I discovered my love for literature and creative writing during my senior year of high school in Mr. C’s AP English class.

It was the only class I could physically attend, and even then, I usually only made it once a week — sometimes less.

I

used a lightweight suitcase as a backpack to roll so I didn’t have to lift it and risk hurting my joints. I sat in a cushioned teacher’s chair because the students’ chairs were too hard and left bruises on my spine.

The classroom was not accessible. I stood out. But there was “nothing more” the school could do for me.

Mr. C wore a cow costume every Friday and played Sublime on the stereo and let us study, or write, or read. I wasn’t allowed to have a computer to take notes on and I refused to have a scribe, so I mostly sat there, not wanting to bring any attention to myself.