Chapter 4: oh god, junior high
Junior high. The very words can send a chill through you, right? Whose idea was it anyway to institute a large daily congregation of tender fragile egos. Egos under the slippery influence of hormonal tides. Fertile ground for overflowing angst and capital D Drama. Uncertainty and excitement. Secrets and lies. Adversaries, alliances, betrayals. Oh yes, and classes too.
Despite all travails, and there were some, I loved English best and the task of diagramming sentences calls forth 7th grade as much as anything. I cherished the way each part of speech had its logical place. It was reassuring somehow. Mrs. Byron was a stickler who also made us memorize Chaucer. The next year, 1964, in World History we studied emergent skirmishes in this place called Viet Nam, made cartoon versions of the French Revolution and created vignettes about the Industrial Revolution. You might say I was steeped in a potent revolutionary tea. That and the way I breathed in the whole liberal-Jewish-thing: influence aplenty. Grateful. I cherish a deeply instilled core value of giving a rat’s ass about what’s happening in our world. And an innate drive to find ways to best contribute.
Girls were mandated to wear only skirts or dresses. Fabric must cover knee. Teachers could force you to kneel on the ground, take the litmus test right there for skirt-not-touching-ground violations. Required for just the girls? Home Ec where we learned to prepare broiled grapefruit and sewed our own gym bags. I remember how jazzed we were when the administration gave us permission to wear pants on Fridays. The most awful thing about all this sexism is the fact that it felt totally normal and non-objectionable.
I tried on being a joiner. Since it was Sequoia Junior High, Rangerettes was the name of the service organization. Cute. I loved the green satin sash that got me out of class five minutes early. But I figured pretty quickly I didn’t care to patrol the halls or turn in kids smoking in the bathroom. I struggled with being a quitter but I surrendered my green sash pretty quickly. Was told it would be on my permanent record. To be honest, it was a bit shameful.
I was a good student. In general, a good girl. But I harbored an undercurrent of secrecy. Of deception. Of adolescent under-the-radar rebellion. There was some shoplifting on Sherman Way, the same street we went to 25 cent Saturday matinees. We would take stupid stuff: candy, nail polish, curios. And there was deception around two things absolutely forbidden: nylons and make up. Mom laid down the law that there would be none of that foolishness until high school. What’s a vain girl to do?
This painful denial was solved before and after school at Elaine’s house. Where I stopped to surreptitiously slip nylons up my thigh, securing them front and back with garters. And with budding dexterity, apply ample eye liner and mascara. My mom was probably on to me for awhile before she finally confronted me. I totally remember that moment but have no recollection about the outcome.
There is another moment that challenged all this adolescent vanity. A caricature done at Disneyland took my breath away. It was a profile that emphasized the largesse of my nose and up until that moment I had no idea about this largesse. It was a lot to absorb and I became very self-conscious about it. For years! Related story: in 8th grade, at the Father-Daughter Dance, Dad and I won the look alike contest. Of course it was about the nose and I was beyond embarrassed. Another life lesson in smiling through pain.
The boy thing was happening. I had these random crushes on someone different every week. There was locker intrigue and hallway theatrics. The crushes went nowhere---except in my mind. The boy thing was nourished and intertwined with the music that pulsed all the time. Meet The Beatles in 1963 was my first album. I wore the grooves out, stared longingly at the four faces. AM radio pulled me all over the board: Beach Boys, Roy Orbison, Leslie Gore, Little Stevie Wonder, Peter Paul and Mary, the Four Seasons, Ray Charles, Jackie Wilson. I was positively indiscriminate. This was the soundtrack of epic slumber parties, one at my house where we snuck out in the middle of the night to fling toilet paper on the quiet eerie lawns.
Well, thank goodness junior high was only two transitional years. And I suppose in the big scheme of things it provides a template for many educational years to come. For the first time, after all the years of moving and moving again, I felt like I belonged. The friends I made were coming right along with me. I had one crazy-ass, let’s make trouble friend named Elsie. My other friend (not without a spirit of adventure, but way more sensible) I’m naming here because she actually reads this blog. Hi Marilyn! Who would have believed that we still would know each other more than sixty years gone by.
I was 14 years old and totally ready for the next ride.
❤️Bella