Eleventh Grade
"I was always reminded of a tea kettle filled with boiling water which
had to let off steam or explode; had I been unable to "blow-it-out," my
emotions would have strained violently against my being, and while a
shattered teapot could be replaced, sanity was less easily restored."
CHAPTER TWENTY
Eleventh Grade
Adolescence is an explosive age wherein change is an intrinsic factor.
One begins to weigh the significance of specific values in an attempt
to discover which values shall be given foremost importance in life.
There are numerous trials and errors, and many lessons are learned
through failure or fear. An elder's words of wisdom are not always
sufficient to curb the pangs of rebellion; the youth wishes to use his
own mind to dictate that which he shall experience rather than to live
through the vision of greater knowledge.
With the onset of 11th grade, I had gained enough confidence to pursue
my version of parental rebellion which, compared to my characteristic
desire to please and meld, baffled and then concerned my mom and dad.
Disputes generally centered on minor details such as curfew, yet
progressed to include whose company I could keep and which events I
could attend. For the first time in my life, I was trying to make my
conflicting views heard. This measure only created misery on all
fronts, however, because my father did not welcome variances of
opinion. I never yelled in my efforts to illustrate my views, for that
would have proven disastrous; but despite my steady-voiced assertions,
conversation became more difficult and rendered the family bliss into a
sort of haphazard time-bomb. As a result, I began to foster unwanted
feelings of intolerance toward little quirks and mannerisms, as often
will accompany deeper grievances and unsettled disputes. Instead of
accepting the gap of understanding that had evolved, I projected the
frustration which came from the impasse upon petty outlets. The little
things ate at my mind and aggravated me beyond all reason; I despised
myself for allowing such inconsequential details to taint my father's
image or turn me from his love.
With my mom, it was different. She allowed me to voice my opinions
although they differed from her own. Despite my plea for "freedom " I
was choked by the ambivalence of my emotions. I longed for choice yet
craved intervention. For example, certain days found me in an
unexplainably aggressive state of mind and my anger begged to be given
reign over rationality. So perturbed was I with my inner turmoil that
sometimes I wished to argue for its own sake, creating an issue to
banter back and forth like a volley ball; other times I wanted mom to
say "no" and thereby settle a dispute which raged internally, for
parental objections were often weightier and less subject to
contestation than were personal decisions to forego a particular event.
Of course, there were also those things which I desired to discuss,
yet felt compelled to remain hidden from my mom; I knew that to share
certain instances would have jeopardized my ability to see many
"friends," and although many of those individuals I later decided to
avoid, I needed to make the decision on my own.
One person who understood was Norm. It was not so long ago that he had
undergone the need for independence, and sympathized with my sometimes
over-blown grievances. When I spoke to Norm it seemed that my
"problems" dissipated into the wind or became so insignificant that I
could easily bear their weight. The changes in my outlook and
disposition seemed only fleeting steps to adulthood, rather than
imprisoning hours.
In my eyes, Norm's life was a reflection of perfect balance,
self-sufficiency and peace of mind. I longed for the day when I too
would be able to own a house and make all the choices that were his.
I dreamed of such a life, and it seemed incredible that he would ever
seek an alternative. Paradise, however, as well as prison, is in the
eye of the beholder.
It no longer seemed of much importance. He could do it, and the
knowledge of his initial success was of more worth than continued
success. Norm decided to move home.
The divorce had left my brother with half of a house and, in certain
respects, half of a life. It was necessary at the time to prove to
himself that he could live alone. Therefore, Norm paid for a house and
refurbished its interior; he performed all domestic functions while
working a 40 hour week; he found mental stimulation through books and
occasional personal interaction with friends. Such accomplishments
provided a sense of satisfaction; the gradual rebuilding of Norm's
physical world complimented the restoration taking place within himself.
Once Norm had finalized his basic dreams in the material sense,
however, it grew obvious that the inner rebuilding which still clamored
for completion could not be done alone. He was the sole spark of life
in a house from which the cobwebs of deceit could never be wiped. But
for an attic full of worn out memories, his was an empty house.
Houses, of themselves, do not indenture the heart; thus, without regret
or apology, Norm came home.
January was the coldest it had been in years, or so it seemed. To
brighten the blustery evening, Norm had invited me to share a pizza
with him at his house. I gladly accepted the invitation and spent
several pleasant hours staring at a lively fire and talking.
I departed feeling very content, never suspecting his oppressive
loneliness. Norm had concealed it from everyone, and it came as
somewhat of a surprise to see him standing at the door so soon after
saying good-night; loneliness pooled in his eyes and I realized it had
filtered deeper than any cursory glance could have perceived.
Personally, I was elated at the prospect of sharing the upstairs with
my brother, especially if living at home was what he truly wished.
Several years earlier the arrangement would not have succeeded; then he
sought to free himself from the constraints of youth through
establishing his own credibility as a functioning part of society. Now
he had tasted life's offerings, the sweet and the bitter, and knew that
he could alter his happiness through certain changes on his part.
Loneliness was one pain which he had the power to alleviate; his return
was a matter of choice, not defeat, and with a clear conscience
regarding his desire, pursued his intent. After assuring his welcome,
he and I drove to his house so he could secure a parcel of clothing and
other necessities for the night.
As one household began to dissolve, the family home eagerly digested
the other's former occupant and his belongings. It took several months
for Norm's house and major furnishings to be sold, but those objects
that he wished to retain were loaded unceremoniously into sacks and
stashed in the attic or placed hastily about various parts of the
house. A microwave found its station on the basement counter, and
shelving provided a haven for his stereo equipment. A handsome
recliner stole a living room corner and became known as NORM'S CHAIR;
if he entered the room to find HIS CHAIR occupied, he didn't quite know
where to sit. It became evident that this home was his home and, with
an ample dose of personal interaction and companionship, the emotional
wounds had begun to heal.
School was actually fun for me after my tongue lost some of its shy
inhibitions and I was able to joke and carry on conversations before
classes. I joined no extra-curricular activities, however, since I
valued free time and generally wished to go home or to a friend's house
directly following school. Moreover, I entertained the idea of finding
a part-time job, and did not wish to spread myself so thinly over those
undertakings which I had deemed to be worthy of my time; I was still a
perfectionist, and that ruled even the most rebellious of my whims.
That autumn I obtained employment at a fashionable store in a local
shopping mall. I was notably excited since the job promised to be
better aligned to my interests than either of my other jobs...
babysitting and a two week stint at a fabric store. The former, I
decided, demanded too much of my tolerance and felt I should quit
before I was jailed for child abuse. Actually I, the sitter, was the
abused party; I would return home after an evening of utter turmoil
clenching three dollars in my hand.
On the worst occasion, I was to sit for two children at the end of the
avenue. Soon after my arrival I discovered I was sitting for only one
child; the other a monster. Inside of three hours he managed to reduce
my state of mind to that of a murderess. He disobeyed every request,
every order, every threat. He ignored his mother's dictate that
specified he could eat no more than two candy bars. After consuming
five, the bag of candy went on top of the refrigerator, the sole place
in the house which he was unable to reach. The monster, outraged, then
proceeded to unshelf every toy he owned and move it into the living
room. Afterward, he decided to hide in the closet.
For a brief moment, I was relieved. Seeing this action had an adverse
effect on me, in his opinion, he came out, wielding the vacuum cleaner,
and tore about the house like a wild thing. His next move,
unfortunately, was to raid another closet, from which he carefully
selected a bag of rubber bands. These he pinged across the room,
firing joyously, until I impeded his efforts. The rubber bands found
themselves on the refrigerator.
I looked up. Ten o'clock. Unbelieveable. The parents said they'd be
home "around twelve." I took a deep breath and noticed the monster was
cackling from some unseen location. Deciding that I should pursue the
source of my discontent, I finally found him grinning widely at the
door of his bedroom. "I let the gerbils out of their cage," he
announced proudly. I rolled my eyes. "Terrific," I replied, lacking
any enthusiasm. As I had a gerbil, I was not frightened at the
prospect of catching the rodents, but was concerned they might become
lost in a couch or any of the thousand other places a gerbil could
hide. I immediately dropped to my hands and knees, knowing they
generally fled beneath the furniture, and searched the carpet for the
tiny animals. Sure enough, they were nervously enjoying their freedom
under the bed's protective cover. I succeeded in flushing them into
the open, whereupon they were promptly stripped of their liberty and
lifted, by way of their tails, into the cage.
I turned out the light and marched into the living room where boy
monster and his sister plotted against me behind suspicious smiles.
I sat down and he left the room; not desiring to be surprised, I
followed, entering his room just as he was about to unleash one of his
gerbils again. "No!" I yelled. He disappeared, leaving the business
of finding the gerbil to me; it took a bit longer this time because the
mite had escaped to the master bedroom before I could detain it. Once
I had the animal by the tail, I returned to the bedroom in time to
intercept the monster's second attempt to free his other gerbil.
Determined that no more searches would take place that evening, the
gerbil cage also decorated the refrigerator top.
Of course, bedtime was a chore in itself, but one battle which I was
determined to win. Through a stroke of luck or a dream realized, the
two finally went to sleep, leaving me to blink at the T.V. in a
fatigued stupor until I collapsed on the couch.
The parents returned well after two o'clock in the morning to find me
slumped where I had fallen several hours earlier; I had earned the
sleep, especially under the circumstances that I endured. Having
baby-sat for over seven hours, on which I had not counted, I felt that
my brush with insanity would be buffered by a "substantial" payment.
The husband handed me some tightly folded bills and two quarters as I
stepped into the night air, and by the feel of the wad, I trusted his
integrity and believed that my effort might have been worthwhile,
indeed. The "going rate" was at least 75 cents per hour, with the rate
increasing to $l.00 or $l.50 for every hour past midnight. I
calculated in my mind as I paced toward my house, knowing that I had
been gone seven and a half hours, and turned the bills over in my hand
with anticipation. "A five and maybe a couple of ones. . ." a thought
echoed. I opened the door and entered, removed my shoes, and went into
the kitchen to see what the light would reveal. Unrolling the bills
reverently, I straightened them one by one and put them on the table.
One, two, three, four dollars. . . and fifty cents. I stared silently
at the bills, recalling that my minimum payment should have been $5.75.
I felt used and cheated, and frankly, quite insulted. My mom, too,
was angry and said I should protest my under-payment, but I was afraid
to call "grown-ups" and let the matter drop.
The following week I received a phone call from the mother, requesting
that I baby-sit some night that week. I had not honestly let the
matter drop, for it had festered in my mind since its occurrence, and
bid me forego further assignments with that family. "No," I replied.
A hush ensued, urging me to explain. "I won't... I can't handle your
kids." In a diminutive tone, the woman acknowledged my statement and
said good-bye; by her response I somehow felt she had just experienced
de ja vu. In certain respects, I pitied her, and in others, I pitied
the children. The latter would one day rise to discover the world was
greater than mother's protective and generous arms could encompass.
Perhaps the former would one day wonder why she had treated "no" like a
word from a foreign language.
Deep inside I believe that humans desire a sense of discipline from
youth; guidance assures a child that his guardians care about his life
enough to intervene in areas of possible danger or misdirection.
Discipline commands respect toward oneself and others because it brings
order to chaos and reality to life. As I grew and observed my
classmates, I saw those whose parents were not restrictive often led
sordid lives. They lied excessively or vulgarly splashed the truth
before their parents to openly wound them. I cringed to see such cruel
treatment of good people, for these parents had never lived lives
similar to their child. At first I was baffled by my classmates'
apparent hate for their parents, so I compared their lives to my own
and discovered that, as children, tantrums and tears produced their
desires. I used neither, for neither would have proven effective; "no"
always meant "no" whether referring to a request or given as a
disciplinary expression. I respected my mom and dad's authority, which
consequently augmented my love for them. This was essentially the
differing factor which separated my childhood from that of my friends.
I concluded that their "hate" evolved from a lack of respect combined
with the bitterness of leading empty, selfish lives; instead of
searching themselves, they blamed their parents for their frustration.
The parents cannot bear the entire burden, however, for each normal
human possesses a mind which is quite capable of inviting either
positive or negative change into his life.
Discipline is essential for the attainment of maturity, and the sooner
one encounters it, or becomes aware of its necessity, the sooner growth
can begin. I reflected over my current wish for freedom, and was
silently glad that my parents had always voiced appropriate objections
toward my sometimes doubtful intentions. No one had ever labeled me a
"brat," I mused with satisfaction, so why should I babysit for other
people's nightmares?
My first "real" job, for which I filled out an application, was as a
clerk in a fabric store. Since my ex-sister-in-law had worked there
and because I sewed occasionally and purchased goods at the store, I
viewed the place as somewhat of an old friend. That fact did not abate
my initial nervousness, however, nor did it serve to reverse my
ultimate opinion of the place once its image had steeped in a boiling
pot of reality. I liked people, but when people became "customers"
certain nasty transformations often took place. This I quickly learned
when, without ample training, I was hurled amid a mob of angry women
who had stampeded into the store for the weekly bargains and expected
rapid service. Once my nerves were ruffled, I tottered precariously on
the edge of tears; I wished to please, but my conscientious attitude
could not tolerate overt customer hostility when I was doing my best.
After the cyclone dissipated, I would return bolts of fabric to their
various locations; if I did not know where a certain type should be
placed, I asked for direction. Inquiry, I reasoned, was better than
making rash mistakes. This part of the job, combined with cleaning and
general upkeep, became my favorite as I needed not worry about customer
interaction or managerial displeasure.
After two weeks, the manager called the three night employees to the
counter after closing out the cash register in order to voice some
complaints. Because I was the newest employee, he directed many
explicit implications toward me, essentially blaming me for numerous
misplaced bolts of material which he had gathered throughout the store
and brought to the counter. He reported, also, that the money in the
register and the amount dictated by the receipts did not coincide;
"someone," he said, "has been short changing customers." He looked at
me. "Laurie, you've got to be more accurate and speed up." When the
speech was over and the misplaced cloth returned, we all fled from the
store; company morale, I previously learned, had suffered under this
manager. I reached my car and, once inside, let go of the frustrations
and hurt that had multiplied since the job began, letting myself cry
freely, without restraint. The blame, I felt, was unwarranted. The
assistant manager had told me earlier that week that I was doing fine.
I had not been responsible for the misplaced bolts of cloth, for I'd
not seen those particular patterns that day; a customer could easily
have decided against the material and stashed it in the nearest rack.
As I thought about the excess cash, I recalled that, in past
experiences of making change, I classically over-paid, not under-paid
the customer, which would have resulted in a loss for the store. While
I may have been responsible for some error, I believed that all
complaints could not lead to me.
For the sake of my nerves, I decided to quit the job. I dried my
tears, drove out of the parking lot and headed home, where I then
called the store and told the manager I was through. I felt better
than I had felt in two weeks.
My job at the shopping mall was a vast improvement. Not only did I
work for an amiable manager, but I did not have to ring up sales at
all. A cashier was in charge of that responsibility. Moreover, when
I eventually learned to act as a replacement cashier, I had no qualms
toward making change since the machine instructed me "how much" was
owed or received; I had only to count the currency.
Again, my favorite part of the job dealt with the stock itself, rather
than the customers. I enjoyed helping people when they desired
assistance, yet revolted internally against the thought of
administering high key sales pitches to the public. This was the only
objectionable aspect of my employment at the store, for occasionally
the manager would encourage me to be more aggressive toward customers
and try to sell merchandise to those who had no intention of buying
anything. Admittedly, I would have preferred to hide behind racks of
sweaters, sizing and straightening, than to approach a stranger and
ask, "Could I interest you in a dress today?" followed by a persuasive
cascade of sweetness and sales talk. Such tactics never worked for me
and I found I sold more through helpful suggestions than flamboyant
appeals. Nevertheless, when sales dropped after Christmas at an
alarming rate, reflecting the fact that everyone's closets were full
and their wallets empty, only the best sales people were given enough
hours to add up to a worthwhile pay check. During this decline, I
spent most of my working hours in the storeroom, unloading and hanging
new merchandise. This suited me perfectly, despite the few hours and
accompanying meager pay; if only I could have found a part-time job
dealing exclusively with stock work, I would have been in a state of
bliss, able to simultaneously work and think. . . and be paid for my
time.
As the working hours decreased and I found that I had spare time beyond
that which was required to accomplish my homework, I sought excuses to
obtain one of the cars and escape my self-imposed prison at home. With
friends or alone, I would shop, run errands, or simply drive around the
city streets. The car became a symbol of freedom and attainable
destinations, an inanimate capsule devoid of judgemental constraints.
In the car I could whoop and holler, cry or laugh; I could vent my
exasperation to the music on the radio, or wallow in a pool of
depression without spreading the effect upon anyone else.
I was essentially adrift on a sea of emotions, constantly hurled from
happiness to depression and back again. As contradictory as it may
sound, I believe the instability of my emotions was the element which
permitted me to maintain overall sanity; instability was one thing on
which I could depend, for no emotion seethed within me long enough to
create duress of itself.
I asked myself, "Why am I depressed?" I had no right to be depressed,
in my opinion, yet I felt I had no control over my radical ups and
downs. "I'm healthy for the most part, my hair has returned, thicker
than it was previously, I'm doing well in school and have a few people
to call 'friends' . . . so what is wrong?" Through that year the
question remained hidden in the back of my mind, unanswered yet
unshakeable. I continued to pursue happiness through a confused sense
of individualism and an uncharacteristic flurry of activity. I was
befuddled by my own ambivalence and, to further harass my state of
being, allowed the fluctuating emotions of others to work upon my mind,
thereby creating disturbances beyond all reason.
To this end, I fancied myself to be in love with a young guy with whom
I had become acquainted through "in-the-hall" pleasantries and smiles.
After two "dates" we discovered we could converse remarkably; I was
delighted by the apparent honesty that we shared and became confident
that our's would prove to be the romantic friendship of the decade.
Having been subjected to hurtful and unreasonable endings of
relationships, however, I had no intention of placing my pride in
jeopardy through a display of groveling affection or stifling promises.
I told myself to subdue my feelings and expect nothing, yet hoped
desperately that the dominoes I had erected would fall in the orderly
fashion that my forethought deserved.
As it happened, my "dominoes" fell in a manner which had no sense of
order. I learned quickly that "good deserts" had nothing to do with
the final outcome of a situation, and even one's offering of platonic
friendship could be dealt a cruel blow or be considered unacceptable.
Despite these unwarranted actions against my cautious and understated
affection, I could not entirely cancel the heartfelt wishes my mind
contained because he continued, at very sporadic intervals, to
encourage a romance. In no time at all I was thoroughly confused as
to the part I played and my significance in his life. On certain days
he spoke to me at school,and other days I was ignored or avoided. The
same was true pertaining to encounters outside of school, which often
resulted through chance rather than a specific plan. Whether he would
assume a romantic stance or pursue a totally platonic guise became a
valid mystery. This infernal uncertainty did nothing to promote
self-confidence, for within me I continually questioned the purpose of
his unpredictable snubs; was I too tall? Did I embarrass him? Was I
not in the "right" crowd? Questions, unanswered, riddled my mind and
shook my heart. As the school year coasted along, I began to realize
I couldn't necessarily take all of his cold shouldered greetings or
lack of acknowledgement as personal digs against my presence. He had
problems of his own and moods of his own; this revelation on my behalf
only gave me more reasons to worry and dwell on him, however. No
longer did I cope only with my own burdens, but attempted to share the
pronounced emotions displayed by my "flame." When he looked
melancholic, I too, soon adopted the feeling for myself; if he was
happy, I could be happy. I quickly became aware of the fact that my
technique was indeed a lousy one and the potential for happiness was
quite slim. With my friends having only mouths, their ears plugged
with their own concerns, I resorted to the written expression of my
personal pressures. Though the paper could not respond, it similarly
could neither judge or reveal my emotional sieges of ink, for the
hurried scrawls were carefully concealed. In this fashion, many
troubles were rationally resolved; my thoughts were considerably less
hideous when viewed as written words, set apart from the mental clutter
composed of both reasonable and emotional meanderings. I could
objectively scan the bold sweeps crossing page after page and discern
the real from the imagined... My deep felt depression carried
through to today. . . as well as my bad luck! I saw D as I was coming
and wasn't extremely thrilled, which is a shocker in itself; and to top
it off, he barely squeaked out a "Hi" to me. That wasn't too much of
a surprise, because he has been known to ignore a person. . . me, for
example. I must admit I'm really not all here today. I just don't
understand what is going on with him. One day he is my friend and the
next, he is a stranger. . . Oh, well, I can get so depressed sometimes,
it's not even funny! The weird thing is that I'm not especially
depressed today, I'm just in a weird mood. . . When I got home, Dad got
mad because I forgot to tell them about the PSAT test. He asked about
five different times why I didn't let them know. I was so shocked that
I went outside and climbed the big pine tree. I'm upset when I do
that... especially when there are no branches on the lower half of the
tree, and I had to jump to the lowest branch! I got in a better mood
after awhile, but it took a bit of psyching on my part!
Spring 1979
Walking down the wide highway of life....
Happy, but confused.
I've noticed you walking that highway too,
And I've often wondered if you felt the same way I do...
And then one day you came to me,
Smiling, and holding out your hand in friendship.
Was it two weeks? Four?
The time seemed to fly past
Whenever I was by your side.
With you, I had no fear to reveal myself...
I felt comfortable and secure
When you were near,
And thought of you constantly
Whenever you were away.
In addition to hurried prose and diary entries, I also began pinning
down my feelings in the form of poetry. Within the poems I could lament
my confusion and aloneness, and the self-dependency which had become
threatened by my offering of friendship and its subsequent futility.
Love Rollercoaster
Days robed in silence...depressed for awhile,
Then turn around with a flash of a smile.
Happy, contented, with work and with play,
Don't get excited, it's only one day!
Tapping my shoulder, "HI, there!" he said,
One hour later, I wish I was dead!
So much confusion, so little I know,
Oh! To run and hide...to get up and go!
Age seventeen and still the same goal.
Filling my mind, my body, my soul.
My love is something I just can't ignore,
But I'm so tired...Can I take any more?
Depression sets in like a cold, dark stare,
And spurs my asking "Why do I care?"
That question comes again and again...
Face it kid...this is the battle that you'll never win!
Lauren Isaacson
Spring of 1979
Love's Confusion
Words...
Interpreted, exaggerated...
Glances...
Real and imagined...
Actions performed to hurt,
To confuse, to make happier
Some stranger's day.
I am that stranger,
Jack of many trades.
A translator,
Psychologist,
Handyman, all in one.
Like a stranger,
I am trying to know you.
Like a translator,
I am trying to understand.
Lauren Isaacson
Spring of 1979
A Heart Untaken
I gave my heart away,
That's not easy,
No, not at all.
I am...dependent...
On none other than myself.
So why then, am I
Still falling head-first
Into a bottomless cavern?
Yes, I gave my heart away.
But it was left untaken,
Blowing in the wind.
How can I describe
The way I feel?
There are no words
To relate the emptiness
And darkness
Which has prevailed
Upon my soul...
My entire being.
I need to be reconstructed,
Rejuvenated...accepted
By those I love.
Is that asking too much?
How is one expected to live
If no one will accept his love?
He cannot live...
Merely exist.
Lauren Isaacson
Spring 1979
Love Is
Love is,
It has no time,
No place.
When there is love,
One knows;
It can be felt in the air
Like a cool breeze
From calm seas.
Love can penetrate
The heart
Like a sword;
it can be painful,
And tear one apart
Piece by piece
Until one is only half
Of what he was.
And yet,
One hangs on to the feeling,
Scared to go on
But unwilling to let go.
Love is an emotion
When in its truest sense
Is stronger than steel
It will not die
Even after life.
Love is beautiful,
A feeling
Which cannot be matched
Or copied.
Love is.
Lauren Isaacson
1979
Searching
My life...
Sometimes like a lovesong;
Contented with the little things,
But forever striving for the love
I feel I missed somewhere along the way.
It's all so confusing, this.
Life... so real, so complex.
It's everchanging, and sometimes
I lose my way and stumble...
Always able to get up once more.
Maybe one day I'll not get up...
Just wait until someone picks up the pieces.
But my wait will last 'til eternity,
For no one travels my path.
Alone? ... no.
Merely unique... one of a kind.
Finding a true friend is a search
Not easily fulfilled...
But then love is not a song easily sung.
Love is serene and peaceful.
Love can make you go bananas!
Christmas...love with a special kind of warmth.
Love is a joy ride!
Love... the natural high.
Lauren Isaacson
April 17, 1979
As I reflected on the words I had written, I perceived I had turned my
back on my greatest ally, myself. I needed to depend on myself for
strength and happiness, for a burden is essentially one's own to bear.
No amount of sharing and communication will take the place of one's
personal acceptance of a problem; a candle cannot illuminate the
darkness for one whose eyes remain closed.
I reviewed, also, my diary entries of the months passed.
Feb. 9, 1979... Friday the ninth... what a fantastic day! I felt
terrific. I talked to (him)...he came up to me at my locker! I was
the one to say "I've gotta go now." Wheee!
Feb. 14, 1979... (He) and I talked. He said he was going to buy a
Valentine's Day card (for me) but forgot!
Mar. 8, 1979... (He) and I may go to a movie this week-end for his
birthday (on me). I was a little surprised he brought it up! I was in
a great mood... had a great day!!
Mar. 14, 1979... (He's) making it a point to avoid me...nothing new
though, right?
Mar. 29, 1979... I talked to (him) at least five minutes straight!
Apr. 19, 1979... I'm so down. I sure wish I could get out of it!
This is a real drag.
Apr. 23, 1979... I was in such a great mood today. Nothing really
happened though. Ha! Oh, well. Maybe you're happier that way.
May 2, 1979... Cry! It would feel better...Bad day. I was depressed
most of the time...
May 3, 1979... Talked to Dumbo quite a bit, considering I usually can
never talk to him! I don't know why that makes me so happy.
May 21, 1979... Pretty good day. I talked a TON to (him). Yippee! He
said he saw me Friday night on 23rd Avenue. He kept looking at me!!
He said his weekend wasn't that great. I guess that makes two of us.
June 1, 1979... Last month I saw (him) once. It was 10 days between
then and the time before. I hope its never that long again, although
I can handle it better this time...if it works out to be that way.
June 16, 1979... At 6:30 D. got me and we went to Peterson Park (because
he forgot to take money out of the bank) and played frisbee and talked
while (his friend) filled up the tires with air... it was fun. (He
then took me home and went to a party.) I guess Norm and Mom and Dad were
talking about him... he didn't go to the bank and get some money even
though he knew we were going out that night. Norm told them, "If I
knew I was taking a girl out, I'd make DAMN sure I had some money!" He
was a little mad. Mom told me that.
I saw my infatuation was rather pathetic. Ours was an empty
relationship, devoid of stability in its most meager sense. I recalled
how often his intentions were rejoined with apologetic excuses when
those intentions were waived to pursue other activities in which I had
no part. Such treatment consumed trust and debilitated affection,
causing me to turn gradually from my romantic ideal and grasp reality,
despite the pain that the action entailed; self-deceit would only delay
the inevitable hurt that naturally accompanied unfulfilled dreams.
With summer nearly sunning itself on the doorstep, I fostered no
conscious inclination to fret over my flickering flame; too well I
remembered the previous summer, through which I mourned the loss of a
different guy's attentions (whose attentions, I might add, were the
first I had ever received, as he was my first actual date). I finally
realized, after ruining my entire summer, it was the attention, not the
guy, over which I lamented. I liked knowing that I was, to an extent,
desirable and attractive for my feminine qualities, a knowledge which
had to come from sources other than my mom and dad to seem valid. As I
no longer required a male admirer to uphold or applaud various aspects
of myself to assure my adequacy as a person, I looked forward to the
upcoming months with reminiscent anticipation.
Among the various events of the summer which followed 11th grade was
the renewal of friendship between Steve, my next-door neighbor, and me.
Throughout junior high our meetings had been markedly sparse, the
result of differing circles of friends rather than personal quarrels.
After several brief conversations, we discovered we shared common
interests which could provide the foundation for a friendship. Our
"fellowship" introduced me to people who eventually became friends of
my own, and those from school with whom I had previously associated but
drifted slowly toward other interests and destinations.
The new introductions included Jon, whose companionship colored many
days of the summer and would later evolve into an extended
relationship. Looking at the pages of my diary, the carefree days
described therein now seem to possess a dream-like quality; the days
were bundles of minutes in which only the present mattered. I did my
chores and went out with friends; I threw the frisbee and played
miniature golf; there were picnics and movies and light conversation.
The whirlwind had stabilized, but it hadn't slowed... and I did not
give myself time to think.
Norm, however, provided me with such time. When we spent several hours
together, canoeing, hiking through wooded trails, or lunching near a
winding river, I was unconscious of time. An hour was not a hoard of
60 minutes crammed sardine-style into the face of a clock.
Conversation was a matter of choice rather than obligation and an aura
of humor pervaded the atmosphere in which jokes need not be vocalized
to be shared and understood. With Norm, I was able to find the peace
which seemed so elusive in other company, and to revel in the silence
that, through my lack of assertiveness, I was otherwise unable to
attain. I felt whole in my brother's presence rather than a torn and
fragmented person who cringed under hostility, watched silently the
destruction which acquaintances wrought upon themselves, and melted
beneath the persuasive tactics used to rob me of time I did not wish
to give. Norm spoke "to" me and "with" me, but never "at" me, an
aspect of togetherness in which other relationships often failed;
thus, as my segmented self fell into entirety, it did not take long
before I realized his presence was prized beyond all others. At a
time in my life when emotional stability was a rare commodity, I felt
lucky to have discovered the mutual compatibility which grew rapidly
between my brother and me; indeed, I believe we were both lucky. Not
often does one encounter an unassuming yet caring relationship in
which no conditions or specific roles exist to induce friction and
jeopardize love itself; it was a gift that I appreciated more as time
passed, yet without hesitation took for granted, feeling confident
that, as I for him, my brother would always "be there" for me,
a listener, friend and companion. If only my other friendships
were half as dependable, half as refreshing!
Although most of our plans were slated for the weekend, we occasionally
took several hours of a week day evening to go for a motorcycle ride or
take a long walk. Walks were especially enjoyable because they often
included what we labeled "blow-it-out conversations," which were
comprised of disturbing thoughts or events that generally remained
inaudible plagues. Grievances, observations and complexes tumbled
forth to be dissected in a rational means by two brains rather than
one, which would hopefully render a more concise view of the idea or
problem, or dissolve it completely. We also delved in areas of
questions for which there were no answers, posing inquiries for
discussion rather than for the solution thereof. After such vigorous
conversations, we both felt somewhat exhausted, yet relieved just the
same. I was always reminded of a tea kettle filled with boiling water
which had to let off steam or explode; had I been unable to
"blow-it-out," my emotions would have strained violently against my
being, and while a shattered tea-pot could be replaced, sanity was less
easily restored.
Norm, too, expressed his gratitude for the ability to release emotional
tension through discussion. Living alone had provided ample time for
solitude and the perusal of philosophical writings, but that aloneness
needed to be buffered by personal interaction. Norm was an individual
who required more time alone than did most people, yet he was not an
island, entirely self dependent and devoid of the need for others, and
though his employment allowed a degree of social interaction, it was
only the light-hearted, surface variety in which "closeness" had no
part. Our outings were at once social and personal, depending upon the
present need; that is, each meeting was not wholly devoted to serious
conversation, for that, too, would have become wearisome if depth and
meaning were relentlessly sought. Life truthfully has its burdens, but
conversation need not be added to the list; all things, I believe, must
be tempered, and lacking carefree banter and easy laughter, life gains
nothing.
With a full two months of my summer vacation behind me, I was looking
forward to a three-week vacation in Syracuse, New York when August
arrived. I would be spending time with Sherry, a pen-pal who had
evolved into a good friend through the exchange of letters. The
previous year she had accepted our invitation to visit Illinois and
accompanied us on a week-long trip to the Colorado Rockies. I was now
repaying the visit.
Ours was a unique relationship, but one that was understandably
comfortable. Beginning as pen-pals, we quickly noted the potential in
each other for the development of a lasting closeness and a willingness
to listen; these factors, augmented further by our great need to be
understood and accepted as we were, provided a sturdy foundation for
friendship. Each letter became a prize, something regarded with zest
and anticipation, for in it would be heartfelt troubles or elation, and
possible advice or consolation in reference to previous correspondence.
Thus, after two years of personal disclosure, we felt compelled to
meet each other.
In retrospect, it was amazing that her parents had given her permission
to accept our invitation. Having no clear picture of who I was aside
from a grocery sack full of my letters, which I might add, they were
not allowed to read, Sherry's trip was prefaced by a great deal of
anticipation; her parents coached her, and a long-necked neighbor
preached doom and despair, while friends queried about the need to
visit "some hick girl in the corn fields." She carried the
anticipation with her as she approached our airport terminal; it was
inscribed on her face next to the wary smile and suspicious eyes. I,
too, had been nervous, but by the end of the day, our misgivings had
been washed away by a flood of chatter. When we once again stood in
the airport terminal, tears welled up in our eyes; we were parting not
as pen-pals, but as friends. The days ahead seemed a little more empty
because we could share no more time together. As I prepared to fly to
New York, I fostered nervous qualms, yet my anxiety did not reflect
upon Sherry or her home; I was hoping wildly that we would still "get
along." Letters did not fill the gap that had appeared after meeting
Sherry; before we had been pen friends, but now we were friends who
wrote to each other. It was somehow quite different, and it was I who
felt in need of a shield.
Conversation was slow at first, with each of us uncertain as to which
topics would spark the most interest. I began to wonder if I had made
a mistake in coming. Her excitable nature sometimes startled me, and
when she told of incidents wherein she had screamed her rage at local
friends, I cringed in silence, hoping that I never would evoke such
fervor.
As the evening crept away, our tongues relaxed and I felt somewhat
relieved. I could be no one but myself, and I seemed to feel I was
being accepted; within I experienced a mental sigh of relief. Looking
at the clock, we discovered the hour was near 4:00 a.m. and thought it
would be best to go to sleep. "Before we can do anything tomorrow,"
Sherry said, "I have to pick up the kitchen and pick up the living
room. . ." I snickered and exclaimed, "Gee. . . you must be strong!"
Any remaining tension broke under our laughter; humor worked miracles.
The following three weeks passed in a flurry of activity, talk and
laughter. I fell into the role of second daughter and was pleased that
my temporary home proved so hospitable. Whether joking over evening
popcorn or sudsy dishwater, it was obvious that I was no guest,
but a welcome member of the tribe.
With Sherry and her parents I captured a lush glimpse of the Niagara
Falls; I also accompanied them on a company picnic and a family
reunion. Most of the time, however, Sherry and I ran our own agenda,
comprised of shopping sprees, hikes, drives in the country, movies, and
everything else imaginable. We frequented one particular pizza parlor
with such predictability that our arrival was greeted with quizzical
stares. We also learned the horror of leaving one's car locked in a
parking garage after midnight, when, upon returning via bus from the
state fair, we discovered we had been misinformed as to the supposed 24
hour status of the garage; though vandals seldom work in another's
favor, a sawed-off portion of a railing allowed freedom from an
otherwise assured overnight imprisonment, which, in turn, would have
left us few options but to search for a phone in some unlikely business
establishment.
Leaving Syracuse was a melancholic affair which generated an inner
sense of solitude and reminded me that I had no close friends of my own
age and gender at home. Curious though it may sound, I also realized
it was largely my fault, having a high intolerance for mind games,
play-acting, and senseless chatter. Moreover, there seemed to be no
median between the judgmental and the valueless. I could never
tolerate the former group, for no one is perfect, and I was slowly
drawing away from the undauntable latter group. I had the ideas about
life which I would not allow to be tainted through carelessness or
indiscretion; certain forms of filth were, I knew, impossible to wash
away. I began to wonder if one's character could be defiled by mere
association. . . and I drifted further still from former friends.
I became markedly outraged at schoolmates who acted irresponsibly and
then decided that my ear was the one upon which they could hurl their
misadventurous rot. Initially I listened in silence, disagreeing with
promiscuity and the like, yet maintaining a wall of mute disapproval so
I would not dampen the various relationships. One's sexuality, I
reasoned, was only a portion of the individual and need not pollute the
entire character. Little by little, however, my intolerance toward
certain propensities grew and eventually led to mutual partings rather
than outright broken friendships. Some differences create gaps, and
others gulfs.
This change of friends produced a mellowing effect on my lifestyle
which I not only needed, but desired, and although I indulged in fewer
social activities, I found this new aspect acceptable, and indeed,
preferable over my past. After I realized my nervous energy was my
mind's plea for help and change, and continual activity for its own
sake led only to emptiness, it did not take long for my "rowdiness" to
wane. I discovered without parental interference that "the wild side"
of life did not conform to my concept of what life should be; I cared
too much for honesty in friendships to enjoy parties wherein
play-acting was a primary focus. The mere idea of taking drugs seemed
incredibly idiotic and was complicated further by its exorbitant
price-tag and illegality; the first element staved my urge to
experiment with drugs, while the last two set that feeling in cement.
Toward alcohol I fostered a friendly regard although I despised
immoderation; liquor could be enjoyed without partaking to excess. I
held little respect for those who required intoxication to have fun and
also disliked seeing an individual's personality change under its
influence, for in my opinion, such revelations demonstrated a lack of
genuineness of character when sober. Although I enjoyed certain
alcoholic beverages, it did not matter whether or not I drank; I was
crazy enough to enjoy life and have fun without liquor, and it
certainly was less expensive.
For the most part, I felt that my emotions had stabilized. I no longer
was living "on the edge," squinting at brilliant sunlight and then
plunging into gray storm clouds; nor was I tough or immune to pain. Of
course, I did not wish to become a robot, devoid of emotional concern,
yet in certain instances, a lack of feeling would have been welcome.
Establishing a relationship is, at best, difficult and at worst,
impossible. Because relationships are generally of primary
significance regarding one's happiness or lack thereof, they are
elemental to life. Unfortunately, there is no prescribed formula
pertaining to flawless success in relationships, and one is left to
mimic the designs wrought by others or resort to one's own intuition.
Without a doubt, life is hard. . . barring any drastic handicaps with
which one is born.
There are those who yearn for youth and pine forgotten tatters of
memory, yet I would not choose to relive the pangs of childhood and
relearn the expectations of society. I recall too well the ill-chosen
words which sprang from my tongue, the unintended regrets which stemmed
from an unimpeded glance or action, and the troublesome problems whose
solutions, though somehow problems in themselves, would have been
solved likewise had the identical factors been presented a second time.
With regret I remember instances which haunt my recollections, though
long passed; there was a boy in church who nervously asked if I would
be "his girl"...and through my pitiful degree of shyness, never gave a
reply; and the homecoming dance, my first and only formal function, in
which I was so utterly nerve-stricken that I was unable to pin the
boutonniere on my date, to eat my dinner, to speak cordially on even
the most trivial and insignificant subjects. I remember the
disappointment which accompanied my first attempt to secure a "date."
Oct. 27, 1977... I want to ask Scott to go on the hayrack ride.
Everyone is really pressuring me.
Oct. 28, 1977... I asked Scott today...I followed him to his locker and
asked. He said that he was having one on the same night and he'd let me
know. Oh, I sure hope he comes.
Oct. 30, 1977... Hayrack was tonight, but I didn't go. Scott never
even called.
Filtering through my memories are also the times in which I was asked
on a date and for reasons of my own, chose to refuse the invitation. I
tried to say "no" without hurting, for I knew how difficult it was to
pose such questions, and the way in which a reply was given could
either demean, depress, or simply disappoint. Being asked on a date is
a compliment, no matter how distastefully one might view his "suitor."
My dating career was short-lived, as I began to view romance in a
highly cynical manner, having found little in the way of true happiness
while "playing the field." I had difficulty enough when I dated one
person at a time. Moreover, I was unable to bear the pretense which
accompanied romance; I had little of the "romantic" in my personality,
and if I played a farce, I knew it would reveal itself in time. It
would be more appropriate, I resolved, to always be myself and thereby
avoid a later explanation of my mistaken identity.
With my indifference toward romance came an amplified emphasis on
friendship, for it alone seemed real. Platonic relationships had no
intrinsic pressures or expectations such as the obligatory kiss after a
"date"; a touch, if given at all, was supportive, not demanding.
I loved talking with people and tried to treat everyone in a like
manner. Most of my friends were of the male gender. As always, I was
better understood and enjoyed for my humor by guys and felt more
comfortable in such company. Generally this was no problem, however, I
found certain people so delightful that occasionally one of them would
mistake my enthusiasm as being more than simply platonic in nature, and
not desiring my supposedly romantic inclinations, would begin avoiding
me. Eventually I would realize I had indulged in one too many smiles
or had been too energetically involved in the conversation, and to
solve the misunderstanding without damaging an ego, I would ignore the
individual completely for several days. When my staccatoed lack of
interest toward him finally obliterated his illusion of my deep
feelings, he would resume friendly interaction. It was a rather
humorous chain of events, but one that yielded favorable results. As
long as misunderstandings are possible, I find it comforting to know
that at least some have the potential to be corrected with relative
ease.
Since stability was one of my higher prerogatives, I continued dating
one guy rather exclusively, especially toward the latter portion of my
senior year. However as he bested my age by a year, he was away at
college, coming home only once each month. Having to reaquaint
ourselves every visit, the resulting relationship was hard to maintain
and wrought havoc on my emotions far more than I had ever expected. I
see-sawed between that which I desired the relationship to be and what
it was. I battled between saving the enjoyable friendship at the
expense of an uncertain romance. Although I cared for him, it was not
the type or degree of caring which should have been associated with our
relationship. Therefore, I often asked myself the validity of the
entire affair. At times the gulf between us was so great that distance
was welcomed because it secured our friendship. I did not have the
furtitude to put an end to our psychedelic relationship, for I was
easily cornered by his overt persuasiveness and flow of rhetoric, which
smothered my ability to think or listen to myself. Moreover, for
better or worse, the relationship provided me with a sense of
protection and an excuse to refuse other dates. Thus, the relationship
continued, despite its flaws, interwoven with other memories and dreams.
Holder Of The Key
Although I love being at your side,
There's still that part that has to hide
For I'm shielding myself
From a feared remorse
Which would erupt
If your love lost its course...
Shipwrecked and broken
On the craggy shore,
"Look... accept...
I love you no more!"
Friendship is the only key
To loose the me that isn't free!
I hold fast to that sheer control
Which forbids emotion to take its toll
And tear me to shreds...
Leaving naught but remnants,
Nothing but threads
To blow in the wind
Until one day
My spirit would lead me
Ever away...
Far from the lair
Of self-wrought despair.
I'll build me a fence!
I'll build me a wall!...
A windowless room
That's eleven feet tall!
And there shall I dwell,
A vacant shell...
The only escape
From life's loving hell.
An existence blind to reality
Is merely my mind's chosen fantasy
Of what I would become
If I should come undone.
Yet, in a sense,
It is real and very true...
In my love for the world...
In my love for you...
Sometimes I wish
I loved you more...
But still clench the key
To my heart's door.
Lauren Isaacson
January 1980
Nonsense
It was only yesterday,
And hours before when I,
Without a thought of calories,
Had baked a chocolate pie.
In reflecting culinary action,
Its value I must assess
For in the act of doing so,
I created quite a mess!
Buying property is like peanut butter on bread...
The more peanuts you've got, the better the spread.
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