I was very rebellious in my teen years. I’m sure there were a variety of reasons behind that. I won’t bore you or drone on and on with excuses for my wild behavior, and the incredibly stupid and imbecilic shenanigans I participated in. The fact is, it happened. And, it was a long, LONG time ago. It seemed once I hit my 20’s (other than the occasional romps out I’d do with fellow 20-somethings) I mellowed out a ton. Then, when I had my first son at 26, that REALLY did it for me.
Looking at this class schedule (which was found in that large gray tub I talked about yesterday) https://momarock.wordpress.com/2012/03/31/memoirs-of-a-freak/ was very puzzling. Some of the classes I remember. Most of them I don’t. Let me break it down for you:
1st period: Never went. Or rarely went to Chemistry. My friends and I had this habit of skipping school. Like, a lot. We would enter the building as though we planned on attending class, and then we’d exit out the back entry to the school, towards the middle school entrance (there was a middle school attached to our high school. I know. That’s weird.)
2nd period: I would be gone during Algebra as well. I do remember attending this class in the beginning, but there were a few punk kids who teased me a bit, and annoyed me. I was above that behavior, and rationalized my skipping as a means of holding onto a little bit of sanity. It was more fun to have breakfast at Dunkin Donuts, which was a few blocks from my school.
3rd period: I rarely missed a class with Mr. McDonald. First off, this was Literature. I’m all about Literature. Secondly, Mr. McDonald was cute. He wore loafers and glasses and looked like a college professor, yet he was young. I know I’m not the only girl who thought he was cute, so stop judging. At least I attended his class and did fairly well in it.
4th period: My French class was a fluke. This won’t come as a shocker, but a cute boy friend of mine was in there, and I managed to pull a few strings and get transferred into his class. I didn’t know how much I’d enjoy it. Mr. Murat was a fantastic teacher, and wasn’t afraid to teach us that “merde” meant shit in French. I learned a lot, and can still speak a little bit of the language.
5th period: U.S. what?!? I wouldn’t attend this class very much either.
6th period: I was a student helper for this class, which meant I graded papers and watched others work out. When I was a teenager, I didn’t realize the importance of eating right and keeping in shape. I am sure I felt I’d be young forever. I think we’ve all felt that in our youth.
Some of you may be wondering how I was able to get away with it. Skipping, that is. For a long time, no one really monitored or kept track of us teens. I wasn’t the only one out there traipsing around parks and downtown Salem, Oregon. I remember my dad had gotten very upset with me, and even had us meet with the school counselor. Yet the behavior continued, and I am sure he threw up his hands in frustration and resignation. How could he even “make” me go? This was before truancy laws, if I’m not mistaken. He couldn’t even threaten that upon me. I’m sure I was deemed a lost cause.
And that’s where Jan comes into play. Jan, of Room 220 fame. Room 220 in our school was where the naughty boys and girls went for school detention, or if they were late to class. It was a cesspool of skippers, tardy preppies, quiet and somber individuals, and pot stirrers. Jan sat at the head of the class, keeping tabs. She also managed to be out around school grounds, and a few blocks out from there, hiding out in a van, ready to pounce on any unsuspecting skipper who was headed her direction. The scene would play out like border patrol, with skippers headed in all directions, and she’d practically chase you down! It was insane! I was caught once by her, and had to ride dejectedly back in the van to school, where I sat the rest of the day in Room 220, for suspension. I wonder what has happened to her. Is she still working the detention room at school? Is there even a Room 220, anymore?
I think back to those days with a bit of wistful nostalgia, and outright panic. I’m a grown up now. I sewed my oats after moving away to Arizona at 19, and getting a “real” job, where I had to be mature and careful, and would make the choice to do the right thing, versus the really wrong thing. I now have two amazing little boys, and how will their teen years play out? Will karma come back to bite me in the ass? What sort of sage advice can I even pass on to them?
I really hope and pray that I’ll be shown a little bit of compassion on this one.
I’m still sore and having to go easy on the ol’ hip- so here’s another stretching technique.