A Delayed Escape
As cars sped past me kicking up dust in my eyes in the bright sun, I tried to keep focused on the road ahead. Just stay on the shoulder, I told myself. You’ll be fine. I didn’t have a destination in mind, I just knew that I had to get out of there. Looking ahead, the road seemed to stretch on forever, glistening in the late afternoon sun with heat distorting the air above the asphalt. One foot in front of the other, I thought, as I tried to hold back a floodgate of tears. That’s all I had to do.
It seemed as though I was walking for hours when a car slowly pulled up on my left. It didn’t speed past, but slowed down to my walking speed. By that time, I was exhausted and had not planned things through becauseI had no food or water with me. Slower and slower the car moved, until eventually it stopped and the passenger door flung open.
I froze. It was my teacher, and she asked me if I was okay. Where are you going? Do you need some water? Can I help you? Do you want to go back to class?
That was the last place I wanted to go. As a first-grader who was the smallest in his class, wore glasses, had a terrible haircut, and had never spent time with kids my age besides with my older brother, school was hell on Earth for me. Bigger kids punched me. Mean kids bullied me. Almost everyone laughed at me. Teachers did nothing. My only friend was my older brother, who was a grade ahead of me and who I could only see at recess.
Why would I want to go back there?! I thought about yelling. But I also thought about my nonexistent plan. Where was I, a six year old with no money or resources, going to go? How would I escape? I resigned myself to my fate, and got in my teacher’s car. I knew she meant well, and I couldn’t contain it anymore as I explained all the things that were bothering me and making school an awful experience. She listened and tried to encourage me that it would get better. I didn’t care. I just wanted to leave school and never come back.
My wish came true once I finished first grade. My father pulled me and my older brother out of school to home school us using religious textbooks. You know, those kinds of books in which everything had a religious angle, even math. Back in the 80s, it was easy to home school your kids. I would find out years later when I was applying for citizenship for my son. All my parents had to do was submit a simple form to the government with a number of how many kids were homeschooled. The names of children weren’t even indicated.
At first, I was very happy to be done with school. But I soon found out that I wasn’t going to really be homeschooled in the traditional sense. Sure, we had school books and my mom was diligent in making assignments for us. She taught me and my brother how to read and helped us with the homework. But all of it very quickly took a back burner towards something more important: helping my father.
By the time I was 8, my older brother and I were staying full time at my father’s law office. He had just started his own practice and with my mom working there too, there wasn’t any more time for our schooling. We would still get homework assignments here and there, but they weren’t as important as the religious homework we had to do (I remember having to type reports about my father’s sermons and what I learned from them) and nowhere near as important as helping out at the office.
This help took various forms. At the time, I had a small brother and baby sister, and one of the jobs my older brother and I were entrusted with was to watch them when clients came in. My father’s first office was on the ground floor of an office building in the suburbs, with just two main rooms - a reception and waiting area and then my father’s office. My mom was the administrative assistant and receptionist, while my brother and I made coffee, copied documents, and made sure our little brother and sister were quiet when clients came in. We should have been at a school or with a real tutor for our home schooling, and it would of course be unsightly for clients to see us at my father’s office at 11am on a Tuesday morning.
Before any clients came in, my mother would tell us to all go into the closet. I’ll never forget this closet. It was underneath the steps that went to the second floor of the office building. Enter the closet and you could stand up, but go deeper and you would have to duck as the steps got closer to the ground. We had a supply of snacks and drinks, some chairs, a table, and a monitor and VHS player on a cart. We would rent videos and play them, without any volume, to occupy my little brother and sisters while clients were there. My younger siblings would complain, get bored, want the tapes to be louder, and want to get out of the closet. My brother and I would have to make sure they made no noise to alert any of my father’s clients.
We also would have to change any diapers and just wait if until all the clients were gone if we needed to go to the bathroom. I learned quickly to not eat or drink anything much during the day, because an unexpected trip to the closet could mean that I wouldn’t be able to go to the bathroom for hours.
I spent many hours with my siblings in that closet. I’ll never forget it. So much for the happiness I felt about not having to go to school.
That point was the beginning of over a decade that I would work for my father at his law office or other business venture, with minimal, if any, remuneration. I never went back to school after first grade, and as I got older, I longed to go back, despite being bullied, beat up, and having a general terrible time. It was much better than the alternative!
The pleas of my older brother and I fell on deaf ears, and we continued to work for our father throughout our childhood until we were adults. I was finally able to leave working for him when I was 19.
Somehow I was able to get into university when I was 20, despite not attending school since the end of first grade. My brother and I knew that getting a university education was the only way we would ever get out of there. It was the only chance we had to do something with our lives.
It was harder than my days in first grade. Even if we ignore the fact that we grew up in a cult our entire life and knew barely anything about the outside world, we also had little interaction with our peers. My first class for the fall semester of university was an English class at 7:45 in the morning. As I entered the classroom and saw a bunch of other young adults - many younger than me by a few years - my heart felt like it would escape my chest and never return. What should I say if someone talked to me? What if they asked me where I came from or where I went to school? Why do I dress so different? I couldn’t make eye contact with anyone, especially girls - I had no clue as to how to talk to them.
At that moment, I resolved myself to not speak in class the entire semester. I would do my homework, get good grades, but law low and try to figure things out. I would try to get to the point where I’d have enough confidence to speak to others.
“Let’s start with brief introductions to get to know everyone, shall we?,” my teacher said. My chest was beating louder. My hands were sweaty. My teeth clenched and I was hot and cold and the same time. “How about you?,” my teacher said. “Why don’t you start. Just tell us your name and where you’re from.”
My throat felt like a brick. I tried to speak but couldn’t muster the words. Nothing came out. I tried again. Still nothing. Then again, and a voice came out that I didn’t even recognize, crackling and halting as I just simply stated my name and hometown.”
“Thank you, it’s nice to have you here! Who’s next?,” said my teacher.
That was that. I was done. It couldn’t have lasted more than five seconds, but I replayed it in my mind over and over. Stupid! How could I be so stupid! How could I sound like such an idiot! Why did I stutter?! Why was I looking at the ground?! Idiot!
I was so angry at myself and I would dwell on it for weeks to come. My goal of not talking to anyone at all my entire first semester of university ended at 7:55 on a Tuesday morning in English 101. I left class feeling humiliated and trying to figure out how I could avoid this experience in the future.
Building up my confidence took years. Decades, really. It’s amazing how vulnerable you are as a child and how much it affects you for the rest of your life. Since I was three, my father did his best to take every bit of confidence I might have away from me. When I had acne, he called me pizza face and laughed at me. When a girl like me for the first time, he mocked me and said a girl could never love me. When I tried to sing a song for my parents that I practiced, he laughed in my face and said I had not an ounce of talent, especially compared to him, he said, who had more talent than anyone (spoiler alert - he did not).
I finished university. I went to graduate school. I eventually overcame my fears and today as part of my work I regularly speak in front of various audiences, with hundreds of people in attendance. People have commented to me how outgoing and confident I am. I’ve been lucky to have many peers and colleagues compliment my speaking abilities, and it has helped me in my career. I’m thankful for this.
But little do these people know, that in reality, that six year old who was crying on the side of the road while running away from school is still inside. He still wants to get out and take over. And it takes everything for me to keep him at bay. For should he get out, everything I’ve worked for would be gone.