Twelfth Grade
"One must like himself; self-love is the core from which all else
grows, including the ability to give and to accept."
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
Twelfth Grade
At the onset of 12th grade, I had found employment at a large
department store where I worked in ladies fashions, hanging merchandise
or ringing up sales on a computerized register. I worked hard,
thinking of myself as having just one of many thankless jobs in which
the "reward" came only via Friday paychecks. Yet hard work did pay
off, and my boss had, indeed, noticed.
A comment I had written in February of 1980 read: Pete came up to me
at work and said, "Laurie, I just want to say that you are a super gal
and a fine employee."
The next line, written as a matter of fact, stated: I had a hernia.
Compliments can come as a shock when they are not freely given, but
perhaps that is when they mean the most.
Three days later I found he really meant the words he had said when he
changed the work schedule for me so I could go to Mexico over the week
of spring break.
Feb. 29, 1980... I started crying! He said, "I'll break my back for
someone who's willing to break their's for me."
It was almost more praise than I could ingest in three days. Almost,
but not quite.
Mexico was a sweet memory, although I would never choose to travel
there again. A gift from my parents after having studied Spanish for
four years, the trip was educational as well as recreational, and also
proved to be the most enjoyable group experience I had ever known.
The tour led by two high school language teachers, skirted the less
wholesome neighborhoods of Mexico City for our eye-opening benefit. We
saw rampant filth encircling the street vendors and gutters which ran
foul with the discarded carvings of meat markets. In such areas a
rotten stench ruled over the otherwise pervasive fumes of car exhausts,
creating what seemed a playground for the generation of a killing
plague. No one looked surprised as a man ran half-clothed through the
crowd, his hair a matted mass which could not conceal the madness
evident in his wild eyes and hideous grin.
After such sights, a taxi would slash its way into the traffic and
whisk us away on a perilous drive to more hospitable places. Busses
would carry us to major sights where we viewed the country-side, the
pyramids, and museum artifacts. We marveled at the splendor of
Catholic churches, caressed by the many offerings of peasants whose
coins beautified the altars and columns with gold. No where else had I
witnessed such awesome wealth amidst such utter poverty.
One sight which seared my memory was a church wherein a funeral was
taking place. Undaunted by the mourners, a Mexican tour guide led us
through the church as if death and grief were impersonal matters,
unworthy of respect. I hesitated at the doorway, not wishing to enter,
then realized that I knew nothing about the city and might find myself
lost if I did not follow. I narrowed my eyes in disgust for the
awkward situation and, head lowered in a token of sympathy, filed
quietly past the aisles of darkly clothed mourners. No wonder people
hated tourists; the incident could have been avoided altogether with a
sensitive guide.
Taxco was the most enchanting of the tour's three cities, for it
facilitated a preserved glimpse of old Mexico. Here the streets
remained narrow corridors of brick, twined up and down the hillside
between stucco buildings like wildly frolicking vines. Palms soared
toward untainted, blue skies, and red tiled roofs basked in the warmth
of the sun. Evening was an enchantment, a brief step into the past.
The stars crept slowly from behind their sapphire blanket as the sun's
last rays set on fire the gleaming dome of a church. As the night
deepened, many of us made our way down to the main street where an
Easter procession was to be held. There we witnessed a reverent
celebration of faith, silently watching a line of worshippers as each
guarded a candle, sheltering its life as their savior sheltered their
lives. In a world of uncertainty, these lovely people were content in
their faith; it was beautiful, but it was not for everyone.
The final stop of the tour was Acapulco which most resembled a city of
the United States. No one scoffed or gestured comically in our
direction at our "different" types of apparel as they had done in
Mexico City; there, slacks were not considered proper attire for women,
nor were shorts for either gender. One episode in the zoo made all of
us smile when a little Mexican child, curious to see blond hair on a
pair of man's legs, walked up to one in our party, felt his legs to
determine their validity, and then gazed up at him wonderously.
In Acapulco white skin and blond hair was still the exception, yet it
was no spectacle. Moreover, shorts and "American" attire seemed to be
the rule, which made everyone more comfortable. Personally, I wanted
to make a good impression or leave none at all, for when traveling in a
foreign country, one may offend without the slightest intention; custom
and language differences can create barriers and eventually, prejudice.
Having encountered one "bad egg" in a dozen, it is far less involved
to condemn the entire batch rather than to survey them as individuals;
certain people are more prone to this attitude than others. This
apparently was the type of philosophy which ruled an unforgettable ice
cream parlor patriarch, for when five of us respectably waited to be
served at his busy establishment, we finally realized that we were not
being overlooked but ignored. The man sat motionless behind the
counter with his legs splayed widely and arms folded on his rotund
belly, intently watching the progress made by his employees until one
waitress looked at us and inquired with her eyes. "Maria!" The
patriarch spat the name with agitation. "No!" The girl looked down
and sought another customer.
This was a new experience; so deep was his hatred that it overruled the
typical lust for profit. We turned from the counter, smiling at each
other. Once outside we all shared a hearty laugh. The stupidity of
the situation was incredible to me, for not only had the patriarch's
attempt to belittle and demean fail, but he had also lost money. I
pondered the scenario, asking myself why it did not bother me, and
concluded that it was because self-satisfaction was of more importance
to me than the manner in which I was viewed by others. One must like
himself; self-love is the core from which all else grows, including the
ability to give and to accept. And, in an ice cream parlor in
Acapulco, I found that self-love is also the best defense.
Acapulco was the grand finale of an exciting week; white sand beaches
above a frothy surf, cool draughts beneath rustling palms, tempting
meals and flea market sprees, and a special evening roving the quiet
shoreline after sunset. It all seemed an incredible fantasy,
especially in retrospect, having spent a week apart from familiarity.
Only one aspect of the days in Acapulco could have been channeled into
a category other than fantasy; after days of careful food consumption,
the inevitable curse of Montezuma fell upon me. Luckily, I was not so
horridly afflicted that it made any appreciable difference in my plans;
perhaps after so many years, Montezuma's need for revenge had become
less poignant. Or it could have been the Kaopectate. Of course, I do
not support superstitious curses as being the cause. . . but when the
affect is of such magnitude, I bear arms to combat the siege.
On Easter Sunday we boarded a jet and headed for Chicago. Between
shifting positions, stretching, peeps out of the porthole windows and
in-flight snacks, the hours drifted past. Somehow, the holiday itself
was lost. I simply was not accustomed to spending spring break away
from home, let alone Easter in mid-air. It reminded me of the
Christmas my family spent in Florida; I felt cheated even though I had
fun. My mild depression left with the landing in Chicago, where we
deplaned and motored the remaining distance.
Norm met me in his old Belvedere. He and his fish car were a welcome
sight as I stepped into the frigid air. It had even snowed since I was
last home. This was reality, I thought with a smile. The trip ended
as suddenly as it had begun, taken in the wintry gusts and buried
beneath the joy of homecoming. I watched the others as they turned and
whirled, anxiously seeking their families and securing their luggage in
a wild flurry of activity. This was the world I knew; Mexico was far
away, and soon its memory would be a distant, clouded image, destined
to share only the past.
For the present I shared the glowing impressions in my mind, relating
the vast differences amid basic human cohesiveness. Despite various
cultures, people remained relatively the same; I thought of the
curiosity of the child and the calculating hatred of the patriarch,
knowing that such people existed in every city. Well into the night I
rambled excitedly of my experiences abroad, content that I was home.
I might fit in many places, but home was where I belonged.
I was never much of a romantic. There were inside of me, however,
pieces of idealistic images which, due to their inconsistency with
reality, provoked great surges of duress. These mental pictures,
depicting that which "should be," stuck in my mind and festered there.
Whether they were derived of societal suggestions or secret aspirations
of my own concoction, I could not tell, yet they were infuriating,
whatever their origin might have been, because of their unattainable
quality. The latter part of 12th grade was infiltrated by such lofty
ideals, and I had to watch myself closely to make certain I did not
begin to play a role other than me. "One's senior year," stated the
ideal, "should be a celebration of the past and the future; one's days
should be filled with blissful fun and one's company should include the
steadfast friends made through the course of the years." I observed
classmates and for some, my ideal seemed their reality. Deep inside of
me, however, I knew that, in reference to my life, my ideal was a
sinking ship. I possessed perfectionistic qualities but lacked the
ambition and the need to acquire awards. For myself I wanted to
succeed. I did not, however, have to be the best; depending on so many
variables, who could determine what was "best"?
Idly I reflected on my achievements: two year member of the National
Honor Society, member of the Spanish Honor Society, and placed second
in the school (after a native speaker) for a National Spanish Exam, for
which I received a Spanish Dictionary. It was not a lengthy or
conspicuous list, but I was satisfied. I could never live up to my
ideal because I disliked public display; I felt that accepting
recognition would direct undue attention and I would be placed on
trial. Within the realm of intelligence, I felt myself to be quite
small; knowledge is infinitous, and to claim praise for assimilating
such a minute portion as was encased in my mind seemed unfit.
My reactions, or lack thereof, regarding academic achievement were
greeted by my mom and dad with a degree of chagrin and disappointment.
A child's success is a good reflection on the parents; thus, when I
failed to pose for the yearbook photos which honored Society members as
a group, she despaired that the anonymity of my accomplishments would
hurl me into oblivion. Had I seen through her eyes the importance of
recognition, perhaps I would have remained after school and posed for
posterity. . . and for my parents.
"Blissful fun" was yet another part of my ideal which had no parallel
to reality. Fun was not a given property of one's senior year, a
mindless embellishment punctuating the culmination of twelve years of
public education. Instead, fun was a state of mind, quite dependent
upon one's capacity for having fun. It was imperative to possess
creativity, openness and fearlessness toward work; bored people were
often simply lazy.
Fun, a highly personal noun, too often was used generically, which led
to overrating certain pastimes and berating others. The result, of
course, was either harrowing disappointment, or pleasant surprise,
depending on one's particular luck. There was also the possibility
that one could fake the role of having fun merely because it was the
appropriate response; this, more than any other aspect of my ideal,
ensnared my sense of reality. I found the power of suggestion,
combined with my mind's ideal, would let me take part in an activity,
pronounce that I had enjoyed myself, and continue to believe such even
after the experience was over; then, in later reflection, I would
realize my pretense and wonder why I had allowed myself to adopt
another's definition of fun rather than pursuing my own intuition.
Such departures from rationality disturbed me, particularly because
they were uncharacteristic; while I often sat steeped in thought or
immersed in dreams, I rarely played out those reflections in the
physical sense. Furthermore, play-acting was a nuisance because when
such activity resulted in emptiness, it was a sore waste of time. Free
time was one commodity with which I was rather stingy; therefore I
tried to be selective regarding how the precious moments were spent.
Even so,mistakes were made, and less favorable outcomes became a source
of bitter resentment if I allowed myself to stew in their memory.
Finally, the ideal called for "steadfast friends," created through
mutual interests and communication. In reality, I had acquaintances,
and I had what I called "friends" for lack of a more appropriate word.
With these classmates, I often felt like a mother, a psychiatrist, or
an impartial listener, entirely detached from the situation at hand.
As the "impartial listener" I lapsed into a role such as I described
earlier; if I faced unpalatable situations or discussions while on
"automatic," I could then tolerate them without feeling undue
frustration. I voiced no unsolicited opinions, utilizing silence as
a manner of maintaining peace in my world. Thereby I lost nothing...
nor did I gain.
As high school drew to a close, I no longer felt obliged to analyze
each moment. Soon all would be different. The hallways would echo no
sound and store no memory of those who had passed. Friends would be
lost to each other and acquaintances would fade like early morning
dreams. Achievements would pave the way toward further education,
jobs, or merely attract dust on a chest of drawers, remembering that
which no longer existed.
I had enjoyed my time in high school as best I could considering the
topsy-turvy state of my emotions. I had met some fine people and
experienced some genuine "fun." My achievements were satisfactory and
I felt content that graduation was near. I did not wish to relive or
prolong high school. Maybe my ideal demanded too much of life, or
perhaps I was more fully accepting that one's ideal vision of life had
little in common with reality. I knew only that I wished to pursue a
life unfettered by those wistful images. It was time for me to begin
closing one door.
After final exams, school was recreational rather than educational.
The yearbooks were distributed and I made a point to sign the annuals
of those with whom I had shared memorable occasions or developed
worthwhile relationships. For many, the message in the yearbook was a
last farewell. Some I would truly miss and remember always, even
though they were not persons who had spent time with me outside of
class.
Impressions were a curious phenomena. I wondered why certain moments
captured my attention. . . the carnation I received on "flower day"
from a junior who had taken notice of me. . . the penny retrieved from
the hallway which my Spanish teacher handed to me. . . an inside joke
which survived two years. . . smiles and humor and craziness. These
were the ingredients of my foremost impressions, and the forerunners of
memories; these fragmented images would survive outside the confines of
the yearbook, and generate fleeting smiles for years to come.
Graduation was no longer the solemn promenade of grace and grandeur it
had once been. The classes were large and impersonal, and it seemed
that everyone graduated whether they earned the honor or not; a classic
example testifying that, where there is plenty, there is often little
gratitude. We wore disposable gowns and caps, with the latter being so
cheaply constructed that all four corners hung down about our heads in
a mockery of pomp and circumstance, creating a group which looked like
berobed court jesters.
Due to the behavior of the previous graduating class, teachers
patrolled the group to assure no items such as frizbees, squirt guns
and bubble blowers made it into the field house. I was relieved; while
graduation had lost its magnificence, I still did not desire to take
part in a circus. Aside from our appearance, the ceremony was fairly
respectable. The various speakers neither rushed nor belabored their
material.
Row by row we stood to file toward the stage. I felt my stomach pinch.
It was an orderly system; a name was called, the diploma was
presented, then a hand-shake completed the scenario. My name was
called. I accepted my diploma, smiling, and proceeded to the principal
to receive a handshake. It was my moment. Then another name was called
as I paced down the center aisle to my seat. For me, all was done.
Another name echoed through the field house. . . a moment belonging to
someone else.
In the din and confusion following the ceremony, I found none of my
closer acquaintances. The swarming mob whooped joyously, rallying
about and shouting their intended destinations. I suddenly felt the
aloneness I had anticipated, crashing down and separating me from the
flock. What, for others, would come more gradually but perhaps more
painfully as well, I experienced in an instant. Such a large crowd,
and yet I knew no one! Indeed a door had closed.
I gazed at the crowd, dejected and disappointed, then resignedly found
Jon. We had planned to go out for pizza and "hit a party," but since I
had learned of no parties, the latter would have to be replaced by a
different option.
"So you've grage-ee-ated, kid," he smiled over at me from the driver's
seat.
"Yeh. . ." I replied, trying to hide my depression. "You are supposed
to be having fun," the remnants of my ideal entoned. I smiled and
spoke light-heartedly, almost in a reflex action, deriving solace from
the fact that the night was still young.
We drove to the shopping center which housed the pizza parlor, noting
that a traveling carnival shared the parking lot with the cars. My
eyes brightened; I loved those things.
Jon looked at me. "Let's go on a few rides before eating," he
suggested.
"Well . . . are you sure?" I asked.
"Yeh!! Come on... it's your big night."
I looked at the vast array of neon lights which blinked invitingly,
trying to decide what to ride first. None of the rides were
particularly ferocious in my opinion, but I settled for the
tilt-a-whirl, a ride which afforded a small thrill. We seated
ourselves inside the semi-circular capsule and the fun began, flailing
us clockwise, then counter-clockwise, as the capsule raged up and down
on its track. It was no generous ride; such carnivals rarely endow its
patrons with their money's worth. The machine grated and clanked to a
halt.
After exiting I glanced at Jon, who appeared rather stricken by the
glassy gaze in his eyes. He also burped repeatedly, suggesting his
stomach had protested to the ride.
I almost hated to ask, "You OK?"
"I'll be all right. . . let's just sit down for awhile."
We walked to his car and leaned on the hatchback. Several minutes
passed and Jon returned to normal.
"Let's go and eat..." I urged, having no desire to witness a repeat of
nausea.
"No, no... it's your night. I want you to have fun. I'm OK, really."
"I don't know... let's just eat," I replied.
More persuasion. It was inevitable.
We went on another ride.
It was similar to the first, throwing us up and down in unison with the
squall of hydraulics and blaring loony tunes. I ventured a look at Jon
and swallowed hard. His greenish appearance had little to do with the
neon lights. He began to burp once again as we made our final madcap
spins and slowed to a stop. "This is not good," my thoughts roared; I
felt rather frantic; I honestly did not wish to think at all, but my
mind would not oblige.
While thoughts such as "Oh, please, no!" raced through my mind, Jon's
stomach began venting its frustration on the parking lot. Not about to
just stand and watch, I walked a few paces behind him as he made his
way toward the pizza parlor restroom where he could finish the job.
He disappeared into the restaurant and I remained outside, leaning
against the building while various emotions seared my thoughts.
Embarrassment, guilt due to my embarrassment, pity... perhaps a swig of
self-pity... and anger.
"It's your big night, kid." Yeh. Sure.
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