YOUNG ADULT

How I Became A High School Drop Out

School didn’t have what I needed

In May 1976, I was in grade ten. The end of the school year was fast approaching. I had to decide: either study like crazy, pull my grades up, complete all my incomplete assignments, do whatever I needed to do to pass the year. Or the other option— gaining more favour — call it quits, leave on my own terms instead of failing and allowing others to decide my fate.

I didn’t want to fail. The shame of failing grade four was still with me. No way could I face it again.

I brought up quitting school to my parents. My mother who usually had so much to say, said nothing. My father expressed hope that I’d make use of the opportunity he and my mother never had to at least finish high school.

But the more I talked with him and explained my situation, the easier it became to convince my father that getting an education wasn’t everything. Lots of kids left school after grade ten or eleven. They went into the workforce or vocational school. It seemed the biggest disappointment for my parents was that I wouldn’t at least finish out the year.

I had no reason left to continue school. Art school had been my reason, but that would no longer happen since my mother had put a stop to it. There was nothing left to strive for.

I went to my parents again and asked if I could quit. He said, “If you get a job, you can quit.” My mother again said nothing.

“Will you drive me to look for a job?” I asked my father.

“Sure,” he said.

I knew nothing about applying for a job but figured it couldn’t be that hard. Just another step I needed to learn on my way to freedom. My aim was to apply to stores and restaurants. A job would mean money and would help with the plan of leaving home in November.

In six months, my younger sister Kathleen would be sixteen and legally able to leave home. Dorothy, who’d been living with our family since she was thirteen and now was thirty, hadn’t been allowed to live her life because my mother wouldn’t let her. She would finally be able to walk out the door with me and Kathleen. Freedom was so close at hand for all of us and I could almost feel it. I believed nothing could go wrong.

On Saturday, my father drove me to Lunenburg and then circled to Bridgewater and back towards Mahone Bay. He sat in the car while I walked into stores and restaurants, asking if they were hiring.

They either said no or took my phone number.

I was disappointed after going through the two towns, but Dad reassured me. “I can always take you out again next weekend.”

“Yeah, but I don’t know where else to apply.”

“Maybe you should have dressed a bit better.” He eyed my patched blue jeans. Adults were always so critical and impossible to please.

“A little late now,” I said, thinking he might be right.

“Oh well, no worries,” he said. “Something might change between now and then.”

“Yeah, maybe.” Though I held little hope.

He did not know how important finding a job was to me, that it wasn’t just about quitting school but gathering together enough money for our escape to freedom. It was up to me because my mother wouldn’t allow Dorothy to get a job. It was up to me to get the money we needed.

We neared the four-way stop in Blockhouse, and Dad pointed to a diner next to a gas station. “Why don’t you try there?”

“Okay,” I said, preparing for more disappointment.

He parked the car next to several large windows on the side of the building. I got out. Walked towards the door, hoping for the best.

A bell jingled when I opened the door. Inside, the place was quiet and empty. I glanced at the clock on the wall — three-thirty in the afternoon. A plump, brown-haired woman in her twenties sat behind the counter. I headed straight for her in my T-shirt and jeans, barefoot and bra-less. “Hi, I’m looking for a job.”

“How old are you, sweetie?”

“Seventeen.”

“You still in school?”

“No.”

“You ever done this kind of work?”

“No.”

I watched her eye me up and down, preparing for another rejection. Instead, she turned toward the kitchen and called, “Bud! Come out here!”

A skinny man about her age with a face full of acne scars came out, wiping his hands on his stained white apron.

“What do you think?” she said, motioning toward me. “She’s looking for work. Should we hire her?”

I felt on display while they talked back and forth like I wasn’t standing right in front of them like I was a stray kitten whose future was in their hands.

“Ever do any cooking?” the man asked.

“No.” I decided not to mention the only thing I ever cooked at home was white rice, and that I’d never washed dishes in my life, either.

They stood closer to each other, discussing me. I couldn’t make out what they were saying but figured as long as they kept talking, I stood a chance. While they talked, they kept eyeing me.

Then they both stopped talking and stood facing me. She smiled. “Well, sweetie, we’re gonna give you a chance.”

“I’ll teach you how to cook,” he said.

I stood stunned, not sure what I’d heard was real.

She waved her arms like I should celebrate. She smiled and said, “You’ve got a job!”

I nodded and smiled back in total disbelief.

“My name’s Ruth, and this is my husband, Bud.”

Then it hit me — I had a job! But I held my excitement in, remaining calm, acting mature, not like a child, jumping up and down with joy.

We shook hands.

“My name’s Barbara.”

“Can you start tomorrow?”

I nodded. “Sure.” Ready to start my new life.

Just before I opened the door to leave, Ruth called after me, “Hey, Barbara.”

I turned and looked back at her.

“You know it wouldn’t have taken us so long to decide if you’d worn shoes and better clothes.”

I nodded and said, “Thanks for giving me a chance.”

When Dad and I arrived home, I burst into the house and announced, “I’ve got a job! I’ve got a job!” My sister and cousins came running and stood nearby, listening to the details. My mother seemed the most shocked. I was going to cook for others and have them eat what I had prepared. It seemed unbelievable.

After my excitement died down, I chewed on my nails, having doubts. “Do you think I’ll be able to learn how to cook?” I asked my father. “Do you think it’ll be hard to learn? What if it doesn’t work out?”

“Don’t worry,” he said. “They’ll train you. You’ll be fine.”

Meanwhile, Mom opened and closed her mouth like she couldn’t find words to say. She’d always been the one who thought me incapable of doing anything. Never praised me at all. So I wasn’t surprised she had nothing positive to say now.

But it no longer mattered. I was gaining my freedom. I was going to get as far away from my family as I could.