10.31

Ros and I attended the best high school in the state. We won at everything (spelling bees [does anybody ever know why it's a bee?], basketball tournaments, and social activism [and I recognize it's not a competition. We still won.]). People wore sweaters and scarves and the boys rolled up their sleeves when they worked at computers not because the desks were dirty (they weren't) but because it was what you did with sleeves. Girls' skirts were pleated or layered but just generally cute and nobody thought it was weird to wear skirts, even though jeans are a sure-fire guarantee that Rocky the jock can't see up your skirt when you forget to cross your legs in anatomy class. Basically, as you can see, high school was hell.



High school, for me, was only important because it led me to college (and Ros). (And cinnamon toast.) (Oh, and those socks that have toes on them.) (And coffee. Basically nothing.) One day late in the summer but early in the year, they trapped us in an auditorium. The faculty forced us to listen to a near-endless string of lectures from old dudes with white hair and spunky women whose eyes were open too wide and seemed desperate to hold onto their one moment of glory as cheerleaders. Then they got married to rich guys who drove Bentleys and now all these crackly, dried-jerky women do is shuttle their rich husband's kids back and forth from the tremendous high school football games, and are they making full use of their batchelor's of English? Probably not, but it certainly prepared them to deliver the boringest (not a word, but it sounds so good) speeches to high school seniors trapped in a sweaty auditorium. I turned to Ros and said
"This whole thing sounds like a parade of failure."
"They're all like 'You should go to college! Success!' but they'll never tell you the truth."
"What's that?"
"They wish they were in high school as much as we wish we were out."
Rosalyn was tremendously depressing sometimes, when she was taken by fits of what she called "perspective." Auditoriums brought out perspective in her. Big boxes where they keep people--it would make anyone perspicacious. That isn't the right word, but it sounds right. I usually use the wrong word if it sounds more right than the wrong word.
In the usual course of things, we heard about nurses, dentists, businessmen, theoretical physicists, librarians and other crap that I would need a college degree for. It was like the teachers were hell-bent on making me continue to go through school when I was pretty sure all the school I had taken up until that point was about as useful to me as a single sock. I was about ready to take a nap until a man got up who broke the mold of the others.
He was long, like he had been stretched, but not tall, because after whatever god stretched him he was allowed to settle the wrong way, so he ended up pooled around his belt mostly, except for his tremendously long arms that just sort of dangled there awkwardly when he wasn't using them, which he constantly was, because he gesticulated with the fervor and fear of an asthmatic monkey. I sat up and tried to listen to his tiny little voice on the tinny little speakers.
Finally, he cleared his throat and spoke directly. "Basically, what I'm saying is that I really didn't need to go to college to break into my field. So if you're afraid that this moment will be the best moment of your life and you're terrified of leaving, don't go to college. You can succeed. I can see fear behind some of your eyes--you're freaked that you'll be prom queen or football forward for the rest of your life, and you'll never be anything more. College is not the answer. Don't just draw out your agony. Look at the people behind me!" At this, he threw his thin dangly monkey arm out straight backwards, like it was barely attached to the rest of him. "They went to college because they wanted to stay in high school, and now they're so successful that they speak in high school auditoriums! Don't be them. Follow your dreams."
At that moment, I realized two things: I didn't have to go to college (despite what my mother seemed to believe [and stridently repeat]). Second, I wanted to go to college.
It was the first life decision I had ever made for myself, on my own, because of me.
It felt like walking outside and breathing cold air after being inside so long you forget what ice is like.

Rosalyn and I walked out of that auditorium, and I unloaded on her for five minutes about how good it felt to make a decision all on my own. She stopped me by putting both hands on my shoulders and shaking like they do in movies.
"Cath, you were going to college anyway. How does this change anything?"
"Now I'm going for me, not for the president, not for the czar, not for Buzz Aldrin, not for anybody, just me, all me, and I'm going because I want to."
Ros just smiled and kept walking. I guess I gave her the answer she wanted, or she gave up trying to extract it from me. I assume the second. excavating in my head is like using boxing gloves to dig up dandelions.

[(I like this piece, but I don't know where or how to put it.) Rosalyn is convinced I've made the wrong decision and I should be a stand-up comedian. Or rather a sit-down comedian, because most of my jokes will be about laziness and how fat everyone's getting. I can call myself the Pomme de Armoire and all of my jokes will be classy and crass at the same time. I told her it sounded like a great idea and I would do it right after I invented a cure for AIDs. She didn't laugh. She has too much faith in me.]