My high school, in response to the pressures of younger, hipper teachers, decided to create a special Student Counseling Center during my freshman or junior year. It was a special room where students could go to discuss their problems with a counselor and where student group therapy sessions could be held. I guess this is probably pretty routine now, but it was considered radical at the time.

I was pretty seriously into hallucinogens and other Aquarius Experimentation. At first I lurked around the meeting room. I contributed to the artwork on the walls, played guitar, but did not engage in discussions, private or group. At some point I guess I felt more comfortable and talked with the counselor one-on-one. I think his name was Rich.

I told him about my drug use and my (at that time) flirtations with Heroin. I told him about running away from home and my hostility toward myself and my peers. I told him everything, quite frankly. I think this was before the rape - in any event, I do not remember discussing my sexuality.

One morning I was called out of class to report to the Principal's office. It was more or less a badge of honor to get called to the Principal's office among us "counter revolutionary types". I suspected (hoped, actually) that it had something to do with my illicit participation in a scathing underground newspaper. Or at worst, tardiness. Whatever.

I was led into a conference room. Seated at the long, oval table were the principal, vice-principal, guidance counselor, all of my teachers, Rich the Student Counseling Center counselor, and my parents. I can remember clearly going into a silent mania.

Rich repeated, in stenographic accuracy, everything I had told him in confidence.

"Mr. and Mrs. Man, I'm sure this must come as a surprise to you. But I feel it is my moral obligation to inform you of your son's activities, before he hurts himself or someone else. I hope you will not punish him but work with him to overcome these difficulties."

My mother cried. My father joked, "We're going to beat him senseless when we get home." Ha ha ha. Everyone felt relieved. A good outcome after all!

My parents ignored the incident.

I flew off into heroin hell.

I remember my art teacher, who had always taken an interest in me as a person. I remember the aghast look on her face at the meeting. I remember looking into her green eyes and thinking, This is a surprise to her, too. The meeting, not the drug abuse. I loved her and she loved me. But it wasn't enough, and we both knew it.