Deciding to be a Bronco

Mr. Fazoli's homeroom was a strange place. Even though he looked like a short bodybuilder, he was an art teacher. He would wear button up shirts that never seemed to fit him right. The art he taught was metalworking, so in addition to the teacher that looked out of place, the student in his homeroom looked out of place. We sat around desks as of they were normal desks, not the scarred and burned workbenches they were. You tried to ignore the centrifuge, which was used to push molten silver deep Into a plaster mold of a ring or pendant. So, we sat in this abused workshop just waiting for the bell to ring, signaling we could go.

The class was loud, not because it was not a great group of kids, but also because the acoustics of the room reverberated ever noise. On this day, though, the teacher, whose white T-shirt could be seen in the gaps between his buttons, was strutting back and forth trying to get our attention. In five minutes, he was red faced with frustration, many f the kids were only half aware of what was going on and the bell rung. So, as we walked by to go to our first hours he told us we needed to schedule some time with our councilors. It was to plan what we would do after high school.

I don't remember how the session got planned, probably the councilor chased me down and made me schedule a time. At this time of my life I wasn't proactive about too much of anything. Either way, Mr. Siedleman and I sat in his office, which I remember more like a college professors office, than it actually was. I imagine the piles of books and papers, trophies and family pictures, which may or may not have been there. What I know for sure was there was the two of us, me and the person who knew me as 681646, because I was one of four Jason Smith's, and a stack of college brochures. He asked what I wanted to do, I told him writing, he looked at my grades and asked what kind of writing, I told him novels, and he gave me paperwork for a dozen different schools. He sent me off telling me to get my grades up and fill out those applications sooner, rather than later.

I actually didn't waste a lot of time before filling out the applications, Spring Arbor, Alma, Michigan State, Michigan and Western Michigan University and a handful more I can't think of right now. I read the information I had on them, tried to see what they had going for them and tried to evaluate who would make me the best writer. I looked at the pictures trying to imagine if I could write in a notebooks on the steps of that library, if a building or tree would be inspiring.

I think I got my first acceptance from Spring Arbor, which meant I knew I would be able to go to college. Yes, me grades at the time did make that a question I was asking. Next, I think Alma. Both were good, though both seemed a little small. I wasn't sure about how robust of an experience I would get. Third was Western Michigan University. I had beautiful, inspiring pictures. I remember the fountain in the middle of what seemed to be an endless inspiring place to hang out. I thought about how my Aunt Nancy lived there, so I could save a little money. I saw an article about a few writers who had gotten some fame taught there. I was hooked. So, without checking with my friends or making much more of a plan than that, I decided. I became a Bronco.