box—creating companion had gotten in a car accident, and I needed to head to where I lived.

      I got on the bus and took it across town. He died early that morning, and the news got to me late in the afternoon. By the time I reached the room I rented for $100 a month, his “family” was already emptying out his home. His belongings were being organized on his porch, and they were going through his stuff. I almost had a heart attack. I had no idea who they were, and they had no idea who I was.

      I identified myself to his “children” and explained that I lived in one of the rooms. They behaved like vultures, and it was something that I will never forget. When I compare their behavior to some members of my own “family,” I begin to feel a little ill.

      Long story short, I was kicked out. I packed my stuff, and I left. Luckily, I found a room that was right down the road from the school. My rent increased by $300, but I didn’t mind. By that time, I secured a spectacular job at a fast-food restaurant. Everything was within walking distance, and I was able to save some money.

      I was also hired on at the school’s newspaper. Things were going good, and I think the hold that escapism had on me was beginning to loosen up. I wanted to get to know everyone, but I had no interest in getting to know myself. That thought had never crossed my mind.

      My former landlord passing away was not the intense blow to my head. That moment occurred when I walked into the school counselor’s office to discuss my pathetic grades. I do not remember the counselor’s name. I remember he had a monkey doll with long arms. It was strategically placed in the corner of his office. I could also see the school fountain outside his window.

      I wasn’t technically listening to him. He began our conversation on a boring note, and I tuned him out immediately. I knew that academic probation was in my future. I read up on it when I looked into finding a counselor. My mind was on other things until several comments were made.

      The counselor told me that I didn’t “want to be like the black kids by the fountain.” I specifically remember turning my head. I looked at him for the first time. I remember his weird shirt. He also told me that I was spinning in circles, failing my classes, and I didn’t want to end up with a “litter of kids.”

      I remember my face becoming very warm. I felt like I was back in a place that I wanted to leave behind. That was the first time I had experienced a comment like that spoken openly. Before that moment, I only heard those prejudice comments from several family members growing up.

      Those comments were said in public, and I didn’t know what to do. I came to a few realizations that day, and it was an intense blow to the head. I awkwardly brushed off the conversation, and I left the office feeling nothing but discomfort. I tried to replay what I had heard and said. I began to wonder if I had said something. Was I the reason he decided to speak about other human beings in that way?

      I told one of my classmates what had happened and my instructor. As I write these words, I just remember being completely stunned. I asked myself over and over, do I look like a person that just nonchalantly spouts insensitive, racist garbage out of my mouth? I didn’t think so, but the casual manner that the counselor exuded made me doubt myself.

      I did grow up hearing comments that were geared toward people that had a different shade of skin. I know that they were bullied, and I had been complicit about it throughout my entire childhood. I sat at the same dinner table, and I said nothing. It made me think that the comments were rooted somewhere within the temporal lobe of my brain. But, at that point, I was renting a room from a large family that was from the Philippines. It had two other rooms upstairs beside mine.

      One room was occupied by a woman from Germany. Her husband was in the army. The other room was occupied by a mother and daughter that came from China. Each individual was so unique. I enjoyed them, and I wanted to know more about them. So why was any of that said? I continued to ask myself that question as the incident made it to the college dean. I sat in front of that kind man, and I explained what happened. It upset me greatly, and I wasn’t empowered after I spoke up.

      That event sparked a stress in me that I was unable to handle. I shut down and mentally checked out. Someone from my class wanted to move to Santa Monica, California. She asked me if I would like to go with her. I told her that I would go because I felt like I had nothing there.

      I quit my two wonderful jobs, dropped out of school, and I packed up my things. I was officially “leaving home” at that point in my life, and I was mostly indifferent about it. I didn’t have a concrete plan formed in my mind either. I was heading on an extravagant expedition with barely any money, no car, and no job. I just needed to get away, attend concerts, and become СКАЧАТЬ