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Bryan Lathrop says getting aBryan Lathrop says getting acollege degree after dropping out ofBryan Lathrop says getting acollege degree after dropping out ofhigh school is ultimate fulfillment. Bryan Lathrop says getting acollege degree after dropping out ofhigh school is ultimate fulfillment.Nearly 16 years have passed since I dropped out of high school. My decision was the final turn of the downward spiral that had me failing all but two of my classes by the second quarter of junior year. It was also a head-on collision with the national stereotype that equated the dropout with failure. Experience and maturity have convinced me that the axiom "high school dropouts cannot succeed" is a myth. I was confident I would never fulfill society's dropout prophecy, but the reactions of my classmates, teachers and family when I made my decision did little to ease the feeling that I had made an irreversible and catastrophic choice. They, too, had fallen for the myth. "Bryan, do you realize the repercussions of dropping out?! You're making a very serious mistake! You'll only limit your opportunities!" A few kids, however, saw nothing wrong with my decision. They wished they'd had enough moxie to do the same thing, and showed a quiet admiration for my believing in myself enough to make the move. The fears of those around me may have been based in genuine concern for my well-being, but they demonstrated little faith in my capacity to succeed. What looked like a suicide leap to them, I viewed as a headlong dive into personal integrity. Here was my chance to begin an education where every course would be challenging, pertinent and practical. Before long I was engulfed by the real world's harsh realities. I realized how much I had limited my options when the only employment I could find was part-time stocking shelves. All the same, there was no turning back. My main interest at the time was leading the punk rock band I had started after leaving school. The band never became the means through which I would "self-actualize." But five years with the group was certainly a vital step in the process. There were shows in Philadelphia and New York. There was the excitement of producing our own music, our own message and the challenge of writing lyrics that clearly conveyed that message. Then there was the disappointment of learning that the world can't be changed overnight -- least of all by good intentions and less still by politically correct lyrics. But more than anything, there was the strong sense that I had somehow gained an edge over my ex-classmates by living a reality most of them would never choose to acknowledge. They wanted nothing to do with the reality that reigns over the poor sections of town, where there is no separation, no headline or television screen between you and the poverty, racism, violence and drugs. It's all live. Anyone caught living in a shell of permitted ignorance out there could easily lose his life. High school didn't bother with such topics. Instead, it dealt with the learning -- or the memorization -- of literary anecdotes, algebraic algorithms and historical details, none of which seemed relevant. Thus dawned my awareness that anyone who took school too seriously ran the risk of becoming an intellectual casualty, a mind so full of other people's axioms and theories that it rejects its own thoughts to live a vicarious, textbook life. I felt a certain smugness in avoiding this fate, never settling for second-hand accounts of the world around me, but instead plunging headlong into whatever roused my curiosity. This mindset not only helped me avert failure, but later fortified my education with "coursework" that included trips to Central America, writing workshops with acclaimed poets and helping a friend with AIDS cope with his illness. These lessons came after I had left the band and started a career at an insurance agency. My new job placed me in the none-too-stimulating capacity of mail clerk -- exactly the type of position to which I would be forever chained, according to my high school peers. My tour of duty sorting mail, making copies, keeping inventory and being treated as a non-person lasted only three-and-a-half years -- then I was promoted. My promotion was evidence I had achieved success. Rather than being relegated to a future of menial labor, I had earned a respectable position with a company that offered good pay, benefits, stability and room for growth. What more could I have asked for? Fulfillment -- the essential component of success. I may have had all the other pieces in place, but I was not satisfied with my job. Dissatisfaction grew into restlessness; success had more to do with fulfilling my potential than with the status conferred by a job title. This is when I began entertaining the idea of going back to school -- college, that is. I wanted a formal education to help put together the lessons I'd learned through experience, and maybe to find a career that would provide fulfillment. I needed to prove to myself, to everyone who had predicted my failure and to society at large that this dropout was a success. I aimed to shed the stigma, once and for all. Almost eight years passed before I decided to return to school. It was during the application process that I received confirmation that I had indeed "arrived," in spite of, or rather because of, being a dropout. It came in a letter -- the recommendation my high school guidance counselor wrote on my behalf to the University. "By dropping out of high school," he wrote, "Bryan has not only transformed a liability into an asset that can only grow in value, but he has provided himself one of the best educations available." As I prepare for graduation, I know he is correct.