Tuesday, November 29, 2011
Perhaps the acme of all your study acne is the SAT’S Junior Year. Magic and I’d map out the course of our per-determined high school years and it went something like this, Freshmen year amazing, Sophomore a little less, Junior Year the worst, Senior year the best. And Junior year, you received open campus in Lexington, you were one inch closer to the throne of what everyone would always tell us was the best year of our life. And one reason stood alone for this JY degradation, the SAT’s. It brought down the entire expectation of that which was 25% of your overall high school career.
High school was the springboard into everything you’d chase and I hope you learned something. To us high school was a historical scorecard of who could cause the most shit, post the most victories and snatch getting away with everything you were never supposed to do.
And Junior Year, the SAT’S, ACTING LIKE A shadow OVER EVERYTHING you came up with. Of course academic accomplishments for Mike and I regarding high school were defined by attendance not grades. We liked to choose the classes in which the teachers would offer a C for simply showing up.
It was one of my dad’s hall of fame Junior High lines. He’d say this while eyeing that quarterly reminder of realistically where your children were headed. The report card was a life card, and it was a ¼ reminder as to if you were on or off track. Back then, now it’s much different, I would’ve run with the internet as a kid, using it as a tool for everything I wanted to learn about as a kid they never taught in high school namely accounting, sports history and capital markets. It also would’ve brought me down in about 1 hundred different instances. So I’m glad I slipped through before it changed the world, facilitating discovery and transparency holla Arab spring.
But the SAT’S, wow, it was to me fucked up but then again so was I. I could never understand the thinking that 1 test defined so much about your future. And in many ways they were right, many they weren’t. The fact remains when Mike picked me up, steamrolling into my driveway pumped up with orange juice and a gold attitude we were both colossally unprepared for the standardized American cornerstone test that defined our future. But we looked great, we shook hands and Mike took it from there. He was the narrator for so many of my childhood’s big events and we always regardless of something as vain as preparation remained overtly optimistic.
“SAT’s today guy!” Magic would say happy and confident, we cranked house of pain and drove fast to failure. I was optimistic looking at myself in the side mirror but nervous having not really learned the English language up until this point. I wasn’t an immigrant, my father grew up in Lexington, I just couldn’t you know speak very good English. I was pretty OK in math due to my dad’s Friendly Sunday morning math lessons back when he was at the crib in junior high and that was big parenting, big. If it weren’t for that I might’ve been the first non-autistic white kid in Lexington certainly Lexington basketball history to not net the requisite 700 for the right to play NCAA basketball. This was a policy born out of the hood and failing city schools with alarming rates of poverty. I grew up with everything I just couldn’t, you know, speak the language. When I would talk to people for the first time at 11,12, 13 rather than white kid living in Lexington the town my dad grew up in people more likely suspected I’d been adopted, recently from a Louisiana orphanage. My scores would reflect this.
And it got worse, as we entered the class, sat down silent as Mr. Gralla our senior math teacher to be went through the serious dead silent pre game speech. I burst with joy thinking Jesus had my back once again when an Asian girl promptly pulled up the seat 4th row, right next to me. I looked up hilarious at the heavens like out of all the kids in the world, you know they set her next to me. All until halfway through Mr. Gralla walked back suspiciously correct over my edison's and their deviance dropped in me a certain fact. He said in a drawn out, deep voice of way too many cigarette’s and coffee over a 40 year tenure, “Every row got separate tests Easton.” And he laughed, didn’t even bust me, after that I started playing DC Cab. You know just selecting, D, C, C, A, and B until I was done. I wanted to get to Hayden basketball was key not this fucking test. And I was protected, Lexington. I already knew I could cry Ritalin and take them again untimed. I also knew I could probably get this score wiped, and I didn’t care, I knew I’d get over 700 just spelling my name correctly in tandem with my fathers algebra lessons at Friendly’s. I knew I wouldn’t break a G. And my math did push me through; my English was in the nations bottom 5%. This bothered my mother and once again for a COUPLE OF DAYS SHE BELIEVED I might be autistic.
And Magic you know, I never did know what he got, to this day. In Lexington SAT’S scores were inevitably inflated, you always had to subtract the requisite 100 before the character check. And that’s just the facts. You couldn’t fail in Lexington, why, you had everything, and every family was perfect. How can you fail when you have everything? It sounds cool to ask. And the answer is, you can’t. And that’s the padding, the inflation, the rules like a proof in geometry existed carving out the discovery process of actual SAT scores in mint Lexington against that same mainstream. It was so funny. I didn’t care but my mother did, and my SAT score needed at least a hundred, prob 2 pad conversationally speaking.
I loved the 80’s because I lived in Lexington. Anyway we left, got a sandwich and headed to Hayden to work out playing hoops. And that’s why I love this caption, the perfect place, and not like the Old Colony residents in the 70’sw used to refer to as Heaven but real life heaven here in America. Waste your Potential, middle of the road is typically the best situation. But it’s funny, ignorance, bliss, I say drop them off in Dudly like me and B-Dawg (87 classic) in the Rox-
Berry for a weekend on Friday night, if they die, or are taken hostage and killed when the ramson is not delivered, it sucks. But if they make it, and see, and live, and breath, they will fly.
David Sears still cracking me up, “That’s my Gold Rav 5 right there.” Woe – it's really great to be from somewhere. Waste your potential only funny for shock, harness your life and believe enough to make a great 1 possible.