Rex Ogle is an award-winning author of more than a hundred books, comics, graphic novels, and memoirs-most notably Free Lunch, Road Home, Four Eyes, and Pizza Face.   

When I was a senior in high school, I was called into the principal’s office. Again. But only for, like, the fourteenth time in six months. I wasn’t exactly a model student. But what confounded my teachers and administrators was that one of their detention regulars (who had been suspended twice in the first semester) was also making straight As in his classes—all of which were either Honors or Advanced Placement. As one of my favorite poets at the time, Walt Whitman, wrote: “I am large, I contain multitudes.”   

I contained multitudes at a very early age.   

One thing I wish my teachers knew then? That I wasn’t a bad kid. . . I just wasn’t necessarily a good one either. I fell somewhere in the middle of a spectrum, though I found most educators wanted to lump students into either “good” or “bad.” But I’m not faulting those teachers. Coming from a family of educators, I knew that what they endured on a daily basis was not only stressful, but exhausting. I also knew the pay wasn’t great and at times it was hard to remember that they were making the world a better place through educating the next generations.  

Yes, I mouthed off at school to students and teachers because at home, I had to stand my ground when my bipolar mom or drunk stepfather would come for me with loud hateful words or their angry fists. I never hit my mom back, not once. I prided myself on that. But being slapped around regularly left me with a lot of rage that I tried to bury. . . unsuccessfully. So, at school, I got into fights. I got into loud arguments. But I also had this overwhelming desire to prove everyone wrong and make something of myself. My abuela was the only person in my life who encouraged me, and she’s the one who impressed on me that a good education was everything.   

I wasn’t a bad kid, and I wasn’t necessarily a good one either. . . but I wanted to be. I can say with ease that I never—never—disrespected an English or an art teacher. They were my saviors in more ways than one. They taught me words and stories, they offered me glimpses into the past and the future, they showed me the perspectives of people I’d never met and might not understand. They were rock stars in my eyes. And they were the only ones who knew something was going on with me—and didn’t judge me for it.   

They saw my pain in my paintings and in my essays.  They felt my denial and despair and depression. They knew I was struggling, and they helped in any little way they could. When I handed in my first essay to Mrs. Humphrey in her World Literature class, I held my head low. I couldn’t make eye contact with her because I was ashamed of the drops of blood on the first page. On my way to school that morning, my mom had an episode in the car, pulled over on the side of the road, and slapped me repeatedly until my nose was gushing before she kicked me out on the side of the highway and said, “You can walk the rest of the way to school.”   

Mrs. Humphrey saw the crimson on the words I had written in my own hand and she asked simply, “Are you okay?” I said, “No.” She said, “Is there anything I can do?” I shook my head and asked if she could give me an extension on my extra credit because I had an after-school job. She said simply, “Of course.” She did not pry. She did not push. But she asked. She asked, and that made all the difference.   

Her acknowledgment meant I had someone in my corner who cared. Someone who didn’t see me as “that punk” or “that poor kid” or “that little monster.” She knew I was trying. She knew I was doing the best I could. And she supported me in my efforts, encouraging me in whatever little way she could. On the last day of school, she asked me to stay after class and handed me a book—Mark Twain’s Letters from the Earth. She said, “Life is hard.  Sometimes, writing helps.” She was right. (And that book still sits in my office, smiling on me.) 

Now that I’m writing this, I would like to extend an apology to my Science and History and Math teachers. (Maybe not the Gym teachers, who often made asinine comments about me being a fairy and a beaner.) But I am sorry to those who I blew up on. It wasn’t about you. It was about me, my raging hormones, and my overwhelming anxiety to escape a soul-crushing home life.  

But I would also like to thank those educators who saw that I wasn’t just one thing.  I wasn’t just the kid who got suspended for belting another student in the face (after he hit his girlfriend in the hall, which no one reported, including her). I wasn’t just the kid who had to sit and talk with the campus police because I reeked of weed (that my best friend smoked and sold to pay his mom’s rent). I wasn’t just the kid who received four weeks of detention for sneaking the word “masturbation” into our school’s literary magazine (because I didn’t believe in censorship then, and I don’t believe in it now).   

Those teachers also saw that I always read their assigned reading (and was ready to discuss it in class).  Those teachers saw that I turned my papers in on or before the due date (or asked if I could have an extension for personal reasons). Those teachers saw that I always did the extra credit (even if I didn’t need it). These educators didn’t jump to conclusions.  They simply kept their eyes open and treated me with compassion and respect—something many teens are not used to. 

At high school graduation, my dad didn’t show and my mom gave me a nice black eye before I walked the stage. But after I got my diploma, my favorite teachers hugged me and shared in my laughter. . . because the fourteenth time (and the last time) I was called into the principal’s office wasn’t because I was in trouble. It’s because he had to tell me, “I don’t know how you did it, but you made the top twenty in your class.” My response: “You hired good teachers.” 

It’s a little weird most days to think about where I am now.  After four decades, I’m finally doing what I always dreamed about—writing books full-time. After years of writing fantasy and sci-fi and horror novels (all of which were rejected), I decided to try something different: owning my past instead of running away from it. In recalling those hard first seventeen years of life, and writing about them, I found a voice I didn’t know I had. Making Free Lunch was the hardest thing I’d ever put on paper, but teachers and librarians assured me it was an important story. They encouraged me to not be ashamed, to keep writing those things that made me who I am today.   

It’s almost funny now that I think about it. When I was a boy, educators were there. When I was a teen, educators were there. And now, as my writing career begins, educators are here, cheering me on. Again.   

So, remember: Kids these days?  They’re not all good, and they’re not all bad. More than ever, they are overwhelmed, stressed, and anxious. And many of them are living through what I did at home. So, while I know that your job is difficult—and sometimes feels impossible—please know: YOU are making a difference. YOU are changing lives. YOU are guiding the future of our nation and our world. These kids rely on you more than you know. Your smile may be the only one they get that day. And while they may not know how to thank you today, four decades from now, they’re going to think back, and they’re going to be grateful for all you taught them.   

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