I never really got along with anyone at school. I didn't like my class and didn't want to see any of them. I couldn't stand my wretched school. But it wasn't always like that. From first to third grade, things went quite well. Veronika Nikolaevna, our young teacher who must have just graduated from university at the time, was very kind. She liked me (the feeling was mutual), and I can probably call those three years of school the time with the fewest gaps in my education.

As I mentioned, we skipped fourth grade, and from fifth to seventh, although I had difficulties and problems, it was still tolerable. I had a friend, Anton Sogrin, a classmate. We were friends until we were split into different parallel classes after the sixth grade. And after that, I didn't have anyone until technical college. Our teachers were all 'not great.' In the six years I spent in school after those first three years with Veronika Nikolaevna, I only remember two teachers I liked. And from whom I actually learned something. They were good. The first was for anatomy, Lidia Alexandrovna. She was young—about thirty, no older. A bit plump. A great joker! She usually came to class in a good mood. We would laugh like horses in her lessons. She always found something to laugh about. Thanks to her, I loved her subject.

The second was Tatyana Mikhailovna. She taught us psychology. A very good person! We still meet periodically and tell each other what's new and how life is going. When I was finishing technical college and preparing to enter university, I found her again—I came to the school. She was still working there then. I saw a few other teachers that time too. They greeted me as if I were their favorite former student and almost an honor student. It surprised me. Why didn't they treat me like that when I was younger?

I know so many people who feel warmly about their school! I even know a few (which is surprising!!!) who feel similar things about my 'alma mater'!!! But how can one feel good about it? After all, it is...! A place teeming, in the overwhelming majority, with disgusting educators, often terrible students, and, mostly, corrupt administration! The math teachers were one 'better' than the other, and if they loved anyone, it clearly wasn't the students. And then, why talk about love? As they say, teachers aren't there for love.

I remember a spiteful old woman—the Russian and literature teacher—who considered me, at the very least, mentally retarded, and at most, a fool or an idiot, which she would report to either my parents or the homeroom teacher.

By the way, in essence, I taught myself Russian. Which I am proud of! I was unlucky with Russian teachers from fifth grade until university. With the class, especially from seventh to the end of ninth, too. The class either ignored me or openly showed their hostility. This was evidenced by things thrown out of windows, punches from the boys, mockery, and name-calling, which the chemistry teacher periodically joined in on. Her breath smelled terrible, and she often demonstratively kept me after class. She would lecture me, the slacker, and ask, looking straight into my mouth: 'Understand?' But what could I understand, feeling that smell?

Evgenia Mikhailovna, our homeroom teacher and history teacher from seventh to ninth grade, was a 'special' person altogether. Everyone said she liked to drink and was always reeking of smoke. I was already in technical college, but rumors reached me that she had left school to sell things at a kiosk, and then, about three years later, she returned. I remember when I entered university, my dad accidentally met her, she asked him how I was doing, and he shared the news.

'You can feel our training!' Evgenia Mikhailovna proudly declared to him!

'Yes, especially her training is felt,' I said to my father in response to the story about the meeting, and we laughed about it. Not happily.

The only good thing Evgenia Mikhailovna did for me—that I remember—was introducing me to Tatyana Mikhailovna. Even before we started psychology as a subject. She brought me in, saying, 'Here, this is a comrade, we need to do something with him urgently!'

And it's good that she brought me! At least someone at school talked to me like a human being. A small, but human being.

Of course, I have lived through, survived, forgiven, and calmed down about all that time. I am not thirteen or fifteen anymore, when all this was so hurtful, humiliating, and relevant. And later, thanks to consultations with my psychologist a couple of years ago, I understood one more thing. For me, it explains much of what was described above and answers the question of why all this was happening to me?!

I was closed off. Always inside myself. No one knew the real me. I was afraid to open up to people, horrified by the thought of being misunderstood and mocked. And meanwhile, the world was constantly trying to interact with me. And if I didn't react 'nicely,' the world would break into me 'badly.'

No one knew me for real—the thirteen, fourteen, and fifteen-year-old boy I was. No one, except for my cousin and his friends. Even relatives, it seemed to me then, didn't know me that well, as those four people dear to me knew: Pavel, Vovchik, Natashka, and Mashka.

And even if it took me as many years to live as I was then to understand all this, now it is CLEAR to me! That is the most important thing.

November 22, 2008