Reeling in the years

It had been 30 years since I cracked one of them open, but it was time, I reasoned, sliding the six yearbooks from their storage bag. In total, they represented my adolescence during the span of 7th grade through graduation. For decades, the books were entombed in a sturdy zippered pouch that originally housed a comforter (oh, the irony).

After a random selection, I began flipping through the pages of black and white photos with no particular expectations. 1979: My freshman year in high school, when corduroys and curling irons were the mandate. The hairstyles and clothing were predictably amusing, but what I wasn’t prepared for was the silent jet stream of sadness that elbowed its way in. So many years later, I could see clearly what my subconscious protected me from at the vulnerable age of 14. School, year after interminable year, was the perfect petri dish for a misfit’s self-loathing to flourish. Or, serve as a surrogate Boston Strangler to a sensitive kid’s self-esteem…there are always two ways of looking at a conundrum.

I’m cognizant that these were not the happiest years of my life – but having the archeology in my hands proved visceral, as if a menacing Genie was let loose from between the yearbook’s shiny pages, which I kept plowing through, in hopes of encountering a scene that would evoke affection.  All I could see were the two distinct populations who tend to inhabit our schools: those who largely experience it as a joyride, and those who wake up each morning with a stomach full of dread.

The latter was mostly unrepresented in the flurry of candid and posed photographs. Exceptions were a few errant shots of an awkward teen or two traipsing to class, arms burdened by a stack of textbooks, glasses in an ungraceful slide down the nose bridge. It was the joyous, perpetually involved sector of the student body who gobbled up the content of the yearbook’s 100+ pages.  Uniformly adorned with perma-smiles, they congregated at football games, took bows on stage for drama club productions, or walked hand-in-hand down the hall with their steady. Then there was the evergreen homage to the cheerleader – the most revered of all the teenage archetypes. Pages were devoted to the nubile, pom-pom shaking icons clad in polyester mini-dresses as they shouted spirited encouragement to the heroes on the field. Adept at splits and arranging themselves into towering pyramids, cheerleaders pretty much were the top of the pyramid as far as envy and aspiration went.

The Prom Court was always ceremoniously rendered in colored film, another tone-deaf affirmation of the social hierarchy. As for the rest of us – we took our bows in the class photos section. Flipping through some of them, I noticed, in a way I hadn’t 40 years ago, how many openly sullen classmates there were. Their broken spirits were palpable and made police mug shots look like the covers of Vogue or GQ.

And then there were the inscriptions penned to me from fellow students. Rereading them, it was painfully obvious how many times I must have thrust my yearbook and a pen in front of a passing acquaintance during social studies or homeroom, just so I could accrue evidence (no matter how flimsy) that could pass for friendships I didn’t actually have. Only two or three were signed by actual friends whom I spent time with outside of school. Most began with, ‘Stacey – you’re a really nice kid…always remember gym class and have a great summer.’ Being assessed as nice was a recurring theme, and why wouldn’t it be? People-pleasing was a tactical maneuver to fit in, mitigate isolation, and stave off hurtful names lobbed at me. It was ineffective, and yet, I persisted. And in spite of all this, I kept going back to the well each year, paying for a yearbook every fall and inexplicably anticipating its June publication.

Sometimes, we lie to survive. My lie was acting as if I was OK being sent to a place where there was no hospitality for someone too scared to speak, who despised her daily uniform of plus-sized jeans and men’s shirts, and who pretended not to be humiliated when a boy followed her down the hallway for a furlong shouting ‘blimp!’ It was a favorite monosyllabic insult, I’m sure in large part, because it lacked the need for any intellectual labor.

Even as repulsive memories pounced uninvited, the sudden arrival at my 9^th grade class photo stopped me cold. I was taken aback…at how hideous I was not. To say my youth was wasted on inebriation by society’s Kool-Aid was an understatement. I set the book down and cradled my head in my palms, bereaved at how viciously I assessed myself for no good reason all those years, walking through life believing with every fiber I was a disgusting aberration.

Seeing my perfectly fine adolescent self through the wise and compassionate lens of cronehood brought a flood of ancient sorrows for what I needlessly carried all those years. It also aroused anger at both my parents and the abusive punks (male and female) who hoodwinked me into accepting a false identity. How could I have felt so terrible about myself? There was nothing fucking wrong with me. I felt my throat tighten – still my default method of punching back tears. Then I reminded myself (and I may always need reminding) that it’s OK to get real.  

This sort of unpleasant residue from the rites of education is an unseen and unspoken epidemic that stays, for the most part, underground. We’re a rather silent segment because, well, who wants to admit to it all? Just keep your head down and act like you’re having a good time. I’d been at the yearbook excavation for all of 15 minutes before realizing there was no point in continuing. Exhaustion coupled with an urgent need for a shower overtook me, so I obliged. And the next day, made my move.

Forty-two years after graduation, I found the yearbooks not only triggering, but utterly useless. So I contacted a classmate who lost all of her belongings in a devastating fire years ago to offer them. She’s taking three and the remaining three will be released into my trash room’s recycle bin. I toyed briefly with a ceremonial burning, but was in no mood to track down a suitable and safe location – I wanted them gone.

“Why do you think you kept them all these years in the first place?” a friend asked, after I told her of my recent encounter. Social conditioning was the only answer I could come up with: the mantra that these are happy, rah-rah years and why wouldn’t we want to catalog them for a look-back?

The truth is, that’s not everyone’s reality. And I’m not denigrating the experiences of those who look back on school years with adoration – we all get different lots in life - I’m finally at peace with mine. I did more than just get through it; I repaired a lot of the damage. In making myself whole again, I discovered more than the breaking news that I’m not bad or disgusting. I came to realize there are places I actually fit into – quite easily - and that’s all anyone really wants.

Before I got ready to send the remaining books to their final destination, I took one last look at the Navy blue cover of my senior yearbook. The theme was Come Sail Away – a popular song from the era. An unexpected smile spread across my face as I realized that’s exactly what I did…never really wanting to look back after all.