Did the 16-year-old junior high school student who wrote the above sentiment in 1969 know that decades later, thanks to climate change, the earth would be dying nearly as fast as the speed of sound waves?
I didn’t know, of course, but being the avid reader that I was, I knew the hip lingo. It was the Age of Aquarius, and, brother, I might as well have been wearing a psychedelic granny dress with a floral crown atop uncombed long hair, sandals on my feet, offering peace sign stickers and daisies to everyone who passed by on my street corner. Much had changed since “Super Bac,” my imaginary hero, had saved the world three years earlier.
The year before — 1968 — had been the year that shaped my generation. “Life a knife, the year severed past from future,” wrote Lance Morrow in Time magazine twenty years later in January 1988. “Nineteen sixty-eight had the vibrations of earthquake about it,” continued Morrow. “American shuddered. History cracked open: bats came flapping out, dark surprises . . . . People lived their lives, of course. And yet the air of public life seemed to be on fire, and that public fire singed the private self.”
One of those private selfs was me. Although I lived in a small town in Western Pennsylvania, the national tumult and revolutionary bombast gusting across America frightened and unsettled me. Martin Luther King, Jr. had been assassinated on April 4; Bobby Kennedy had been shot on my 15th birthday and died 26 hours later. What was going on? Why were so many people so angry? Why weren’t my parents angry? Why weren’t they talking about it? What was the matter with them? Did they not see and hear what I was seeing and hearing? What was the matter with me? Can you hear it, brother?
To answer my questions, I secretly began to write (changing my handwriting to make it nearly illegible) and/or type out dozens and dozens of dialogues with myself. Most began with a question: “What’s the matter?” “Who are you?” “Do you know anything about anything?” or “What’s wrong with you?”
On September 1, 1969, the first day of my junior high school year, Miss Bentley the sociology student teacher — obviously reflecting the zeitgeist of the times — wrote this question on the front blackboard: What is it about a person which makes you hate or dislike him? My answer, beginning at the second paragraph:
People disgust me because they pretend to care when they really don’t give a damn. “Oh,” but we say, “that is just human nature.” (That’s a lousy excuse, but a logical one when needed to justify one’s motives.) People have a sickening way of smiling when you are talking to them, and you can see that inside they aren’t really listening. People want to be the center of attention — of course, again, that is human nature. I definitely am convinced that everyone is out for themselves. This isn’t bad, in fact, egotism is the basis of human progress.
Nothing seems real anymore. The only thing that disgusts me more than a person is myself. Everything that disgusts me about people is what is wrong with me. I can’t stand to see myself reflected in other people. Because of this, I trust no one — NO ONE.
My mother says, “You are only sixteen years old — and very immature. What do you know?”
When your mother tells you that you are immature, you’ve got to believe it. Or she will tell you to shut up and you lose all hope. I’ve often thought of killing myself but I don’t want to give her the satisfaction.
Some people must really care. There HAS to be people that do care. Sometimes I really wish I knew someone like that. But I don’t care or at least would like to think I don’t care. Maybe I just don’t understand.
I wrote those words. I would go on to graduate fourth in my class; win the “Danforth Leadership Award” given out by the faculty; be selected as an “Outstanding Teenager of America by the principal; captain the team competing on a televised quiz show; be elected president of the high school senior choir and the Spanish club, edit the school literary magazine, write the copy for the senior yearbook, direct the senior class play, be voted “Most Creative” of her class; in fact, the yearbook student directory listing my accomplishments would be the longest in my class.
What changed in my life between my junior and senior years? I surreptitiously wrote about that, too. Some of what I wrote about was against the Man and the Establishment (the principal and high school faculty). But most became about something I had never felt before: love. I really began to let my freak flag fly. Stay tuned, brother.
The hurried glibness of the ending of this post belies how difficult and painful it was to read through these dialogues written more than 50 years ago when I was a junior in high school. I remember how lonely and sad I was. I had forgotten just how lonely and how sad.
I had to stop writing about it, at least for now.
The essay about disliking and liking a person was graded on a scale of points with “25” being the highest grade. When Miss Bentley handed back my essay two days later there was a “25” at the top. She asked to see me after class and at that time, handed me her copy of The Fountainhead by Ayn Rand. “You need to read this,” she advised. “It will help you.”
My essay had included the sentiment: ” . . . egotism is the basis of human progress.” I had never heard of Ayn Rand, but clearly, I was a Rand disciple in the making. I read the book in a week, then purchased my own copy. A few months later, I would be befriended by someone who quoted Ayn Rand as fluently as I did.
I’m impressed that your teacher did not just recommend, but handed a book to you that she thought you should read. That is solid support and encouragement.
Also, I’m struck by how different things are in some ways now. Today, if you wrote that you’d thought of killing yourself, the teacher would have to contact the school counselor. If she had, it could have made things even worse for you at home.
You wrote: “ Some people must really care. There HAS to be people that do care. Sometimes I really wish I knew someone like that.” I hope by this time in your life that this wish has come true.
I look forward to hearing more of your story. Keep going.
Sharon, this is a powerful, honest, REAL piece, and the writing flows so beautifully and smoothly, even though you are dealing with such momentous realities in your early life. Ayn Rand in high school! Feelings of such un-worth and yet an awareness of the richness of your mind! It is fascinating and astounding to learn about your teenage years–not only your brightness and achievements, but also of your amazing self-knowledge at such an early age. Keep it flowing!
Carol — you are so encouraging. Thank you. I’ve been feeling low today after riding a writing high fueled by tapping into more “light-hearted” energy. Nothing “funny” emerged as I was writing this piece. I kept waiting for a moment when I could add a clever phrase or pun, but nothing seemed appropriate. Some stories about my life are just going to be sad and dark.
I’m grateful that you found my writing “flowing” in this piece because while writing it, I felt like I was suffocating. I’ll keep it flowing, but sometimes it’s not easy to keep your head above the river of reality and regret. xoxo
Like Carol I am in admiration that you could go back to those dark days and reflect them so honestly from that day’s point of view and then from who you are today. I am astounded by your courage and your revelations. Most of us were just trying to hold our nose above water in HS. You were actually engaged. Bravo
Thank you, Charlotte. You have fueled my courage in so many ways over the decades. I would not be here (seriously) without you. xoxo
Sharon, I would have liked to been your friend during those difficult years, or at the very least been near enough & accessible enough for you to have been a good sounding board for you. Your high school accomplishments clearly show that – a) you did make & have friends, 2) your teachers & the administrators clearly thought you had great points to get across, 3) were well written & well spoken enough to get those points across (especially for your age), & 4) you were the best kind of teenager. Your many accomplishments are quite amazing. They frankly, bowl me over! I can see how they have definitely shaped the other wonderful things you have accomplished to date.
I don’t think I would like to relive those times, but in some ways they may be better than the things going on now. To lighten things up a bit, do you remember streaking of the 70s? Most days, that was the worst thing that happened; having a person run naked down the street or a cross a football field – on TV sometimes.
I’m glad you’ve found ways of expressing yourself – they help others, too. You go girl! … and keep going.