Feats of The Rebels were known school wide, but none was as infamous as the underground newsletter we started when one of us — Blythe — discovered a used band-aid in her serving of cafeteria vanilla rice pudding.
Blythe dramatically insisted that The Rebels tell the ENTIRE world because, according to her, she “could have died.” I suggested we write an article for the Hi-Rocket, the high school student newspaper, but Anastasia reminded us that Mrs. Cubbison, the dowdy faculty advisor, would never allow it, and “Besides, she smells like mothballs.”
Uncharacteristically, Persephone (wearing a new fashionable plaid mini-skirt) suggested that we start an underground newspaper. She shared that her father had a mimeograph machine with stencils in his garage, and she could bring some of the stencils to school. We could draw and type on the stencils, and then she could mimeograph them at her house. In less than 24 hours, the whole world would know the awful truth about our high school cafeteria food.
Inspired by the Band-Aid Incident, we decided to call our newsletter, “CHICKEN POOP” with the tagline, “Something to sink your teeth into.” Beatrice designed and drew the masthead that featured a chicken depositing small chicken droppings into a bowl of rice pudding.
On the front page of CHICKEN POOP, I hit the Band-Aid Incident head-on with an editorial that ended and reinforced our perspective with this original poem:
CHANT OF THE CAFETERIA STAFF
Sing a song of hool or a pocketful of spice.
Four and twenty flies are buzzing in the rice.
When the toad bursts open
And the cream begins to rot
Gather it together and we’ll stick it in the pot.
I also contributed a succinct three-line poem called, “SPINACH AND OTHER VEGETABLES WE’D RATHER NOT HAVE FOR LUNCH. EVER.”: “There’s something wrong with this poem/Can you find it?/ With little effort.“
(Oh dear . . . can you hear it, brother?)
To fill the back page, we listed the names of students who consistently cut into the lunch line. We also took turns standing across the hall from the teacher’s lounge to catch which teacher was smoking when the lounge door opened. (Which teacher didn’t smoke back then?). We published their names along with his or her preferred brand if we could make it out: Mr. Brydon — Lucky Strikes; Mr. McCullough — Camels; and Miss Carney — Virginia Slims.
Persephone mimeographed about 100 copies and we placed them in all the restrooms and stairwells. At lunchtime, we basked in the glory of seeing our newsletter in the hands of fellow students. Yes, we had performed a noble service.
But. Then. Two hours later, we heard our names over the school-wide intercom informing us to immediately report to the principal’s office. Once there, we discovered that Mr. Abraham had set up five chairs across the front of his desk. He pointed to and asked me to take the middle seat. He then opened the middle drawer of his desk and melodramatically whipped out a copy of CHICKEN POOP. Looking directly at me, he seethed: “This paper is meant for nothing but SHIT!”
Silence.
Wh-wh-wh-at? Had the principal just said OUT LOUD the swear word, S-H-I-T?! to five upstanding senior girls? He ordered us to find and throw out any remaining copies of CHICKEN POOP. We, of course, did not find any remaining copies. But it did not end there. The Rebels were pissed. No one — not even the high school principal — should be able to dismiss or denigrate the power of the written word without written consequences.
That night, I wrote an editorial about the power of truth, justice, freedom of speech, blah, blah, blah. I then recounted word-for-word what Mr. Abraham thought of CHICKEN POOP, including his use of the s-word. The last line of my editorial was this coup de grâce: “If this newspaper was meant for nothing but ‘shit,’ we’d perforate it like toilet paper.” The next morning, we again placed copies of the second issue of CHICKEN POOP in the restrooms and stairwells.
Only two issues of CHICKEN POOP were ever published by The Rebels. Our daring and defiance were no match for our parents’ authority after Mr. Abraham contacted them. Persephone’s father, for example, shut down the mimeograph machine. And, like she had done at her dining room table, my mother shut down my voice at the lunch table. I would soon begin to express myself in secret notes, plays, stories and cryptic answers to class assignments . . . strange and awkward musings that would ultimately lead to my heartbreaking banishment from the Lunch Table Club.
My writing coach, Saundra, has advised me to think of “Spark and Spitfire” as my “playground.” I think she means where I can play and let my freak flag fly on this platform. So I’ve been letting a “lighter” voice, a voice I thought was more authentic and authoritative emerge from my pen.
That being said, the original last line of this post was: “Only two issues of CHICKEN POOP were ever published by The Rebels.” I left it there because I believed what happened to CHICKEN POOP was clearly implied — why embellish? “Keep the ending humorous,” I thought.
But then I wondered why I wasn’t revealing what happened next; and actually, had never told anyone, including myself. Mr. Abraham never told us that he had called our parents. We found out when we got home from school. My mother, an incredibly private person, was incensed, but interestingly never revealed that the principal had called. She typically reserved her place at the dining room table to embarrass me in front of my father and four sisters.
In any event, looking back, I believe CHICKEN POOP precipitated her determination to uncover whatever I might be writing at school. She used stealth, deceit and threats and she exercised her voice at her place of authority — her dining room table. I had lost my voice there years earlier, not from anything I had written (that she had discovered), but mostly from speaking up and confronting her while at that table. It is little wonder that I was the rebel ringleader at a high school lunch table where I wasn’t humiliated when I used my voice.
All to say, writing about the Lunch Table Club has opened up a can of worms I’d rather not look at — My Mother’s Table. The stories there are dark and sad, and I have written about a couple of these Dining Room Table encounters. How to balance this sadness with a “lighter” (and I don’t necessarily mean, “humorous”) voice seems beyond my skill and frankly, the time I have left to even write about it all.
Using my more authoritative, “active” voice to write more specifically about why I didn’t have one for decades is a formidable challenge. I’d rather read poetry. Watch the sunrise. Seriously.
An intriguing revelation as I was at the Fitness Center this morning:
Why did Mr. Abraham later in the Spring of 1971, nominate me as “Outstanding Young Teenager of America”? Why did the faculty vote to award me the Danforth Foundation Leadership Award? I was a rebel, a troublemaker, right? But I believe that somehow word got out amongst the faculty and administration that my mother was, in some way, abusing me. Why, for example, did the school nurse, come to see my mother at my mother’s home following a visit I made to the nurse’s office? Why did the guidance counselor ask to meet with me several times to see how I was doing? Why did Mr. Benton give me writing assignments outside of regular class assignments, with a note that said, “Keep writing! You need to be heard!” Were all of these adults protecting me? Encouraging my voice?
This is heavy shit. Don’t give up on me. Actually, I’m saying that to myself.
Your spunk (once again), your anger, your voice crying out to be heard, your deep need to speak truth to power and right things you saw were clearly wrong–all of this comes through here very powerfully. Thank goodness you had this outlet at your high school, where, clearly, your FULL voice was heard–not just your “rebel” voice, but also your brilliant voice, as evidenced in your participation in debate and in that Quiz Group, as well as in the awards and kudos given to you. Hope you can carry that FULL voice as you open up the segment(s) on “My Mother’s Table.” Be not afraid.
Thank you, thank you, thank you, Carol. You have contributed so much to helping me to hear my FULL voice, but seeing it written out in this comment makes me feel “lighter.”
I shall venture forth!
I want to speak up on behalf of the teen who used her voice even though adults and culture were trying to keep her silent. Actually I am impressed with even getting out one underground paper issue let alone two issues. I ask you to join me in extolling her. I never even thought of an underground paper let alone writing one. Truly she deserves our admiration.
Charlotte — the teen thanks you and wants you to know that you would have been a welcome addition to the Lunch Table Club. You underestimate your power. You may have not thought of an underground newspaper, let alone written one, but I picture you standing behind Mr. Abraham while he’s dressing down The Rebels, giving him the royal finger salute. Hope you’re not offended, but this gesture symbolizes your role in helping me with my voice. xoxo
To clarify–by “full” voice I mean to suggest the confidence that you could express when “away” from the pressures of home.
Carol — thanks for the clarification, but I understood what you meant.
In answer to the questions below, YES!
“Why did Mr. Benton give me writing assignments outside of regular class assignments, with a note that said, “Keep writing! You need to be heard!” Were all of these adults protecting me? Encouraging my voice?”
When the nurse came to your house, it was to put your mother on notice, not you. Those adults saw both your genius and your oppression. Don’t let touching this darkness pull you into the rabbit hole of shame that your mother dug for you. Stay with your “active power” and listen to the words of Mr. Benton,
“Keep writing! You need to be heard!”
Those are my words for you, too!
Beth, you echo precisely what Adrienne wondered this morning: “When the nurse came to your house, it was to put your mother on notice, not you.” I honestly never considered that possibility until this morning while pondering the Mother’s Table stories exposed by this post; more specifically, by the writing of this post.
I must keep going!
P.S. After touching the darkness, your first comment slipped back into “reactive power” but your second comment rose back up to “active power.” You are playing with the darkness and the light and controlling your own power/voice and you are finding it! Keep going!