The School That Changed My Life

My first day of high school, I walked into the lobby and saw students with dyed red and green hair, boys and girls carrying paint easels and cameras and a girl running down the hallway with a fake tail attached to the back of her T-shirt. Everyone was quirky. Everyone was strange. 

I smiled and thought: I’m home. 

I came from a middle school where I didn’t fit in. The popular girls would pass each other notes in class and put makeup on in the bathroom together and giggle about boys. I kept my hair in a messy bun, got good grades in English and listened to my Sony Walkman. 

The girls never missed an opportunity to make me feel like I was a freak. 

“You’re weird,” they’d say to me, laugh, flip their hair, and walk away in unison.

I would quietly cry at my locker when they weren’t looking and think, “Why are they making fun of me? What did I do to deserve this?” I guess I was different, but was that really a bad thing? Was I not a good person? 

And, inevitably, I’d think: Were things ever going to get better?

Instead of going to the local public high school, I applied to a magnet school, a specialized school that prepared students for their future careers. There were “primes,” which were like majors. I applied for business, but the school also had fine art, dance, the culinary arts, singing, cosmetology, carpentry, acting and literary arts. When I was accepted, I had no idea what I was in for. 

That first day of high school felt like a giant, warm hug. 

I immediately made friends with a group of Jewish kids who all knew each other from middle school, but they took me in. We spent Friday afternoons hanging out at the mall, drinking Slurpees and trying out the Sleep Number beds while testing the employees’ patience. 

I could be myself around my friends. I didn’t have to worry about dressing a certain way or thinking about what I was going to say before I said it or wondering if they thought I was a freak. 

In high school, I talked about existential issues and joked around with my teachers, who treated us like young adults instead of kids. In the middle of accounting class, I’d ask my teacher Ms. Lynch, “What is the meaning of life, really? Does it need to involve boring balance sheets? Please tell me it doesn’t, Ms. Lynch.” 

She’d laugh and match my obnoxiousness with sarcasm.

“Yes, it does. It absolutely does. Now go back to those liabilities,” she’d say with a wink. 

High school was the first time I felt that the adults in my life were actually listening to me. In middle school, when I’d speak up or be funny, I’d get yelled at and sent to the guidance counselor. Now, I was validated. I wasn’t some annoying kid.

High school was also the first time people recognized my writing talents. I received compliments on my work in the school paper, where I flourished as a columnist who wrote about life’s trials and tribulations. Not much has changed since then, I guess.

This time in my life was profound. It taught me a major life lesson: There is always hope.

This time in my life was profound. It taught me a major life lesson: There is always hope.

I was hopeless in middle school. I felt trapped. I felt like the world didn’t want to hear from me and there was no point to being alive. Kylie was useless. Kylie was nothing. 

That all changed within a short period of time. I was so wanted and so loved in high school. All it took was a change in environment and finding people who appreciated me for who I was.

Home is out there. Sometimes you have to search hard for it, and sometimes Hashem makes it easy and lovingly hands it to you. 

One thing is for sure. When you find it, you’ll know: This is exactly where I’m meant to be. 

Want to reminiscence with me? Email me at Kylieol@JewishJournal.com.

Kylie Ora Lobell is the Community Editor of the Jewish Journal.