That's So High School

I recently went to a high school football game at my alma mater.  I’d like to say I hadn’t been to one since high school, but I’ve been to several because my Teacher Dad still helps announce the home football games.  Specifically, he keeps track of the players on the field so the announcer can call the plays correctly, and he does a great job.  

I didn’t go to football games often in high school, but I went enough to make going back eight years later feel really weird.  Walking up to the stadium I am hit by dual waves of emotion.  First is fear: I don’t want any of my ‘03 classmates to see me here.  What’s more lame than a 26 year-old going back to her high school football game, right?   I’m as big of a fan of my alma mater as the next alum, but high school was meant to be graduated from, not re-visited.

The second emotion I feel at the stadium is fierce, fierce annoyance.  The parents proudly wearing circle picture buttons of their players / cheerleaders / band members on their school-colored outfits, and the high school students throwing baby powder at the opening kickoff (that’s the new thing apparently) - I find everyone’s enthusiasm uncharacteristically aggravating.  So I sit with my Mom in the stands feeling like one of those Muppet hecklers, mentally rolling my eyes at the seriousness with which everyone is so in to this high school football game.  We might be one of the best football teams in the state, but this is Indiana; not Texas.  No two-a-days here (I think).  

My annoyance at these otherwise-nice folks stems mostly from my cynicism about the high-school / college / real-world transition.  Ask my friends and family, and they’ll say I’m frustratingly optimistic.  Once at work when our central data system had crashed and was completely paralyzing our operations, I managed to tell a coworker, “Well, at least this shows us that there’s a problem with the system.”  That was making lemons into tart moldy lemonade.  

My normal effervescence becomes caked in sticky bitterness whenever I’m surrounded by cheerful high school students.  You see, I used to be one of them.  I was the standard high school over-achiever.  I graduated in the top 2% of my class; I held numerous leadership positions in orchestra, language clubs, and honor societies, and I even cried over at A- or two.  Then I went to a college where everyone was an overachiever.  And I entered a work-force where my social networks mattered more than my GPA.

So I sit at my high school football game with an cloud of cynicism raining on me.  I have a strong desire to go up to one of those chest-bumping football players on the field, grab him by the shoulders and say “All of this doesn’t matter.”  Cheerful.  I know.

But then I realize that what I might be feeling isn’t cynicism, it’s jealousy.  Because I liked high school.  

Yes, I said it.  I liked high school a lot.  But I know it’s not cool to say that.  I’m even nervous to write it down because it’s okay to like the four years in college, but not the preceding four years, right?  If you reminisce about college in your twenties, you’re being nostalgic; if you reminisce about high school, you’re being immature.  At least that’s my perception.  After all, valedictorians’ speeches always talk about moving on to the “real world” and better things.  But what if high school is the better thing?  I certainly liked it just as much as college.  It’s where I first felt important and accomplished, it’s where I met my first life-long friends, and it’s where I first fell in love.  Those trends continued in college, but high school paved the way.  College prep at its best.

 
I was lucky to have such a great high school experience, and I realize that many folks don’t have such cheerful memories of their alma maters.  Even the Real Housewives are quick to label cattiness and jealousy as being “so high school.”  (By now I think it’d be better to say those qualities are so “Real Housewives.”)  But I don’t really have bad memories, and so I’m happy to celebrate 1999-2003.  I love looking at my yearbooks and all the little messages scribbled in it thanking me for a fun year and wishing me good luck in the future.  So the next time I’m at a football game, you might find me wearing blue and gold and throwing baby powder with the teenagers.  You may call me uncool, but that would be so “high school” of you.  And if you were my classmate, you should take that as a compliment.

Memory Journal: Back To School

East-coasters will be wondering why I’m writing about back-to-school when it isn’t even September.  Well we early-birds in the Midwest go back in mid-August.  Chalk it up to those catchy Old Navy commercials with the dancing families singing about cheap jeans, but I get super nostalgic about my school days around this time each year.  After all, I haven’t gone “back to school” for four years now, but I did for the preceding 18 Augusts.  In truth - and there’s a Meijer commercial that made fun of this - I loved back-to-school time, especially the shopping.  Nothing could get me in the mood for some serious studying and note-taking like crisp folders and bright white paper.  Going to Target or one of the office supply stores felt like stocking up on penicillin and food at the general store in the Oregon Trail video game: serious prepping for a big adventure.  I carefully chose the items that would accompany me every day for the next ten months:  pencils that would slide into the thin nook at the top edge of my desk, college-ruled paper I’d hand out to classmates who ran out, and multi-colored binders that would go rigid stuffed with notes and dividers by the end of the year.  For a good three years in high school, my most prized school-related possession was my ladybug-studded denim pencil case.  Handy, cute... I loved that thing.  

I may not brag about my pencil cases anymore, but I can still reminisce about my back-to-school days:

First grade:   I’m asleep in my parents' bedroom.  I remember seeing the tulip trees out the window and the blue-patterned wallpaper between my sleepy eyes.  I must have snuck up here the night before because I was nervous.   But I’m too cozy to get out of bed now.  Having come from afternoon kindergarten, I’m not used to getting up early.  My mom comes to the side of the bed and cheerfully reminds me, “Annie, it’s your first day of First Grade.”  I sit straight up out of excitement, making a perfect L with my body.  I’m so excited for my first day of real school.

Third grade:  I’m in the gymnasium of my elementary school a few days before school starts.  A friend from church runs up to me and says “We’re both in Mrs. M’s class!”  She grabs my hand and pulls me over to a piece of computer paper taped to the gym wall, and I see my name listed under Mrs. M’s. class.  We’re both excited.  We think she’s the best third grade teacher only because she’s young and pretty.

Junior High:  I labor for hours the night before trying to determine what I should wear on the first day of school.  Wide leg jeans?  Abercrombie & Fitch?  Even though I'll be seeing familiar faces, I still feel like I'm making a first impression.  

Ninth grade:  The day before my first day of high school, I go in to register and get my picture taken for my student ID and our yearbook.  I’ve carefully chosen my outfit and primped my hair.  But I know my ninth grade picture will misrepresent me because I get my braces taken off the next day.  

High school:  My high school is huge (around 4,000 students), and we only have ten-minute passing periods.  My stress dreams before each new semester involve getting lost in the hallways and not being able to find where classroom B125 is before the bell rings, and I am not the kind of student who would ever get a “tardy.”  No sir.  Lucky for me, my dad is a teacher at my high school, so he takes me over the night before our first day back and helps me find my classrooms.  It’s always fun to see the school at night.  The hallways seem restful and sleepy, just waiting for the excitement of tomorrow.

College:  My best friend-turned roommate and I just moved into our dorm room, and freshman orientation is in full force.  I’m excited to make new friends, but I’m happy that I already have one with me.  We feel like each others' security blankets.  But a few days after we move in, she gets sick with mono and has to go home.  I’m bummed she has to leave and even more bummed that we won’t ever be able to share our dishes or utensils.  Plus, she accidentally takes the cable cord hook-up with her so I can’t watch TV.  I only have two DVDs with me, and I watch one of them almost every night for two weeks.  I still have the beginning of Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets memorized: “I’m sorry, Hedwig, I’m not allowed to use magic outside of school.”  College is just as cool as Hogwarts.