Ripping Away the Mask

When I was in high school I went through a two year phase of absolutely Tammy-Fay level makeup abuse. At the time-- around 1980-1982-- our high school was divided between "jocks" and "freaks." Even if you were neither, you belonged to a sub-set of kids who aligned themselves more closely with one or the other. Jocks, Drama-Geeks (kids in the drama program), and Honor Dweebs dressed in preppie clothes, kept the look clean and wholesome. Freaks, Alterna-Geeks, and Punks went with lots of black, lots of hairspray and bizarre styles, leather, and metal. At the time I was unaware of how much the look identified me to others. I'm sure, now, that a lot of people assumed I was on drugs. They never would have assumed the same of the guy in the preppie Lacoste shirt... unless they stood close enough to him to get a whiff.

I never did drugs. I did wear WAAAYYYY too much eye-liner. I wore slashy jewelery and leather (or fake leather), and a lot of black and dark purple. Well, for the first couple of years, anyway. I had magenta hair at one point. The morning look required spiking it with a hair dryer directing the front almost completely vertical while I pointed the aerosol Aquanet into the wind stream. Basically my bangs were saluting.

I had three piercings in one ear and one in the other... I wore stainless steel safety pins in the holes. Feather earrings. Dog collars. Black nail polish. My friends called me Dusty or Olie, because that was cool. Later they called me Raven. Cuz I was COOL.

Teen punk witch. Yeah, baby.

One September night I was hanging out on the beach with my other misunderstood-so-whatever friends. The cops used to patrol the beaches on ATVs and in 4 Wheel Drive vehicles at the time. An officer stopped and came over to check on us. Were we drinking, smoking pot, doing things we shouldn't? He was friendly, but kids being kids... some of them got mouthy. I recognized the guy from the summer. Most of my time was morning to night on the beach from June to September... if it rained we went to my boyfriend, Timmy's place. He lived right on the best strip of beach and had an absentee mother.

Anyway, whenever I would see this same police officer during the summer I'd be in cut-offs and a tank-top, tanned and covered in salt from swimming, surfing, or goofing around on the beach. I always had my dog, a huge labrador who was always a beach hit, by my side. And I was polite and friendly to the cop. How he recognized me under all the makeup I'd started slathering on-- in the dark, no less-- is still a mystery.

There was a guy using the absolute filthiest language possible standing near me. He was, as teenaged boys will often be, trying to seem tough and cool by making sexual comments that were as dirty as he could dream up... and that was pretty dirty.

This cop... I realize now he was very young. He seemed old to me then, but he wasn't in his thirties yet. He pulled me away from the group, and I was terrified he thought I'd done something wrong. My only thought was "the cops are going to call my parents, and it won't matter if I wasn't doing anything." But he just wanted to talk to me.

I remember what he said like it was yesterday, and I will never forget it. He told me he remembered me from the summer and I was "a nice girl." Not that I seemed nice. Not that he'd had a good impression of me, but that I'd spoiled it. He said I "was a nice girl." He pointed at my face and said "that's quite a mask." And then he said:

"These guys are young and stupid, but I want you to know that you should never let a guy talk like that in front of you. If you let him talk like that in front of you he's going to think you don't mind. Make these guys show you respect. You deserve it."

Then he told us all to behave ourselves and left.

I didn't take his advice that night. In fact, I didn't take it for years. But I never forgot it, and I never forgot that a nice young cop thought I was a nice girl... and that I deserved respect. In my adult years his words would come back to me many, many times. And today, if you use lousy language in front of me-- or near others-- I will pointedly tell you to cut it out.

The "mask" has been off for ages. I stopped doing the black-slather thing not long after that incident, in fact. It got old.

But I was thinking about it just the other day. I still hang out with some of the same kids who were on the beach that night-- all in our 40's now, most with kids of our own. I was visiting my friend Roxy last week and looked down on that very spot, and thought of that cop. I never did get his name, though I would see him around now and then. He left the force maybe two years later. I can't help but wonder if he has any idea how much what he said meant to me, a drifty-sad kid who rarely got praise.

I wonder if he'd recognize me now, all these years later, with every layer of the mask stripped away.

It took me a while, sir... but I got there. Thank you for nudging me in the right direction. Your voice has come echoing through the years more times than I can count.

Summertime...

Bon Jovi Summertime:

You make me feel something like summertime
Top down ain't nothing but time
Radio's on and you're by my side
Feels something like summertime
Like a first slow dance and a first long kiss
There ain't nothing baby better then this
It's like a beach blanket and a bottle of wine
It feels something like summertime
Sum-summer-summertime

I’m one of the few kids who didn’t have a summer job growing up. Actually, I wasn’t allowed to work—I played competitive sports for a living. Softball was my career of choice at the time. I didn’t get paid to play, but it sure was fun.

Sometimes I wonder if I missed out on anything by not having a job—even just one day a week. But our softball schedule was so busy I never knew when I would need time off. We traveled every week for tournaments and we had practice on the nights we weren’t on the road. I’m not kidding when I say softball was my job from April through August.

What I loved about not working, was the freedom I had during the day. I would spend most of the time at the swimming pool (except on game days, of course) and we’d always get at least a week’s vacation and go camping.

When I graduated high school, my softball career ended. And I was ready to give it up, honestly. It had been fun, but very demanding, and I was ready to feel grown up and get a job.

Boy, I wish I would’ve waited just one summer longer. I’ve been working ever since!

Here are some things I fondly recall about my jobless summers:

• Hanging out for 8 hours at the swimming pool, looking at all the hot guys but being too shy to do anything more than look. (FYI, one of those hot guys is now my kids’ pediatrician…)
• Hanging out at the baseball fields watching all the hot guys in between my games.
• Going to the lake. Skiing and showing off for all the hot guys.
• Hot guys.
• My first kiss was on the lake…with a hot guy of course.
  

Hm. I think summer for me was all about the hot guys—funny how things really haven’t changed all that much. Maybe it’s a good thing I didn’t have a job. I probably would’ve gotten fired for staring at all the hot guys and not doing my job.

Do you work after school or in the summer? Do you think it enhances or hinders your summer vacay?

No matter what you do during the summer, please remember to make the most out of it...preferably by drooling over a hot guy or two. (or girl. we don't discriminate here at Fictionistas!)

I wish I'd known then...

That it wasn't all about how others perceived me, but how I perceived myself, especially in these two areas:

1. I spent a lot of time in high school worrying about my body and physical appearance. I wasn't even overweight--I had a nice figure. But I obsessed over the size of my chest in comparison to others, the shape of my thighs, the size of my nose, and so on. To me, what's sad is that one of my most vivid memories of high school is a guy telling me I looked a little chunky. I mean, come on! Why did I give people like that the time of day and give credence to their words? Who cares if my chest was smaller. Who cares about the size of my thighs. What about my sharp wit, my strong laugh, my big heart? THOSE are the things I should be concerned with, size-wise. THOSE are the things that matter most.

2. I also spent time worrying about my popularity. Dude, when you leave high school, no one in college or out in the real world cares who you hung out with. It's utterly pointless, LOL. Hang with the band nerds if you want. Become president of the chess club. Be the top cheerleader or a football star. The point is, do what YOU want, what works for you. Don't do stuff because you're worried about fitting in. Those 4 years of high school go mighty fast...and they're awfully short in comparison to the rest of your life. Don't let that time period define how you perceive yourself.

I realize it's easy for me to dole advice in this manner. Honestly, all I can share is my own perspective on things. But you know what? That's ok. Part of the struggle, the drive of being a teenager is learning SELF-definition. So take my advice with a grain of salt and forage your OWN path. To me, that would be the best option of all.

I wish I'd known then...

That my parents weren’t the dim bulbs I thought they were.

When they said things like, “What? You think I wasn’t your age once? You think I don’t know what kids say or do?” I’d just roll my eyes and say, “Whatever.”

Mom would say: “Don’t get your heart broken in high school. They’re stupid boys and they aren’t worth the heartache. You’ll realize what a waste of energy it was when you’re an adult.” I would roll my eyes and say, “Whatever.”

They would both say, “Enjoy your summers while you have them. Don’t piss them away sitting inside watching TV and playing Atari…” (yes, Atari. I know. That makes me old.) Of course, my very appropriate response was, “Whatever.”

Mom: “We know when you’re lying to us, honey. Save yourself the trouble and just tell us the truth. The first time.” Guess what I would say? “Whatever! I am telling you the truth! You just never believe me! Ever!” (defensive much?)

Now I’m a mother to two boys and I’m in the middle of watching history repeat itself. Do you know how many times a week I repeat my mother??? The very woman I barely acknowledged from the age of 12 to 22?

I’m not a stupid mother. I see and hear almost everything my kids do…even when they think I don’t. And I try very hard to advise them in the right direction, but they are stubborn and foolish. Just like I was. And it’s so frustrating because I could teach them so much if they’d be willing to learn from me. But they’re not.

None of us were.

I really, really, really wish that I could travel back to my teenage self and say, “Dude. Pick your battles. You don’t HAVE to argue every point your parents make and like it or not, when you’re 39, you’re going to realize they were right 9 out of 10 times. So shut up and listen.”

Since I don’t see time-traveling in my near future, I guess I’ll have to be satisfied with trying to advise my 14 year-old son like I would’ve advised my 14 year-old-self and hope my words will stick.

I’m not holding my breath.

growing pains

One of my favorite things to see as an adult and a parent, is the awkward-in-between stages teens go through while growing.

Ironically, that was one of the most painful things to deal with while a teen. Or in my case, a preteen.

In 5th grade, I was 5'4. I was by far, the tallest person in my class. I played basketball (of course) and since the coaches all thought I was going to be huge, I was trained as a center.

Which was a shame, because at 39 years old, I am now 5'6. That's right, I've only grown 2 more inches since I was 11 years old. Sigh.

It was hard being 11 years old and being so tall. Gawky. Awkward.

But it's been a hoot watching all the kids go through that with different eyes.

Long legs. Gawky walk. Girls with no hips yet. Girls who hunch over trying to hide their height. Boys who haven't quite figured out how to manage their big ol' feet yet.

I know, it's a terrible thing to experience, but I promise, if you survive your own growth spurt--you'll live to really enjoy watching others suffer through theirs.

Remembering Barbara and Learning from Her Life

I knew the face. Last week the pages of local papers were plastered with the faces of two young people, the latest victims of domestic violence. My state has been experiencing a terrible escelation in violence recently, and the headlines have grown all too familiar. But there's a strange phenomenon with teachers. Sometimes you recognize a face and wonder if it's somebody you know from charity events, or the preschool pickup, or... And sometimes you get a funny little feeling that it's one of "your kids." They used to make jokes about how teachers had eyes in the backs of their heads. Thing is... if you are or were a teacher, you'll know what I mean... you never really forget "your kids."

And I knew that face.

I avoided looking at the articles too closely for a few days. It's not like I haven't had similar experiences. Mr. Smith of This or That Lane was arrested on drunk driving charges. Name's familiar. Puzzle pieces fall. Fifth period Psychology. He always wore a baseball cap. Or I bump into someone and they call me "Ms Olie." A few words into the standard greeting a tumbler clunk happens and I recall a girl who had deep golden hair, not platinum blonde, who drew incredible pencil portraits in the margins of her notebook. Cindy, she used to snort when she giggled.

Yeah, I knew Barbara. But I knew Barbara. Not THIS PERSON they've written about. I had her as a student on a long-term substitute job. I was there for a little less than a year. She sat by the windows, third seat back, behind another girl named Trish. She was pretty. She was smarter than she thought, and blossomed when she was praised. And now I will always wonder if more praise could have given her the confidence she needed to find someone who could love her better, more healthily. I wondered, too, did I miss a boyfriend who was unkind, even then? My memory is that she didn't have a boyfriend.

Violence starts early as a pattern for so many young people. Liz Claiborne offers a great section on their Love is Not Abuse site for teens. On that site is a list of ten warning signs that may actually surprise you. Canceling plans at the last minute for suspicious reasons, making excuses for the other person: sounds pretty normal for a young girl with a boyfriend. But combine these behaviors with others, or note a pattern... now some red flags need to go up.


It often concerns me how casually young people talk of toxic patterns in relationships without really seeming to internalize the danger. "He's very bossy with her. He checks where she is constantly." It may seem normal. "If we go out he calls her, like, ten times. It's so annoying. She can't be with her friends anymore." It may seem like just a typical teen in love. But failing to recognize those kinds of behaviors as problematic is both unhealthy and potentially dangerous. And it creates habits that can, as in Barbara's case, take you to places later in life you don't ever want to go. The papers say Barbara wanted out; told friends she would leave.

You really do remember them forever. Hundreds. But you were given a serious responsibility: the gaurdianship of their minds for a while. If you are very lucky, and make a connection, you find these bright faces turning to you. You sit at a rickety desk in a dusty classroom after all the buses have gone, and a kid walks in looking like he'd rather eat dirt than ask, but knows he can trust you. Or you just give the guy who never talks, sits with his sweatshirt pulled up, sulking, a big grin and hand him a paper with a 96 on top and get a big grin in response. Just that. Big grin. Day made.

Even later, when you stop teaching. Tom, who walked up to me at CVS and said "you're the reason I'm a writer." (I cried, Tom, in my car when you drove off.) Jen, who emails me every month or so. She's a physical therapist. Danny, who used to always seek me out at the theater when I was still writing movie reviews. Barbara...

I wasn't close to her. She was only my student for a while. I was covering for another teacher who had been in an accident. But I remember her. I remember shiny, shiny hair and a sweet laugh. I remember her looking out the window a lot. I wonder, now, what it was she was thinking as she stared off into a day bright with promise. I wonder if a magical phrase might have changed things for her. I wonder how her husband, who was a brilliant kid (or so they tell me) became so utterly, utterly lost. I know I won't forget her. I will always, now, be haunted by that lovely profile turned toward the light of the windows, searching.

If you, or someone you care about is in a situation that makes you uncomfortable, please look at the following resources.

LC's Love is Not Abuse

Love is Respect

Cool Nurse's Dating Violence Page

Need Help Fast? Call the National Teen Dating Abuse Hotline: 1-866-331-9474