When I came back from Kenya and landed in the California hedonistic mecca of Earl Warren Junior High, I was less “student” and more “cultural oddity.” I joined the Olympic Weightlifting team and became pathologically devoted to squats—so much that I’d drop into deep-knee bends while the PE teacher took roll, earning myself the nickname “Squats,” which followed me like a bad tattoo. My ignorance of marijuana culture didn’t help. I thought a “doobie” was some industrial-sized cousin of a joint—like a weed burrito—and made the mistake of announcing this to the cool kids at lunch. The laughter was volcanic. Overnight, I went from “Squats” to “Narc,” a walking PSA in gym shorts.
But my humiliation wasn’t complete until the day the snack bar opened and my friends bolted toward it for ice cream sandwiches. I stayed rooted in place, wallet empty, as a girl perched in a tree pointed at me and sang out, “Ha-ha, Jeff doesn’t have any money!” The shame hit me like the sting of the Portuguese Man o’ War that nearly killed me in Kenya.
At home, sprawled on my bed, I consulted Master Po.
“Grasshopper,” he said, “you must learn to accept disgrace with dignity. A self-image is a sword—sharpen it too much, and it snaps.”
“Easy for you to say,” I muttered. “You never got laughed at for thinking a doobie was a family-size joint.”
He continued, “If you care what others think, you become their prisoner.”
“I just want respect,” I said.
“When you stop chasing it,” he replied, “you’ll finally earn it.”
That night, I resolved to rise above it all—to become a new man. Then I did fifty squats before bed.
Cinemorphosis 
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