The first day of high school was only the beginning of the terrible days that followed. During my time at Benjamin N. Cardozo High School in Bayside, Queens, I felt lost and anxious all the time. It felt as if all my fears were slowly drowning me like quicksand. I quickly grew depressed, stressed, and scared; it’s not that the schoolwork was difficult, I made it difficult. The teachers were intimidating, and lacked sympathy and care for the students. With all the security guards standing at every corner of the hallway, it felt like a prison. There were fights in school almost everyday, and the security guards usually stood and watched, or pretended not to see. I soon started skipping classes because of my anxiety—I genuinely did not want to go into a room where I would be ridiculed for not being able to do something well.
Sometimes, I’d tear up while sitting in the back of my dad’s car on the way to school, and on the way back home. The confusion of not being able to identify what my problem was scared me to death, and kept me from enjoying anything at all. The fear haunted me inside and out, and grew as I continued to keep that feeling of overwhelming doubt away from anyone, including my family. Everyone thought I was one of the smartest and most successful students and that hurt me even more, because I knew it wasn’t true. I rarely spoke, so everyone assumed that I knew what I was doing. I always felt glared at however, by my teachers who truly knew how successful I was. I might have seemed like I knew what I was doing, but that was only because I was too scared to, and my failing grades did not help.
One afternoon during my second year in that school, around November and in English class, my teacher began the class discussion by saying, “I’m going to pick on someone who never raises their hand.” Those words made me shiver. The next moment, she called on me. It was an opinion-based question about current events, “What do you think you can do to make this situation better?” There was no right or wrong, but that’s what scared me the most. I didn’t know what was right and what was wrong, and I was scared of saying something stupid. I trembled, but managed to squeeze out an answer. I tried really hard not to start crying. I had distracted myself from my anxiety by digging my nails into my skin.
***
In that same English class a few weeks later, when I was called on again for not raising my hand, I spoke with a little more confidence. That was only because I was having a good day, and I was feeling okay about my answer. However, that only lasted for a second, as the girl seated in front of me immediately exclaimed, “She can speak?!” I felt my heart pound so fast I thought it was going to rip apart. That comment was unnecessary and disrespectful, and I felt hurt. Everyone laughed, the teacher ignored it, and I felt like I didn’t deserve to have a good day at all because it always crumbles in front of my eyes. It was merely a joke to everyone, but I felt like the joke. I wanted to run away, but I didn’t have the courage, so I just let out a small, “Ha-ha”. When I got home, I threw my bag onto my bed, stuffed my face into my pillow, and cried.
The next week, I was walking down the hallway to deliver the attendance folder to the office for my algebra teacher. The classroom was on the third floor, and the office was on the first, so it was a long walk. As I started downstairs, I saw three students sitting in the stairwell, most certainly skipping classes. Teachers didn’t check the stairs, so the staircases, which were separated from the halls by heavy doors, were perfect hiding spots. I pretended not to see them and continued down, when they approached me. “Hey,” one said. I didn’t answer right away, because I didn’t want to get in trouble and I always ignored unnecessary communication. They quickly surrounded me—I was cornered. They walked closer to me and I could feel my heart pound faster with each step they took. “Hi…” I said, very quietly.
“What’s your name?”
“…Midori.”
My eyes were pinned to the floor, and I couldn’t bring myself to look at their faces. “Are you Asian? Where are you from?” one girl asked.
Oh no, I thought. Should I tell them that I’m Japanese? I was very reluctant to, because I’ve had very bad experiences with the way people treated me the moment they heard my nationality. “I’m Japanese.” A pause, then a gasp followed.
“You’re Japanese?! That’s so cool!” another guy exclaimed, clearly excited.
There it is, I sighed in my mind.
“Can you speak Japanese?” another guy asked. I grew very uncomfortable and excused myself, pushing through the group and out the door. The last thing I heard from them was one of the guys asking how to cuss in Japanese. I took the other staircase on my way back to algebra.
***
A few months later at around 7:30 AM, I arrived at school. I knew my school was overcrowded, but there was something abnormal—students were standing in two long lines in front of the entrance. Peeking through the crowd, I saw six security guards at the doors. I got in line behind a girl to get inside the building, unaware of what was happening. Overhearing conversations around me, I found out that someone had threatened to bomb the school over Snapchat, and the school had placed metal detectors in the entrance. It was my turn, and I removed my bag for the security to check. We already had I.D. card lock entrances in the front lobby and the cafeteria, but I suppose it wasn’t enough. By the time I left the building that day, at around 3:00 PM, the metal detectors were gone. The next day, I heard that the student who sent the threat got expelled.
***
One night, I finally broke down, and my body started to shut itself off. I lost consciousness for about five minutes at 2:00 am, all by myself, scared. I was scared of telling someone about what I was going through, scared of being a burden to my family—scared of living my life scared. I didn’t feel my head hit the floor, but apparently my father heard a thump. That was the first day of “not going to school” month, which irrevocably changed my experience with this school, for better or for worse. I stayed home, lying in bed, for about a month, trying to recover from the trauma and the anxiety. I went to cardiologists, and had my brain activity tested. If I got up, I would lose consciousness immediately. It felt like I was poisoned by the experience of high school. It haunted me and still does today. The suicidal thoughts, the times I cried just after getting home from school—these moments haunted me.
I eventually went back.
By then, my grades were so low that I was bound to end up in summer classes. I sat in the gym on a sunny day of June, away from the other kids that somehow found joy in playing sports. Even though the class itself was much smaller than the normal gym class, it made me tremble in anxiety just as much. As I watched the students play together, I thought of how they must all be there for a reason, and whatever it may be, the idea of so many students struggling to pass a class made me sympathize with them. The class was more difficult than the regular gym class, probably because of the amount of students there. Normally, the gym class would be separated into males and females by a huge wall going down the middle of the gymnasium. Each class was huge, since there were probably three classes squeezed into one, so the teachers didn’t watch us. In the summer class, though, it was a mix, and we were all forced to play something together, usually kickball. The artificial grass stuck to my shoes like leeches, and I got hit in the head with a ball one too many times.
***
Two years ago, in November of 2016, my family moved to Valhalla. I transferred to a new high school, a healthier one mostly because the school was smaller. All of the teachers were super kind, and felt like adults. I received grades of 60s in my old high school, but upon transferring to a new environment, I began to receive 80s, 90s, even 100s. My brain did not change, my anxiety was still very much there, but I felt good. I felt like I belonged there, and confirmed that my grades reflected not only my scores, but the teachers’ ability to teach as well. The new school, the move, the new city, really did save my life. School can be a difficult place, and the problem isn’t always you. A change in environment can make a critical difference, and help so much more than one might think—although a change in circumstances and surroundings can be quite scary, sometimes it is necessary for change within to follow.
