I can NOT write this memoir. I have written and re-written and used the delete key much more than I ever have before. The thing is...I really want to write about this, but I don't know where to start, or where to end for that matter.
Anyway, here is the very rough intro...:)
“Trust, Shuff, you just have to trust,” mumbled Mr. Hurst as I ambled out of his classroom, clutching my analysis of some Latin philosopher’s work and feeling deflated because once again Hurst had trumped my carefully worded argument. This was our tradition—a discussion of philosophy per week. I was getting more confident after every day that we spent analyzing Cicero or Socrates, sometimes Eco or Kierkegaard or Jung. I walked out to 16th street in downtown Indianapolis and waited for my mother to pick me up. The surroundings were now familiar, but very different from my rural hometown. I suppose I was trying to rebel when I came to Herron High School, mostly because I was tired of being the nerdy, unathletic honor roll student that had only seen her hometown and nothing more. And this was a change, for sure. Now I had a clean slate socially and a new landscape to enjoy, but learned quickly that I was very academically bored. Mr. Hurst, my Latin teacher, recognized this and so began our weekly philosophic meetings. And I did trust him, but at a price that I’m still paying.
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