Whoa. Has it been a year already? A year to this day, in fact. June 5, 2000: the day the whole world went away.
"Jon, I am deeply hurt by what you did. You betrayed me."
What would transpire in the days to come turned my body into a crucible of frustration and resentment. Happiness was on sabbatical.
"Jon Yu disgusts me. Everything about him just disgusts me. I can't even look at him while I'm saying this."
365 days later, I'm still talking about "the incident." How can I possibly live it down? How can I possibly forget all those hours Riddell spent sifting through my collective work and pointing out every single thing he found offensive? How can I possibly brush off having to justify my writing by saying, "I thought it would be funny"? How can I possibly ignore my near indictment on charges of sexual harassment and terrorism or being told that were I to walk at graduation, I would have to arrive an hour early so the cops could strip search me?
"Who knows more about journalism? Some troublemaking high school student, or a man who spent 18 years working for the Los Angeles Times?"
I don't give a damn about my reputation, but there's something about that week that made me care, if only because I was forced into such an awkward position. Coming off a great weekend high, having pulled off the most successful student-directed one-act play in the history of my school, they grabbed a hold of my balls and never let go. I don't know what's more embarrassing: being escorted to your physics final or watching your mom translate "big throbbing erection" into Chinese so she can understand it.
"Do you know what Neely said to me this morning? He said, 'You really fucked up this time, Jose.' I have never seen him that serious before."
If I ever become famous, the tabloids are going to have a field day. A writer from the local paper actually called me up and wanted to do a piece about me in conjunction with the ACLU. Nothing ever came of it, though. I made up a bullshit account absolving the administration from blame in an effort to quarantine the situation.
"Dewar's hurting. Badly. The admin is totally coming down on her. I told her to come to Los Altos with me but she said she couldn't because of everything she had going on here."
The rest is a blur. I remember writing apology letters that were apparently circulated among the staff and probably not well-received. Knowing me, I have a hard time sounding sincere, and looking back on those letters, I wouldn't believe myself.
"You know, to tell you the truth, I thought parts of your column were really funny."
To this day, I keep wondering, "What if?" What if I had picked another teacher? A man, even. Would he or she have taken the joke with stride? What if Columbine had never happened? Would they have believed me then when I said that a firing squad at graduation was merely an absurdist punchline inspired by Tombstone Pizza commercials and not a disturbing fantasy of mine? Do I look like Lee Harvey Oswald? I can't even fire a water gun properly, let alone KILL A TEACHER.
What if the "thank you" list had been published? I would've been fucked.
If you have no clue as to what this post is referring to, be glad. Be glad that you didn't have to put up with me beating a dead horse over and over for a whole year. I've never really let it go. Yet, I've never really told the whole story to many people either. I considered posting a detailed account of those seven days, but thought better of it. Nobody cares about my pathetic feuds, and frankly, I don't think I do anymore. Maybe someday I'll chronicle my senior year of high school in a movie (hint hint). Until then, it's time for me to grow up.
Andy Paul told me something last year that I'll never forget: "When you're in high school, everything is a bigger deal than it should be." What can I say? He was right. I can't go through life hating people who exist only as fading memories in my head. I'm beyond therapy. And so, it is with a heavy heart that today I retire my senior year enemies (basically, the cast of the Wrestlepalooza 15-person battle royal) as comic fodder. No more will I bring their names up again. As for Adam Riff, Rory Brown, and Josh Karlinvore-Resnick, I'm not quite done with them. Hopefully, they'll be good sports and not try to grab a hold of my balls and never let go.
Unlike my peers, I never wanted to leave high school. That is, until June 5. Due to the efforts of my (former) nemesis Paige Price, I couldn't have been more happier to get out of that place. It's simply coincidence that my page number in the 2000 MVHS yearbook index is "DNE" (does not exist) and my bio in the spring 2000 MVHS literary magazine says that I died the day after graduation. Touché.
You could say that Jonathan Yu's [insert title here] was an irrational response to my suspension. I was pissed. I e-mailed Nadia. Next thing you know, I'm talking smack online. Whoo!
I'm always experimenting here with the website. Sometimes you feel like a nut. Sometimes you don't. I'd like to know what you think. Take the poll. Help me help you. Further comments can be directed to
me Rory (H.) at firstname.lastname@example.org.
Now, I'm going to disappear for awhile. Sorry, Alex, but the end-of-the-year UC Fudgepacking Fortnight is upon me, and I must devote my energy to the cause. I promise to update as usual, but I'm not guaranteeing anything spectacular, spectacular. Thank you. This has been the super announcement.
What highway should Jonathan Yu adopt? (out of 47 votes)
5 • 4 votes • 9%
61 • 2 vote • 4%
101 • 27 votes • 56%
to hell • 15 votes • 31%
It's settled. I shall own the west coast.