My High school, Sommerset, had classes arranged in three week courses. One of those classes was held in Puerto Rico. Eight of us went along, lived in the student housing of a seminary, and our lone supervisor (who was 24) turned a blind eye to the abundance of DonQ rum in our possession – at least until Nancy was nearly hospitalized for alcohol poisoning.
We did some touristy stuff mixed in with Lectures on PR history,
or speeches by peninsulares
types about statehood, or speeches by leftists about the need for independence.
We went to the beach -- either Isla Verde or Luquillo --nearly everyday,
and raided the food trucks for pina colladas, fried plantains and land crab
empenadas.
We were required to keep a journal as part of the class, and I
maintained the usual “today we went to El Moro castle and found the ruins very
interesting,” sort of drivel up until the night that Nancy drank too much. That night, our chaperone told us the rest of
the trip was cancelled and we would all fail.
So after that, failure and expulsion looming, I decided there was no
risk in journaling more brazenly. So I
wrote as I thought, and I said Fuck a lot more.
But rather than additional punishment, my instructor asked me to
continue writing in this manner. He liked
it, he said, and compared my writing to Hunter Thompson – high praise to a 17
year old. I had to clean up the syntax
and the grammar, but if I could continue in adequate volume I could pass the
class.
It was that trip, after Nancy’s bender, that I decided I was a writer.
