My entry into "My Promo-mentors Writing Challenge" organized by 
The boarding school I went to was noted for its top-notch education. Yet it was a narrow, stifling atmosphere. It could have quenched the fire of my life adventure, for I loved and feared God. Odd circumstances took place, which the following snapshot of my four years in high school shows to a small degree.
Please read the event that follow from the high view point. In that light, my failure in scholastics also paved the way for my independent development and inquiry.
The Journey
My searching nature could have been shut down at any time in my teen years, but it remained open. Thanks to the silent help from the Holy Spirit. By thirteen, I made a decision to accompany my buddy and cousin, Joe, to preministerial school in Milwaukee. The decision caused a family upheaval. But I was smitten of God. Never mind the school’s beautiful swimming pool.
Freshman. Six roommates: three sophomores. Three of us lowly freshmen. A rigid hierarchy meant things like riding the floor buffer while a sophomore operated it. My weight on the machine would enhance the floor’s sheen, or so ran a theory.
And two hours of mandatory study each school night. A quiet period enforced by the dorm floor’s two college proctors. Nightly torture.
But there was lots of food at the school’s family-style dining hall. A sophomore roommate at my table enjoyed a big appetite. Mine matched his, a source of wonder and appreciation on his part. Bill’s connections at neighboring tables allowed us to scrunche their uneaten mashed potatoes, meat, and desert. Thanks to Bill and the invincible hand of God, the food was an antidote for a runaway case of homesickness. Yet soon, my once-excellent eyesight began to suffer from an overload of sweet foods and snacks.
Classroom seats assigned by alphabet put me in the very last row of A division. The professor’s chalk marks on the board were like spider webs. Algebraic equation and the like – mere scribblings in the distance. Grades dove.
Sophomore. The foundation of future studies had cracked beyond repair in a year’s time, but I held on. I was a marginal student and grew used to it.
Also, in this second year at the boarding school, severe migraine headache added to the problem of poor oversight. Both ensured my status as a hanging-on-by-the-teeth student.
Cause of the migraine?
Our dorm, built some fifty years earlier, got it first face-lift the summer between my freshman and sophomore years. Lead paint was slathered on the walls. It covered decayed grime. The smell of the lad pint caused terrible headaches, so that I spent many days after class flat on the bunk bed.
Junior. A new dorm. More freedom, less oversight by an in-your-face college proctor. My five roommates, A and B students, were studious and religious bunch. They undertook my spiritual disciplines. One or the other of them tried to escort me to a mandatory, twice-a-day chapel service.
I liked chapel, in general. But I chafed at having guards.
Soon my circle of friends widened to include classmates versed in the art of skipping chapel with a minimum of risk. The intrigue of sidestepping chapel checked by dorm proctors proved a real challenge. It was my rebellion against rigid rules.
Senior. My roommate was a would-be disc jockey for a radio station. Don, even more misplaced than I, loved loud, blaring rock-and-roll music. The music drove me from our study room, a good reason to let my study slide again.
But I was not a stupid lad. When my Latin grade crashed to a D, my parents were forced to pay for a tutor. That stung my sense of pride and responsibility. The tutor was Professor Anderson, my Latin teacher. He set me to learn the seven irregular verbs in all their tenses and voices. I came to love them. In that way, he showed me how to build a foundation for learning.
To our mutual satisfaction, my Latin grade soared to B by year’s end. It was a stunning comeback and a proud achievement. The senior year was a turning point in my self-discipline. Poor study habits would still haunt the college years to come; nevertheless there was hope, I now began to study on my own. In time, the missing foundation of mathematics and literature began to fill in.
Why put you through such a history of apparent failure as a student? It was not a downhill. Each failure or poor grade looked like closing door. Yet each class I gave my heart to opened the door to new self-respect.
Earlier on, I had low self-esteem because of low grades. But in time I learnt how the distractions over the years had kept me from embracing the rigid, dead forms of a conventional lifestyle.
Thank you.
