It continued to fester in middle school. The hatred bled from my system and into the outside world, where it made itself a reality. Portola Middle School. Yeah, portal to the middle section of hell, would be more accurate. My self-hatred was delighted. All this hate…Can you feel it? It sustained itself well. Not even two weeks into school, I was patted down by eighth graders who thought they could make some money off my white ass because some jackass pointed me out and claimed I had twenty bucks. Yeah right. Did I stand up for myself? You’re not worth it, insists my hatred. You don’t even hear it sometimes, but you know it’s there.
A few more weeks pass and I get punched in the chest while being restrained by a couple of Mexican kids. Why are you here? The school authorities weren’t any better. The principal twiddled his thumbs up in his ass saying that he didn’t have any professional mediators to help me out. One police report later and my transfer request to Albany Middle was accepted. Some time passes and we hear of my ex-music teacher getting stoned by a bunch of hooligans (worse insults come to mind). You don’t belong here. Damn straight.
First thing I notice in Albany Middle is how clean it was. Portola had many active litterers. One time I even saw a kid waste an entire school lunch pizza by throwing it over his shoulder. What the hell? As I continued going there, I also noticed that there weren’t any daily fights. It was almost like Portola had its own fight club; every morning there would be jackasses throwing fists for God-knows-what-reason. Albany? Kids are chill, man. It was the kind of school that I wanted to go to. The kids were nice and they always take well to new folks. Still, the self-hatred hungered for my emotional resources. You don’t belong here. I never really had a group of people I could stick with. I always drifted among people. Either that, or I sat by myself eating lunch while my self-hatred devoured my heart. Let me be, I’m not worth it.