My parents shunted me into private education. The Scottsdale (yes, that one) Unified School District was still doing a decent job, but they didn't like where this was going in 1988. PCDS was worse, but it would take them three years to figure this out. I was knocked down two grades in math (I'd been taking prealgebra in third grade, having already taken coursework for kids at ASU) and then was essentially torn down to fit in.

My art teacher there saw something in me, though, and became a bit of a mentor alongside my orchestra teacher. When I finally left, the president of the school sent a handwritten note regretting my experiences there and expressing solidarity that I was mistreated. Not exactly what one expects from a private school, but she had nothing to lose.

I engineered my departure by swearing at the principal. When I was as a result disinvited from the class trip, my parents finally stepped in and pulled me out. That's a heavy lift in eighth grade and the first time I cried with joy.

I think that whole experience may have set me up to be very angry at authority, which is where you want to be as an effective journalist. I just didn't yet realize that's where I'd be heading.

I'm too worn down to fight, sadly.