If you haven’t known me long enough, you might not know that I homeschooled in 9th and 10th grade. The fact is, I don’t really talk about it because I consider it a dark period in my life in which I suffered from a very similar, though more rudimentary depression and loneliness that I did 2-3 years back.
The other reason is because I admittedly, and quite shallowly don’t really want the association. Considering that there is often a heavy stigma that comes chained with being homeschooled of some of the most socially awkward and oblivious kids that modern history as seen, I wish I wasn’t like this, but I also can’t blame myself. Having been embedded into that circle for many years, I saw plenty of those types of kids, but I guess since I mention it, plenty of kids who do homeschool are also as normal as all the rest — I think there is just a much higher risk of not undergoing the socialization process properly when not being surrounded by as many peers, and also when being raised in a highly insulated environment.
I’ll note, given my own experiences, I don’t think I’d ever consider letting my future children homeschool. Ever.
I’m not really here to rant or expound on the merits of home schooling, but rather reflect on some memories from a time when I did home school.
In October 2002, I turned 16. I was a sophomore, and in this particular year, I was actually doing video home school through Pensacola Christian Academy or College via A Beka Academy — or something like that — an experience of which only 3 friends I’ve ever had can directly relate, which also means that I feel an special sort of bond with them.
Because of the whole video element of things, my days revolved around the TV. I started my day by turning on the TV, and, at some point, I would pop in a VHS and try to pretend I was in some classroom with a bunch of other students my age who weren’t actually my age because the videos were between 2 and 5 years old, meaning that most of these kids were out of high school, and a few were seniors.
My attempts to immerse myself in this strange experience often ended up with me contemplating how weird it must have been to be an actual student in one of these classes where the teacher continually looks into a camera in the back, talks to it, and awkwardly pauses for up to 3 minutes at a time. I’d often wonder what type of lives these people who I felt I got to know in some weird, voyeuristic, crystal ball looking glass type of level.
“I wonder who is dating who”
“Does Mrs. White have any kids? What kind of man is her husband?”
“Mr. Tice had 17 hairs on his head in chapter 3, but I am only counting 15 in chapter 5. He must have had a stressful month that year.”
Occasionally, these classes even connected. In my English class, there was a cute girl I had whatever kind of crush I could have had on. In my Math class, filmed a year later, she was also there. I don’t remember who said what, but somehow she spilled boiling water on her bare feet between those school years. I always analyzed her walking habits any chance I could in those two.
Getting back to October of 2002, for those who remember, this was the same time the notorious and horrible beltway snipers wreaked havoc on the DC/Maryland area, dominated the 24 hour news cycle, and, for one 16 year old boy, captivated and terrified almost every waking moment for a few weeks.
I remember that morning pretty well. I turned on the TV and planned to burn some time on some cartoons before I hopped back into the bizarre world of Video Home School. Instead, the news was already on. Four people, all of whom were going about typical daily errands, were shot and killed in daylight, all within a couple hours. It was hundreds of miles away, but I don’t think I had ever been more scared to go outside in my life.
For the entire day, every day for the next week or two, all I could do was watch. I was bursting at the laces with dread, hoping that the police would crack open the investigation before anymore people were murdered by whoever this monster had set his sights on next.
I think we have a strange, uncomfortable and somewhat sick fascination with these type of tragic events — from serial killers to mass shootings. I’m not sure if it is a societal thing that is borne, like some kind of virus, from the media, or just an internal social and psychological ticking that goes off when someone deviates so disturbingly far from humanity and threatens the construct of our perceived safety and livelihood of ourselves and our loved ones. Either way, when I look back on my life thus far, none of these disturbing tragedies has captivated with such a grip as this series event, save for maybe the Virginia Tech tragedy.
Given my isolated state and insulation, I had crafted all sorts of terrible scenarios in my head. I had all but convinced myself that whoever was behind these shootings had gone a few days without any activity because he had moved onto another state. Of course, that thought degenerated into convincing myself that the killer had traveled down to Tennessee, and that myself and my own family were in immediate danger.
One thing about highly irrational fear is that there is a tendency to want to keep it a secret; partially so you don’t look like a wuss, and the other part so you don’t come off as a loon.
I didn’t want anyone to know, but I lived those days in pure horror. My dad was still pastoring our church at the time, which meant many late nights making the 30 minute trip to and from Fairview and Franklin. One of the most agonizing hours in my life was when he had called me to tell me he was coming home and asked if I needed anything, mentioning that he needed to get gas. He took longer than usual to get home, and each minute that passed sprouted more fear like a time lapsed weed erupting from the Earth.
I don’t know if he ever caught on, but when he got home, I was the most relieved and excited to see him as I ever have been.
The days I spent neglecting school and ingesting every bit of news on the then named Beltway Sniper (before we knew it was two men) started to take a heavy toll on me.
My breaking point came in two parts. The first was at a point where I thought I heard something outside in our neighborhood that sounded like a distant gunshot. Immediately, my feral imagination had convinced me that it was the same killer somewhere in my small town, shooting neighbors and people he sees in windows. I turned everything off and laid under my bed until I didn’t feel immediately threatened anymore.
Finally, I fell asleep during a press conference held by then Montgomery County Police Chief, Charles Moose. I had a special sleep setup back then. I’d rest my head on the bottom of my video game chair and sprawl out right in front of the TV.
I had a short dream that I was outside, walking to my car when I sensed something was wrong. I ran into an abandoned building that had tons of exposed windows. Meandering about, I went upstairs hoping for someplace that offered more obscurity when I looked outside a cracked window and saw a shaded figure next to a light pole with a rifle. He fired it and shot in the chest.
In that instant, everything went black, then faded into a bright red as I popped into consciousness, but couldn’t wake up or breathe. For almost a minute I was stuck in the worst sleep paralysis experience I’ve ever suffered as I struggled to breathe, tried to wake up, and did a lot of praying. Eventually everything faded back to black and it got really quiet.
It felt like a miracle, but I popped back awake and gasped for air as I woke up to the same press conference ending and turned off the TV.
I’ve never told anyone these thoughts and feelings from this time. These days whenever tragic events happen, I try to not saturate myself with much news coverage of them. I don’t like giving people who do such destructive things any attention or inverted glorification, and most of all, I don’t like giving monsters any sort of power in my life by planting fear through atrocious acts.
I had completely forgotten about October 2002 until I wrote about it tonight.