The Ouchii Guy

At Evergreen, I was convinced I was mediocre at best. Not athletic. Not the best artist. Not part of a tight friend group. Just… average. My grades hovered between As, Bs, and Cs—nothing that made me stand out.

I was excited at the prospect of starting at a new school. Most of the Evergreen students would go to Chaboya Middle School. The ones in my neighborhood would go to LeyVa Middle School. It felt like a chance at a fresh start.

I thought a new school meant a clean slate. It didn’t take long to realize I was carrying the same insecurities with me.

By the time I entered 6th grade, I was very aware that I was a young, gay kid. I knew I was more interested in cute guys than cute girls. I tried desperately to hide it, not fully closing the door on the idea that maybe I’d develop crushes on girls if I just let it happen. Of course, it didn’t. I wasn’t fooling anyone.

Guys would clown on me relentlessly. Girls too. I’d deny it, of course—and I think that only made it worse. Some of the Filipino guys would call me “bakla,” which essentially means queer with feminine traits. It wasn’t meant as a compliment. If I could go back, I’d tell my younger self to just own it and blow a kiss back. Too bad.

Middle school was easily one of the worst—if not the worst—times of my life.

I really bought into the Spice Girls and their whole ethos. “Girl Power.” More importantly, they said to be yourself. I remember Mel B saying it didn’t matter if you were gay or straight, and as a kid, that stuck with me. I drew a picture of Victoria Beckham (then Adams), and I remember a male classmate saying I must have drawn it for her breasts. I just laughed nervously.

All the friends from my neighborhood found their own groups at LeyVa. I couldn’t. I was still friendly with people in passing, maybe in class—but once the bell rang for lunch, I dreaded it. I’d have to figure out where to go, how to look like I belonged somewhere, how not to stand out as the kid who had nowhere to be.

One key figure who really helped me get through that time was my 6th grade teacher, Ms. Weaver. She saw something in me that I didn’t see in myself. She recognized my artistic ability and encouraged it. She told me I was a good writer. She made me believe that I was smart.

I was so used to getting in trouble at Evergreen and struggling academically that I had already decided who I was. She challenged that.

She chose me for Honor Night as the student she wanted to recognize for English. I still remember the speech she gave—calling me a great writer and an excellent artist. I know I have that photo framed somewhere in storage. That moment meant a lot to me.

During lunch, I genuinely enjoyed talking with her. I’m sure on some level she knew I didn’t have anywhere else to go. For that, I’m incredibly grateful. We’d talk about the sitcom Friends—I remember she was not a fan of Phoebe.

As time went on, I started to feel self-conscious about spending lunch in her classroom. By 7th grade, I stopped. I didn’t want to be the older kid hanging out with the incoming 6th graders. Instead, I found a new routine in the library. Every day.

What’s interesting is that when I talk to people now who went to middle school with me, they’ll say things like, “You could’ve just hung out with us.” But I tried. It just never felt like I fit.

Ms. Weaver’s kindness and support is something I’ll carry with me for the rest of my life.

As a teacher now, I think about my middle school self often—how all it took was one adult to make me feel like I could get through it. That’s what I try to be in my own classroom every day.

If my students forget everything I ever teach them, I hope they remember this: that Mr. Floro saw them, and that they had someone in their corner.

Because I know what it feels like when you don’t.

My 13th birthday. I’m a teenager now!