I awaken with an eager sense of anticipation. Anticipation rather than apprehension. The year is 1958. The month, September. The day of the week, Tuesday. (Upon reflection, I know all of that to be true, because school had always started the day after Labor Day—year after year.) And today marks my very first day in high school.
Being a fourteen year old girl, my first thought after washing my face and brushing my teeth is not—what to wear? Why not? Because wearing a brand new outfit and new shoes on the first day of school is a tradition in my family. (Perhaps that was because my mother had experienced a trying time during her childhood when she’d had one dress for school and one dress for special occasions, meaning that her school dress—having been washed by hand in the kitchen sink, several times each week—had been worn, day after day).
So what will I (having a closet filled with choices) wear on this auspicious occasion, which will soon see my social standing change in surprising ways will be far beyond my inexperienced comprehension of human nature?
A fur blend sweater set (though most of my new friends will be wearing cashmere) and a pencil skirt, hemmed below my knees in keeping with fashion. White bobby socks, rolled down twice, feel happily at home inside my brand new dark brown leather penny loafers. And all of the above highlights my unconscious need to ‘fit in’ rather than stand outside of the group, feeling all alone as is true of everyone who, having been a natural leader, has suddenly been thrust into the role of outcast without so much as even one clue as to how this shocking reversal of total exclusion could have happened to a preteen, whose personality had consistently proved as personably sunny as had been true of—me.
If you’ve read earlier posts highlighting the confounding composite of my junior high experiences, you’ll be amongst those who understand why fitting in with a social group of girls had become crucial to the sliding scale of my self esteem, which, like a teeter-totter, went up or down with nothing in between—most especially during my highly vulnerable, deeply bewildered teens.
My first class on my very first day of high school is English 101. And the name of my very first new friend is Debbie (who, much to my good fortune, continues to be one of my closest friends, today). If long-term memory serves me right, I have Debbie to thank for opening the door that will soon see me cross over the threshold where an unexpected, ready-made social life awaits my arrival—as though dreams really do come true …
Three years old
🙋🏻♀️Annie
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