As co-Editor of the Whiteland Community High School newspaper my Junior year (1992-93), I was given a little freedom to write some pretty controversial editorials, and I exploited the opportunity. Because there were two of us, I wrote the editorial only every other issue. It was probably better that way.

By the fifth edition that year, I had already written two articles: one on interracial relationships, and one on pro-choice vs the Catholic Church. The latter was actually picked up and run by our local newspaper, the Daily Journal, when they were looking for area high school stories to print. The week after they ran my editorial, they ran a Letter to the Editor from “a local mom”, who had an…ahem, opposing viewpoint to my own. She said I shouldn’t be allowed to voice my opinions in a high school newspaper. I thought it was awesome.

My third editorial was highly scrutinized after that, and had to go through three levels of approval before printing. Knowing this, I totally pushed the envelope to see what I could get away with. The article was about Teenage Sex: That, like it or not, it happens. That instead of demonizing it, we should establish clear lines of communication about it. That high school students need information about, and access to, contraceptives and STD-prevention (condoms).

It was referred up to the principal.

Mr. Robert Smith (I know, just like The Cure) liked me for some reason, and it didn’t hurt that he grew up with my mom in Edinburgh. In fact, his younger brother asked my mom to prom one year, but she’d already agreed to go with someone else. Little Brother Smith showed up anyway. At my mom’s house. Then followed them out to dinner. And sat by them at prom. Look, man, I get that you have a crush on my mom but, dude, that’s just not right. Have some dignity.

So Mr. Smith says to me privately in his office, very calmly, “Cheryl, you know I can’t approve this. You KNEW this would never get approved. Why do you do this? Why do you enjoy getting in trouble so much? I don’t understand.”

And I made my argument – the one I’d prepared before walking into his office – because I always had an argument prepared for everything. I proclaimed and monologued about freedom of speech! This is a good article, it’s the student newspaper, I’m the editor, and I have every right to print it!

He sighed, and his shoulders dropped. I know now that he was probably sad for me because I just didn’t get it. And I didn’t get it. I wasn’t even listening. I didn’t understand that he was trying to help, trying to appeal to the mature young woman that I claimed to be. At that point in my life, though, all I had was rage – the noun AND the verb – and I couldn’t see past it for anything. Rage was my shield, and my weapon, and it worked.

Mr. Smith replied, “Here’s what I’m going to propose. I have a small stack of misconducts for you here that I haven’t processed, and every single ONE of them is for ‘Willful Disobedience’.” He sighed again. “You are going to agree to not printing this article, without trying to fight it, and I’m going to throw away all of these misconducts. We are gonna wipe the slate clean. This is a fresh start for you. Please don’t make me regret it.”

I agreed to his terms. They seemed fair.

That was the last editorial I wrote for the school newspaper. It was my own personal boycott, that ultimately hurt no one but me. And I honored my agreement with Mr. Smith in my own way: I dropped out of high school not too long after this conversation. I never even gave him the chance to regret it.

I wonder if he ever thinks about this, or wonders what happened to me. It was the first time in my life that an adult had spoken to me as a peer. Although I couldn’t hear it then, I appreciate it now. He genuinely cared, and he tried to help me help myself, without getting judgmental. He was offering a real opportunity for positive change.

There are moments in life when I wish I had chosen differently. This is one.