In the early 1960s, residents of Everglades Park preferred not to remember that not so long ago this place was considered a secluded wilderness. One after another, white block houses with exactly the same facades were built here. A few stores reminiscent of rural cooperative stores have closed, and supermarkets and department stores have replaced them. The subway was opened, the Globus movie theater was built, several spontaneous parks were landscaped, and old estates were restored. The five-storey buildings usually housed workers of nearby factories and plants, and the new nine-storey buildings provided apartments for scientific intellectuals, so very soon the neighborhood became a kind of intellectual island within the city.
Stephen Miller became a student at Everglades Park Elementary School with a mathematical bias. September 1, 1967, the boy entered the classroom in a new school uniform with a large bouquet of gladioluses in his hands. Following the other students, he placed the flowers on the teacher's desk and chose a seat at his desk. A class period followed, and then the first three lessons. At recess, the children ran noisily around the classroom and the school hallways, which the teacher called "recreation areas." Stephen remained seated in his seat. None of the familiar faces from kindergarten approached him, and he was afraid to approach anyone. By the end of the second lesson he desperately wanted to go to the toilet, but he was afraid to raise his hand and ask permission. In fact, that option had never even occurred to him. He had no idea where the restroom was in the school. How would he go there? Leaving the classroom during class was strictly forbidden. No one else dared to leave in the middle of class. Steven prepared himself for the embarrassment his parents constantly warned him about. He imagined that his father would start pouring ice water on him with triple the enthusiasm, and his mother would always look at him with that look of endless disappointment and fatigue that she used to give him when he did something wrong. He had been determined not to let it happen at all in the morning, but now his determination was gone.
The teacher was explaining a new topic when Stephen furtively slipped his hand into his school pants pocket and squeezed his penis as if he were going to tear it apart. Suddenly it felt easier. He managed to sit in this position until recess, and then even managed to go to the bathroom. There was no tragedy, but now the boy was sure that everyone had seen what he was doing. By the end of the school day, that thought was slowly driving him crazy. When the bell rang for the last class, Steven ran out of the classroom and ran home. He forgot one thing: he had to go back to school the next
It became easier for me when I kept it under control, but it started to seem like everyone saw and felt it. It was scary to imagine my parents being called to school because of it. This method made my life easier at school, and I couldn't give it up.
From Steven Miller's testimony
"How are things at school?" the father asked quite amiably when Steven returned home. "Did you manage to disgrace yourself or endure?"
"Endured," the son replied briefly, with pride and shame at the same time.
"What grades did you get?" Daniel asked in the same tone, but without any visible interest, flipping through the pages of a thick magazine lying on the kitchen table.
"They didn't give us grades," Steven replied in astonishment.
"So, a 'C.' Children are pitied nowadays; at first, they don't give 'C's to avoid upsetting them."
"No, they really didn't give grades," the boy replied, bewildered.
"Show me your notebooks," demanded Daniel, finally tearing himself away from reading.
Steven brought in a black first-grader's backpack from the hallway and placed it on the table. His father randomly picked one of the thin green notebooks and began flipping through it. On the very first page, there was a slanted line with a dot and several underlined letters.
"I told you," Daniel said contentedly, leaning back in his chair. He looked at the child, who was genuinely amazed as he examined the scribbled pages, and it seemed like he didn't even remember writing all of this or when someone managed to check anything. The father sneered contemptuously, grabbed his son by the neck, and pushed his face into the open notebook.
"Who did this? I'm asking you, who did this?!" he hissed. "You say you didn't get 'C's? What else besides 'C's can you bring?"
"But I didn't..."
"What 'but I didn't'?"
"No grades," Steven whimpered.
"Because they pitied you. You're so pitiful that they don't even give you grades."
"No grades," the boy repeated senselessly, realizing that a tragedy was about to happen and a wet spot would appear on his school pants.
The father pushed his face into the notebook again and let go, looking disgustedly at the smeared blots on the paper and the traces of lines and ticks on the child's face.
"If you get a 'C,' you're no longer our son with your mother. Let's see how much they'll pity you there," Daniel muttered, opening the thick magazine again, dedicated to the achievements of science and technology.
Steven learned his lesson and never brought home a bad grade again. However, he suspected it was due to the pity of the teacher, who always seemed overly kind to him, too solicitously asking about how he was doing and whether he had done his homework.
"Steven secured his place behind the third desk in the central row. No one liked sitting here because the teacher had a habit of explaining new topics right next to it. It was not allowed to change seats without the teacher's permission – there was no point in sitting next to friends and constantly whispering during lessons. Sometimes misbehaving students were separated and placed in different parts of the classroom, and then, occasionally, Steven would have a desk mate. However, Steven, who had been dreaming all this time about sitting next to someone, felt a panic that gripped his throat as soon as someone sat next to him. The teacher immediately understood that the boy did not cope well with increased attention, so she tried not to call on him unnecessarily to the board. Steven easily completed all written assignments, rarely receiving a grade below 'good.'
In the mornings, his father continued to pour cold water over him, although this did not happen every day anymore. Having successfully endured the required number of lessons, Steven, along with most of his classmates, ran to the music school to learn the basics of solfeggio and vocal skills. There were no special musical talents observed in him, but he was not worse than others either. Graduating from music school was considered a kind of good form, a sign of intelligence. Of course, everyone wanted to learn to play the guitar to show off their skills in the yard in the evenings. But usually, they were either sent to piano lessons or flute lessons. Especially talented students studied violin, while those not gifted with musical talent were assigned to guitar, percussion, or balalaika classes.
Very soon, most of the boys realized that attending music school was not necessary at all and started skipping classes. Of course, everyone wanted to play the guitar, but enduring the teacher's shouts during solfeggio classes or enduring ruler strikes on the fingers during specialty classes was not very fun. It was much more interesting to spend time in the yard – playing ball or chatting with a group of friends who always hung out near the garages.
Steven attended all classes, so despite his modest abilities, he usually had good grades. The problem was that the only way to move from class to class in music school was by performing at a showcase exam concert. Participation was mandatory for all students. Older students performed more complex pieces, while beginners prepared simple musical pieces or folk songs. At the end of the first year of study, Steven had to participate in such a concert."
He knew his uncomplicated piece thoroughly, rehearsed it for several months in a row, and could even perform it flawlessly in his sleep, but on the day of the concert, he suddenly felt unwell.
Steven still went to the concert. The school was buzzing with excitement. Girls came for the first time not in uniform but in velvet dresses. Naturally, ribbons and buttons immediately started flying off. Some ran to cry in the bathroom, others were sent by teachers to change clothes because of too bright outfits or not solemn enough appearance (usually this applied to boys who showed up in school uniform with worn-out elbows, greasy and ink-stained cuffs). In the confusion, no one noticed Miller, who sat on a folding chair in the auditorium until it was his turn to go on stage. As his turn approached, he turned pale and green, making the dark circles under his eyes more pronounced. "Steven Miller. First grade. Flute. Musical piece..." the teacher in dark maroon dress said. She didn't have time to finish. Steven felt nausea rising in his throat, jumped up, and dashed out of the hall. The woman stumbled, apologized to the audience, and began announcing the next student. The boy emptied his stomach in the corridor, sneaked a peek into the auditorium, realized that his name had been skipped, and headed for the exit. He didn't know yet what to tell his mother, but he firmly decided not to return to music school under any circumstances.
I didn't like going to classes. I didn't have any talent, and the teachers demanded a lot, and if you didn't comply, they would always hit you with a ruler on your hands and lips. I started skipping classes and hanging out a lot, and everyone around me was smoking, so I wanted to try it too. I liked it, it helped with socializing, gave me an outlet.
From the testimony of Steven Miller.
Over the summer, all his classmates left for pioneer camps and country houses, and Steven stayed in Miami, in the Everglades, aimlessly hanging around the streets throughout the vacations. One day he left home earlier than usual. The chairs near the rows of green garages were empty. It was usually where happy car owners and their friends gathered. They fixed cars and appliances, discussed the news and, of course, drank. The local boys liked to hang around, hoping to be welcomed into the company of adults. Sometimes it did happen. Some kind-hearted old man called the boys over to help him with his tools while he tried once again to revive his Chevy Bel Air. Steven walked over to the vacated chairs and looked with interest at the stool with a board bolted to it that served as a table. Nearby, near one of the garages, lay a pile of broken furniture and miscellaneous junk. Cigarette butts were scattered everywhere. The guys must have stayed out late last night, drank too much and smoked a couple packs. There were cheap cigarette butts underfoot, and half-smoked cigarettes of some American brand. Stephen began to collect them. When he had about twenty, he headed toward the garages. There, on a small island surrounded by trees, high school students had hung out during school hours; the younger ones had smoked their first cigarettes and tasted alcohol. Now the place was empty. Steven pulled a match from his pocket, bought at a nearby store, and tried to light a cigarette. The first puff made him cough, but he persisted, imagining the impression his classmates would make when the school year began. None of them knew how to smoke yet, and Steven hoped to make a splash in class if he learned to smoke "like an adult." Everyone looked at him with admiration and asked him to light up. He just had to get money for a pack of cigarettes.
Very soon Stephen became seriously addicted to smoking and kept the habit throughout his life. Sometimes it seemed that smoking was more important to him than breathing, because he spent so much time and money on it. Such hobbies were common in those days, and a whole culture of smoking emerged to help people feel busy and socialize.