“Greaser”: New Jersey Suburbs – 1955

The décor at this establishment is defined by red, white, and silver colorways, in the form of plush leather seating, ceramic floor tiles, and stainless-steel countertops, respectively.  These hues match the signage which adorns this popular diner chain.

While this restaurant offers all manner of tasty fare, their well-known specialty is malted shakes, made to order.  The hulking, 3-head, Hamilton milkshake machine is a key element of the kitchen here, whirling almost perpetually during open hours.  The concoction yielded is so thick that it needs to be spooned out of the large metal container into the shapely stem glass, by a cute lass at the sink who’s equally shapely.

The waitress staff here is one of the reasons we frequent this establishment so often.  These gals are inevitably some of the “classy chassis” from our high school, mandated to wear checkered dresses which match the corporate colors, and always seem one size to small.  The proprietor must have good taste.

As such, the four of us are sitting in the corner booth, where we can “cast an eyeball”, hopefully inconspicuously, at the “dollies” as they go about their order taking and food deliver tasks.  On that front, all of us are imbibing in frosty dairy-based drinks, which offer up a pleasant reprieve from the sweltering heat outside, at the beginning of June.

School has just let out for the day, and in a few weeks, our entire junior year will be complete.  Transitioning to seniors, and oldest cohort in the building, a status that offers up unlimited power and control, will be exhilarating.  After a long, relaxing summer off, of course.

The music playing softly in this joint is always some form of crooner jazz.  Again, the shop’s owner has very specific preferences.  Straining my ears, I try to identify the current song.  Sinatra?  Vallee?  Sounds like a Crosby number.  I can never keep that trio straight.  My own music preferences lean much more “hip”.

My “threads” consist of worn dark brown leather boots, comfortable denim blue jeans held up by a sturdy black belt, and a tight-fitting white cotton shirt, which is tucked in.  The only pop of color in this outfit is a folded handkerchief, bright red in shade, which hangs out the back pocket of my pants.

The remainder of my crew is similarly adorned.  Each of us has our hair slicked back with oil, personifying the classic “greaser” look.

While our outfits are essentially identical, our selection of milkshake flavors is quite diverse.  Two chocolate and one strawberry, with my preferred vanilla offering filling out the quartet.  Due to the high viscosity of the mixture, the provided plastic straws are pointless until the drink melts.

To contrast this frozen item, in the center of the table is a heaping plate of golden-brown, thick-cut, French fries, which have obviously just come out of the fryer, based on the steam emanating from the potato pile.

This is a decided spurge for our crew, but “hey”, it’s a Friday, and summer is quickly approaching.  This lengthy break from mandated learning will offer an opportunity to earn some “bread”, and build back up our bankrolls, through full time work, as opposed to the odd “gigs” us guys do on nights and weekend when school is in session.

As with most of our conversations, today’s chat bounces disjointedly between the topics which perpetually occupy our collective teenage male minds: girls, cars, and music.

Just as we finish up our afternoon snack, another pack of adolescent boys clang into the establishment, talking loudly.  Our arch nemesis group in the junior class, and around town more generally.  By coming in here these lads are “crusin’ for a bruisin’”.  There’s only so much teenage “machismo” that this New Jersey suburb “turf” can handle.

Countless similar cookie cutter communities have sprung up throughout America, as a result of family creation and baby generation after World War II.  Most of us high schoolers were born just before this global conflict started, with several of the subsequent classes understandably much smaller in size.  The next generation of students to come through will be a much larger cohort.

While rival gangs may be an exaggeration, there is definitely contentious angst between our squads, and we’ve shared a few “knuckle sandwiches” over the years.  These conflicts often stem from the same topics which occupy our daily lives.  Again, girls, cars, and music.  There are limited amounts of all these valuable resources in this small municipality.

The longer us combative collectives are present in the same place, the higher likelihood of conflict.   Fortunately, we’re done at the diner.  Time to move on.  Slapping down a few bills to cover the entire check, as group lead, I make the executive decision to take the high road.  This time.

“Let’s split.  You dig?” I offer up, nodding towards the noisy gaggle who is elbowing up to the front counter.  With only one way in and out, the tension in the room is palpable as our clusters pass each other.  There’s just too much adolescent testosterone in one small space.

Ironically, aside from the color of the handkerchiefs stuck in back pockets, our two troops could easily be mistaken for each other, based on similar size and stature.  Which makes for a fair fight.  Just not today.

Exiting into the parking lot, I make a beeline for our ride, a “Gypsy Red” ’55 Chevy Bel Air convertible, obviously with the top down, considering the warm weather.  We hop in, not bothering to open the doors, with me taking the important driver’s position.

Turning the key, the powerful V8 engine, Chevy’s latest small block offering, roars to life. I “goose it”, peeling out of the gravel parking lot, sending off a rooster tail of dusty debris.  Hopefully this spray will cover our competitor’s own rides, a fleet of matte black scooters leaning against an accommodating lamppost.

My dad, the owner of this fancy “boat”, would “tan my hide” if he saw me tearing up the whitewall tires like this.  Hopefully, he’ll never find out.  But gossip seems to spread regarding every activity in this cozy picket fence town, with teachers and parents alike happy to “sing”.

Fittingly “Rock Around The Clock”, a new hit by Bill Haley & His Comets, becomes clear over the radio as we transition from dirt to asphalt.  This song could be the new summer anthem for our rebellious crew.

“Hippy”: Southern California – 1969

The wind rustles through the leaves of the oak tree we’re sitting under.  The canopy from this broad deciduous offering provides pleasant shade from the midday sun.  Another beautiful day in paradise, sitting amongst beautiful people. Life is “marvy”.

I’m clad in a yellow and green floral print dress, with white cotton panties, and no bra, as are most of my colleagues.  No one wears bras anymore.  Not because this is an all-girls school, but because they just aren’t comfortable.  Or necessary.  There’s no “foam domes” or “kleenex cleavage” on campus.

My wavy blonde hair extends all the way down my back, and hasn’t been touched by scissors since I started middle school.  To control these long locks, I use a stout hemp cord, threaded with colorful glass beads, and adorned by several colorful bird feathers.  I have several of these homemade headband rings; I select an appropriate accoutrement each morning based on the rest of my simple outfit.

Seated cross-legged, thong sandals already discarded, I can feel the soft grass on my exposed legs.  These appendages could use a shave, considering the fine hairs which are starting to protrude from my pale skin, but the natural look is coming into vogue of late.  One less body maintenance activity to worry about.  “Far out”.

The up-tight “squares” from earlier in the decade have given way to a generation of laid-back “groovy” souls.  A welcome shift in sentiment, which I’m happy to be a part of.

Anti-government views, and the free love “hippy” culture, is growing in popularity by the day, especially on the west coast of the United States.

Considering the perpetually pleasant weather here in Southern California, we’re have Social Studies class outside, as we often do.  Our teacher is somewhat of a wandering spirit, like many of her students, and only a few years older than us.  Despite the educational hierarchy, we’re all part of the same “flower power” movement.

This lady encourages interaction during class, with many of the lessons taking of the form of spirited discussions as opposed to curated lectures.

The other benefit of our relaxed instructor is that she has vey few rules.  No one follows rules any more anyways.

Reaching in my purse, I extract a cigarette, and spark the end with my lighter.  Having been smoking since 12 years old, the movements of my hands, lips, and lungs are so practiced as to be fully engrained instincts.  I take a deep pull, the pungent tobacco smoke overpowering the sweet floral aromas which waft in the spring air.

This nicotine infusion is a temporary fix, which provides a brief boost to my body and mind, hopefully improving my engagement during the classroom debate.  I would rather enjoy some “grass”, which really gets my mental faculties stimulated, but that’s unfortunately frowned upon by even the most liberal instructors here.  At least during regular hours.

Our topic of discussion today, as it often is, revolves around the ongoing Vietnam War.  The increasing number of young men who are being deployed overseas, many never to return back home, has sparked increased crusading amongst young ladies like myself.  We’re going to need some able-bodied males to start families with eventually.

The lengthy and costly ongoing conflict has led to all manner of protests across the nation.  One of the best forms of activism is through music, a common medium where messaging can be distributed across the country via radio.  My favorite band, and that of countless groupie girls worldwide these days are The Beatles.  However, being from Britain, the “Fab Four” have generally stayed away from Vietnam War messaging in their works, despite impressively prolific album output.

Our teacher uses musical works as a medium for examining current events.  For the past week, we’ve been examining and interpreting the same song.  This piece is much more extensive than our usual lyrical forays, at nearly 19 minutes long, and composed of over 2,600 words, many repeated and redundant.

The subject of our discussion is “Alice’s Restaurant Massacree”, by Arlo Guthrie.  I’ve probably listened to this tune a dozen time in the past week, and discover new elements of the sung silly story each time.

We’ve spent hours dissecting the hidden meaning of various innuendos and double entendres in the lyrics:  “Officer Obie”, “Whitehall Street”, “kill, Kill, KILL”, and most confusing to my naïve female mind, “Father rapers!”

Now, as we reach the end of the song, and the lengthy lesson, Mr. Guthrie’s motivational messaging becomes quite clear.

“If you want to end war and stuff you got to sing loud.”

Apparently, all the blustery verbiage in this meandering fable is simply a call to action for those on the liberal end of the political spectrum.  Which includes all the gals assembled under this broad oak tree.  We sing the final “heavy” chorus of the song in unison, holding hands and swaying back and forward in a circle, then class is dismissed.

With no boys at this facility, I’m forced to seek courtship beyond school grounds and hours.  Already outside, this seems like a good time to make my break for the day.  My final scheduled session is art, with attendance encouraged, as opposed to mandatory.  I have better things to do with my time and body than draw disproportioned nudes with charcoal pencils in an incense-infused studio.  That scene isn’t my “bag”.

Instead of reentering the school through the broad metal front doors with my colleagues, I dart to the back of the rectangular brick building.  Where my bicycle is leaning against the tennis court fence.  Time to “bug out” from this academy.

There’s an older guy, who already graduated high school, that works at the local surf shop down on the beach.  Hopefully, I can swing by to chat with my “hunk”, smoke some pot, play some guitar, and maybe even “swap some spit”.  Our interactions are always “far out”.

With any luck, I’ll still get home at a reasonable hour so that my old folks don’t suspect anything.  They’ll just be sitting in front of the “boob tube” watching network news coverage of the war anyways.  They’re old fashioned types, born in a different era, who don’t understand the whimsical pursuits of us current teenagers. 

At least my beach cruiser gives me some modicum of transport mobility.  Soon, I’m rolling along the paved paths “catching some rays”, enjoying the sandy scenery.  San Francisco enjoyed their “Summer of Love” just a few years ago.  Now, Los Angeles hopefully gets a turn as I come of age.  “California Dreamin’” indeed!

“Boogie”: Miami – 1978

The disco ball hung in the ceiling spins gently, cascading shards of geometric light onto the dance floor.  This flat surface also happens to be the wooden court that our basketball team plays on.  Tonight, I’m partaking in a different form of exercise, rather than being our squad’s star center.

The DJ has been “stellar” tonight, playing the increasingly popular disco numbers which personify this time, town, and teenage demographic.

While New York City and Chicago claim they were the forerunners of the disco movement, “having the lowdown”, I know Miami is the true hotbed of this revolution.

Granted, I’m a little biased, having grown up here at the southern tip of Florida.  Plus, I’ve never been to either of these famous American metropoles.  Still, there’s no way these northern cities could have the perfect combination of Latin percussion and soulful funk beats to deftly infuse, truly sparking this new genre.

Tonight’s playlist thus far has included many nods to the impressive recording skills and distribution network of local juggernaut TK Records.

George McCrae’s 1974 “Rock Your Baby”, recorded and promoted here in Miami, which became the first mainstream hit of the 70’s disco movement, reaching the top of the U.S. Billboard 100 charts.  Then, there’s the now famous KC and the Sunshine Band, with multiple popular albums over the past few years.  “Boogie Shoes” and “Keep It Comin’ Love” have already been served up to the crowd tonight, but there’s plenty more hits in this band’s library.

With the release of “Saturday Night Fever” at the end of last year, the discotheque movement has gone nationwide, and mainstream.  This spread was inevitable, especially considering the immense popularity of the style amongst the African American cohort which I’m happy to be a part of.  Granted, the movie failed to capture this key element; Hollywood adaptations often distort reality.

This holiday ball is an annual traditional here at school, as the semester winds down heading into Christmas break, then the calendar year rolls over.  As a junior, it’s my third time attending this “shindig”.

I pride myself on my dancing, and this performative activity provides a chance to shine.  I’m wearing my “slammin’” outfit: creamy polyester pants, which are incredibly tight on my thighs, but flair widely at my ankles, almost covering my grey suede shoes, with grippy gum rubber soles, which allows a variety of fancy moves to be executed.

My selected shirt, like my personality, is flashy.  A paisley pattern, with every conceivable hue of brown accounted for, light beige to dark chocolate.  The print, interlinked pointed and curvy elements, combined in a random pattern, and executed on shimmering satin cloth, is mesmerizing in the flickering glow.  And provides a beautiful accent to my caramel skin color.  All part of my “casanova” persona.

My hybrid ethnicity fits in well at the downtown Miami school district I’m in, and consequently at this campus gathering.

My father was born and raised in Puerto Rico, immersed in the food, music, language, and overall culture of this small island nation.  Meanwhile, my mother is the product of an interracial connection in the Deep South, well before such relationships were acceptable publicly.  Needless to say, her dad has not been in the picture since birth, leaving me one grandpa short.

I’m glad that racial comingling is now much more accepted.  Which helps open up my courting options with “foxy mama’s” on the vibrant dance floor.

While many genealogical elements are blended, there’s clearly one facet of my presentation which is decidedly pure.  The incredibly black, incredibly curly, hair which grows atop my head.  This mop leaves a single very obvious, very appropriate, barber execution.  A thick, picked, eccentric “afro”.  Which adds 6 inches to my already substantial 6-foot plus height.

Damn, I look good.  This physique is the product of “pumping iron”, a supplemental element to my basketball training regimen.  Granted, considering bulkiness of my legs from squats, and the tightness of my pants, circulation is cut off to my lower extremities.  No worries, the ladies love this look.

Anxious to perform, I listen intently as the music transitions, trying to determine the next offering.  It only takes four distinct musical notes, well before the vocals start, for me to identify this popular track.  Now this is a beat I can “boogie” to.  I “dig it”.

My favorite band by far is Foxy, a home-grown trio of Miami residents, augmented by several Cuban transplants, whose musical talents and Latin spirit contribute greatly to the unique finished product.  Now, their banger “Get Off” is being blasted over the speakers.  “Cool beans.”

As a local, I know there’s a longer version of this title, which didn’t make it onto the official album cover for legal reasons.  This is the time for everyone in attendance to move “your ass”.  Join the dance floor!

I’ve always been gregarious, and have no qualms about motivating my classmates.  Plus, I know all the traditional disco dances, each of which are uniquely named, and require a different combination of motions.  Let’s drop some knowledge on these novices.

The “Hustle”, executed in either pairs or a collaborative line, with many variations.  “YMCA”, a brand-new offering with synchronized arm and leg positions that imply the title acronym, and are feasible for wide skill range of participants to follow.  The “Bump” and the “Pump”, both verb names suggestive of the distinctive gyrations required.  “Watergate”, amusingly named after the scandal of President Nixon a few years earlier.  Creative disco participants draw inspiration from all manner of unique sources.

I’ve never been strong at traditional schoolbook learning, but music and athletics have come naturally since I could hear and walk.  In this regard, disco represents a perfect combination of my endowed skill set.  Too bad fancy dancing isn’t in the educational curriculum.

I hit the hardwood with a fervor beyond any seen by my classmates during basketball games.  My gangly frame whirls to and fro.  Boney knee precisely bent.  Timely rotation of the hips.  Lengthy arm raised skyward.  All movements perfectly matching the “bomb” beat.

Within seconds, the entire student body has joined me, filling the floor, and mimicking my curated dance moves with varying levels of execution.  This “hop” is “off the hook”.

“Spaz”: Minnesota – 1984

It feels like the clock on the wall is moving backwards.

Looking out the broad windows, I can see rain streaming down the glass.  Another grey fall day in middle America.  The current skies match my mood, and the current situation matches my life prospects.  I’m in afternoon detention, yet again.

School has only been going for a month now.  I’m already missing the uninhibited freedom and brief stint of fair weather afforded by summer in Minnesota.  Apparently, my behavior has yet to transition back to the strict rules and indoor confinement dictated by the normal high school experience.

At least I’m not the only person in prison.  Other degenerates are also struggling with the rigid educational structure being imposed.  There are four other students confined to this dull room, plus one teacher tasked with keeping us from escaping.  I wonder how this poor “dip” got assigned this crappy job.

Having the advantage in numbers, I’m sure we could “blitz” this lone “big kahuna” chaperone.  A “bodacious” plan indeed, provided I can discretely recruit my colleagues for this crime.  Unfortunately, this would just be a temporary reprieve.  Forced to return to class tomorrow morning, if I ever want to graduate, such rebellious behavior will just increase my overall sentence.

The worst part of this punishment is the absolute silence that we must endure.  I have a Walkman in my backpack, with a few curated tapes that include a variety of catchy “New Wave” pop “jams”.

“Call Me” by Blondie.  “Beat It” by Michael Jackson.  “Every Breath You Take” by The Police.  “When Doves Cry” by Prince.  “Careless Whisper” by Wham!.  All classics which have defined the first half of the 80’s decade.

However, no music is allowed, either played over the radio for all to hear, or via personal headphones, during study hall.  The administration has carefully thought of the best ways to torture us transgressors.

The decision to mute us teenagers is as interesting one.  We have already developed our own new lexicon, which most adults aren’t even aware of.  Simple terms like good and bad now have many new words, albeit each appropriate for a specific scenario and audience.

On the acceptable side of the ledger: “phat”, “word”, “gnarly”, “wicked”, and “tubular”, the last with the “totally” prefix for further emphasis.  The derogative terms are longer in length, fewer in quantity, and even more obscure in origin: “gag me with a spoon”, “have a cow”, “wiggin’ out”, and the simple “grody”, which can be augmented by adding “to the max”.

These old folks have no idea what we’re talking about, even when we are able to converse.

Essentially all of our freedoms and vices have been taken away here in detention: wearing ball caps, puffing on cigarettes, reading comic books, and eating candy bars.  We may as well be living in the Soviet Union, our ongoing Cold War combatant, considering these restrictive conditions.  We don’t even have the opportunity to “get high” on ether from photocopy paper.  These are truly dark days.

Of course, I could be doing some actual schoolwork while confined.  But that would be too logical an act for my erratic mind.  Thinking she’s clever, our English teacher is making us read George Orwell’s dystopian work during the exact year of its title.  While I’ve only skimmed this book, the world the author describes is much worse than my own teenage existence.  Except for this authoritarian incarceration program.

Us invalids have been spread out randomly throughout the room, as a further means of mitigating conversation.  My lucky and desirable position at a desk in the back corner of the room allows me to survey all the other unfortunate participants.

One row in front of me, and two desks over, is a “dweeb”, a lame nerd who is surprising addition to this miscreant cohort.  She must have been caught doing someone else’s homework for money.

Her outfit is non-descript: a baggy baby blue wool sweater, white stretchy spandex leggings, and black low-top Converse shoes.  Her crimped hair looks frazzled, treatment and static conspiring to create a tangled brown bird’s nest.  With better care, and better clothing, this lady could improve to “zeek” status.

The next closest individual is a “preppy” guy, as identified by the expensive designer clothing being worn.  In this case, a Ralph Lauren thick stripped polo shirt, crisp beige slacks with the Calvin Klein underwear waistband visible, and dark brown leather Giorgio Armani dress shoes.  Apparently, even family money can’t buy your way out of this imprisonment.

The next participant in order as I scan the space is a young lady, relegated to the second row, two desks in, and closest to the exit door.  While this lass looks like she’s dressed for a workout, I’m skeptical she’s ever exercised in this outfit.  The ensemble contains at least 15 separate components which are visible, with no undoubtably multiple articles of underwear underneath.

Three tops, of varying shape and sheerness.  Both pants and shorts, of starkly contrasting hues.  Not to mention, the anklets, wristbands, and a headpiece, of various stretchy colors and composition.  The “jelly style” is complete with transparent sandals, rounded rigid bracelets, and multiple beaded necklaces, all made from cheap yet flamboyant plastic.

Not exactly athletic attire.  It must take this gal half an hour to disrobe and shower, assuming she ever works out in this goofy garb.

At the front of the room, obviously not by choice, is a scrawny black kid.  What’s much more noticeable than the color of his skin is the incredibly bright clothes he’s donned.  Nearly every shade of neon is represented: green, pink, purple, orange, and, most notably, eye-poppingly bright yellow.

This outfit is intended to be “fly”, mimicking the outfits worn by rappers during exaggerated music video performers.  Personally, I have no intention of drawing undue attention to myself by looking like a traffic sign.

In contrast to this crazy cast of characters, my own costume, composed of loose-fitting thrift store clothes, stone washed jeans with a few holes around the knees, and a textured button-up shirt, are so normal and generic as to be asexual.  Plus, my wavy chin-length hair falls squarely in the middle of the pack for teenagers these days.

Just the way I like it.  I prefer to blend in as much as possible here at school.  A strategy which apparently hasn’t enabled me to avoid detection, and detention.

In reality, we are all phonies, living vicariously through the pictures and people we see on MTV shows and in Rolling Stone magazine.

The annoying final buzzer rings, corresponding with the clock finally hitting 4:30 PM.  Our ragtag crew is free to “bounce” from our strictly enforced confinement.  As we pack up and shuffle out, my glorious elation quickly transitions to a disappointing realization.

I’m due at my mall food court job in an hour.  With no personal car, considering the absurd cost of gas these days, I’m going to need to run home, quickly change into the required stark-white monkey suit uniform, then bum a ride from my parents.  Which will necessitate an explanation about where I’ve been.  And initiate 6 hours of stinky, greasy labor monitoring the fryer.  By the end of each kitchen shift, I’m on the verge of “ralphing”.

Staying in classroom custody doesn’t sound so bad, relative to the other available options.  I’d be much more comfortable “vegging out” on the basement couch at home.  Which also serves as my bed; amongst five siblings, with me directly in the middle, this is the only privacy I’m afforded.

“Jock”: Rural Tennessee – 1993

This bonfire is massive.  It’s been going since dusk, increasing steadily in size, and by extension heat production, as the night has progressed.  The expansion is likely tied to the increased intoxication of the crowd amassed around this inferno.

Our varsity football team won the 1993 Tennessee state title last night, held on a Friday per tradition, so a little celebration is in order.  “Booyah!”

The auditory entertainment tonight is being provided by the substantial speakers of the jacked-up pick-up parked nearby.  The entire truck bed was filled with wood and brush when it arrived; this heaping load has been diminished to below the side panels.  Now visible through the back window, which is adorned with military service stickers, including the recent Persian Gulf War conflict, are a trio of shotguns on the rack, like many such vehicles around here.

The impressive sound system goes silent for just a second, before the next song comes on.  “C.R.E.A.M.” by the Wu Tang Clan.  This raucous beat is bound to kick the party up another level.  The music tonight has been eclectic, ranging from Nirvana grunge rock, to power ballads by Bryan Adams, to Swedish pop offerings like Ace Of Base.

Interspersed between are lots of catchy country tunes from popular artists like Straight, Jackson, Gill, and Brooks.  I know the lyrics to every one of these southern anthems, and happily sing along.  I have no issues “getting jiggy” when the mood strikes me.  And the booze certainly helps.

Looking around at the gathered masses, which tallies over 100 folks, this “rager” has clearly extended well beyond the football players and cheerleaders, of which I am one.

As American high school has personified for decades, there are various cliques at our rural facility.  Even here around the fire, well outside of standard educational hours, people tend to self-select into the friend circles which dictate nearly all elements of socialization.

Aided by the glow of the blaze, I’m able to spot the unique wardrobe characteristics which define each segment.

The “jocks” in their Starter jackets, adorned with logos for the various college and pro sports teams of our state.  The “emos”, clad from head to toe in black, heavily adorned with dark colored hair dye, mascara, nail polish, and choker necklaces, regardless of gender, making them almost impossible to spot away from the firelight.  The “grunge” contingent, wearing scuffed combat boots, weathered loose-fitting jeans, and band logo concert shirts under torn plaid flannel long sleeves.

My own attire befits the curated image I hope to portray to the world at this point in my adolescent life development.  A pair of braided pigtails secured by a few metallic silver scrunchies.   A Volunteer orange miniskirt which barely covers my buttocks, and a tight white “baby doll” t-shirt that leaves much of my midriff exposed.  On my small feet are bedazzled alligator skin cowboy boots, an obvious choice, considering the outdoor venue.

Considering my incredibly slight frame, in both size and stature, not much fabric is needed.  This skimpy outfit also necessitates that I stay close to the fire to keep warm on this chilly evening.  Such personal sacrifices must be made in the spirit of sexy presentation.

Despite our differences in appearance, all of us teenagers from this era share a common trait.  Falling squarely into the middle of Generation X, a cohort defined by rampant independence.  Our parents, products of the post-World War II baby boom, with their own formative years occurring during the contentious Vietnam War, have discarded the strict rules which governed their own upbringing in favor of much more lax protocols for their offspring.

No babysitters after school.  No family dinners around the table.  No evening curfews.  No rules at all, in some cases.  Which enables late-night bashes in the woods like this current “hella good” celebration.

Even with essentially free reign, the site selection for this party necessitates a remote location.  Underage drinking, while accepted by many parents, is still frowned upon amongst local law enforcement.  As are monstrous bonfires.

Fortunately, the star running back’s grandfather owns a large plot of woods on the outskirts of town.  Us teenagers gather here so often that there’s no way this spot is a secret.  Maybe the police have just stopped caring.     

Turning my back to the substantial fire, in an effort to warm my exposed legs above the tall boots, I check the contents of the bottle in my hand, a Boones Farm strawberry wine, which doesn’t have more than a sip left.  Considering my tiny physique, it doesn’t take me much to get “tipsy”.  Good thing I was sharing this sweet concoction with a few of my girlfriends.  This party is “da bomb”. 

Time to procured another drink.  And hopefully a football player to make out with.  With the alcohol purchased by a few college-age siblings who happen to be back in town for the weekend, and most of the better athletes already locked up in superficial relationships, there will likely be slim pickings on both fronts. 

I reach the cooler, more accurately large metal tub, and find one of my cheer team members posted up here.  This “skank” is not one of my friends; we travel in different circles aside from our mandated athletics practices.

Surprisingly, as I approach, she reaches down and fishes out a beer can from the ice, then offers it up to me.  That’s odd.  Maybe she’s trying to make amends for past transgressions.

However, as I reach out my small hand, the desired frosty beverage is yanked back into the darkness, with a shout of “Not!” shrieked by my nemesis.  It’s on now.  I react quickly with my own verbal outburst.

“Whatever!”

“Take a chill pill!” 

“Talk to the hand!”

“As if!”

This “dissing” banter is common amongst us catty coeds.  Hormonal shifts and the resulting body changes conspires to make high school a combative environment for teenage girls.

Fortunately, after a minute of yelling, we both calm down, conversation ending with the mandatory “my bad” apology, and “aight” acceptance.  These are interesting times, with interesting verbiage, and interesting social interactions.  Beer procured, I scurry back to the fire to warm up and drink up amongst my “posse”.

“Nerd”: Washington, DC – 2002

My hands are shaking, not with nervousness, but in anticipation.  This erratic tactile condition is not helping completion of my desired task.  Soldering the final leads onto the circuit board, which will allow full functionality of our team’s robot creation.  Hopefully.

“Nerds” doesn’t even begin to describe the collection of crazies who chose to take this electronics class.  One needs only to examine the text and logos on the t-shirts of the teenage participants to make this realization.  NASA mission references, Y2K computer jokes, and periodic table spelled words like “Be.Er” are all commonplace.  No DKNY, JNCO, or ECKO fashion statements here.

This current project represents the culmination of the semester, incorporating all of our learnings from the year into a single machine.  We are participating in teams of three, randomly selected as opposed to personally chosen, which has thrown some social dynamics into an already challenging endeavor.

It’s pretty clear most of us intellectuals, which may as well be synonymous with “loners”, in high school parlance, would prefer to work individually, or maybe just with the one tangential friend if pressured.  None of us have any “dawgs”, “biatches”, or “homeskillets”, like the more popular socialites in our senior class.

The forced collaboration, in additional to mandating teamwork, has facilitated an even scarier proposition for me.  Talking to girls.

Finishing up my last connection of liquid tin alloy with an unsteady tip, I put the hot utensil back into the coil holder, and look up for the first time in several minutes.  I remove my bulky safety glasses, custom made to fit over my thick prescription lenses.  My eyes, watery from the focused effort, are immediately met by the only woman in this class of 15, who happens to be on my squad.

While I’m not one to judge looks, this lady is quite a sight to see.  Her raven black hair, streaked with bold pink highlights, is currently spun into a pair of clumpy buns on each side of her head.  It seems like each day is a new hairdo creation: spikey mohawk, tangled mess, rail-straight sag.

If she owns any articles of clothing which aren’t monochromatic, aside from the prevalent pink and gold embellishments, I’ve never seen them.  Most intimidating are the high and hefty heels, bedazzled by pointy metallic “bling”, perpetually attached to her feet.  I make sure to keep a wide berth, to avoid losing a toe.

The “horror punk” image is confirmed by all manner of graphic tattoos, which cover essentially any exposed skin, sometimes visible through fishnet stockings and torn holes in her outerwear.  How does a teenager end up with this much body art?

Aesthetics aside, I’ve learned throughout this project, as reinforced by our current close proximity, that this lass has no concept of personal space.  Giving this counterpart a hesitant nod, most of our interactions are non-verbal, she reaches down and toggles the power switch to “on”, using a finger whose nail is painted with, you guessed it, matte black enamel.

The next several seconds seem to take an eternity, allowing me to summon the popular song “Hanging On A Moment” by Lifehouse into my mind.  Decidedly introverted, I hum this catchy tune mentally as opposed to out loud, while the electronic components spring to life.  All diagnostics lights are green, and all capacitor charges full.  “Sweet!”

Successful demonstration of wiring and programming knowledge will be a key piece of my college application portfolio.  Universities, especially the elite ones, are becoming increasingly competitive, especially in the Computer Science field which I plan to pursue.

In the wake of the 9-11 disaster in New York City, there has understandably been a heightened emphasis on cybersecurity, especially here in the nation’s capital where I’ve grown up.  Only at a private high school like this elite Washington, DC institution could I focus on entire semester on learning in this singular, technology-specific, manner.  It helps when your mom’s a lawyer turned congresswoman.

While my engineering classmates will likely be heavily male dominated, I guess I’d better get comfortable working with women.  This chick is a weird one, which is saying something coming from me, but she obviously knows her stuff from a technical standpoint.

If I wasn’t so germophobic, I might even lean in and give her a peck on the cheek, or a potentially more appropriate handshake.  However, all I can muster up after this successful full systems test is a timid smile, which is met with an icy stare, grey eyes masked by charcoal eye shadow.  Socialization is still a work in progress for both of us.

“Stoked” to assess success, we move over to the desktop computer, which is reading in the raw data.  There are only a few classrooms that have these powerful processing machines; granted the collection of wires and cables attached doesn’t make this a very mobile unit.  We’ll need to execute functionality testing while plugged in on the bench, before releasing our creation into the wild, to maneuver on a meager battery, with no real-time software manipulation.

The third colleague on this ragtag crew will be the robot operator.  Another eccentric, this kid wears pants so large he could fit both his legs into one side, and a heavy chain connected to an oversized wallet which seems cumbersome just to look at.  Fortunately, this participant is responsible for navigating our mechanized creation through the complex course using remote control, rather than physically running the gauntlet himself.

“Fo shizzle” is his go-to phrase when asked about any element of the project.  I’m not sure exactly what that’s supposed to mean, but will give this guy credit for always exuding confidence.

I spend a substantial part of my day wandering the high school halls, so engrossed in my own thoughts, that I barely notice the current wardrobe trends.

As a result, I’m still wearing hand-me-down pleated pants and dress shirts from my father’s IBM engineer garb.  While he grows out of this lame clothing, I grow into it, happy to follow in my patriarch’s footsteps.  I hope to achieve his same mental faculties in as my mind grows and morphs.  My “rents”, both successful intellectuals, are a tough act to follow.

Our random robot team is definitely a unique trio, but our combined mechanical, electrical, and programming skills have proven perfect for the current coursework challenge.

The impending success of this machine, completely contrary to my own meager expectations when our odd squad was formed months ago, should provide a boon to my collegiate resume.  Which is already extensive.  But I’ll take all the feathers I can pick up and stick in my cap.  Elite universities are getting increasingly competitive, and increasingly expensive, these days.

Probably because girls, like my de facto teammate, are becoming increasingly proficient in the STEM fields.  I’ll take all the help I can get, even if our in-person interactions are a little awkward.  For true innovation, collaboration is key.

Moving our machine from the lab bench to the test course, a distance of just 50 feet, is still an all-hands-on-deck effort.  My odd mind, as it does in most times of stress, reverts to the calming power of music.  In this case, Faith Hill’s popular “Breathe” is churning upstairs, controlling my mind and body cadence.

I better not let my punk rock or west coast rap counterparts know I’m even familiar with this country tune.  Otherwise, I’d be in for an understandably swift ass kicking.  Thus, the humming is internal.  Unfortunately, my newly found “peeps” can probably hear my heart thumping out the spirited chorus of this anthem.

“Clique”: Tucson – 2017

The cafeteria is roughly half full, with only a few circular tables of 8 warm bodies, and several completely empty.  The food consumption space of this high school, now three decades old, was designed in a time when many more students participated in the mid-day meal.

Despite continued growth in class size, more and more students are going off campus at lunch, via car, bike, or on foot.  While not explicitly allowed, the administration here has deemed on-campus dining enforcement a battle not worth fighting.

I’m unsure where kids get money to eat out every day of the week.  Apparently, many folks at this Catholic school are more affluent than my family, who scrap together money to send me here purely for religious reinforcement reasons.  Another element where the disparities between different societal classes continue to diverge.

Pima County where I live, in a decidedly “purple state”, recently went to the Democratic party for the first time in many election cycles.  While I’m still several years out from being able to vote, my conservative parents are already coaching me on policy, especially with regards to limiting abortion, and other “woke” sentiments, as a means of righting these wrongs.

At least their preferred candidate, President-elect Trump, prevailed on the national stage, and is now in power, having been inaugurated last week.

While this 45-minute block is carved out for students to get their much-needed sustenance which facilitates continued growth, students appear to be utilizing the down time for socializing and much as snacking.

Not physical conversation in the normal sense, but instead electronic communication.  Using ubiquitous cellphones, which every teenager now possesses.

Sharing “selfies”.  “Humblebraging” about achievements.  Stringing together “emojis”.  Getting “deets”.  This is how us adolescents spend our days, be it at school or at home.

Even my “helicopter parents” have given me an electronic monitor, a used item of course, which serves as more of a tracking and safety device for an innocent freshman girl, than a functional digital tool.  Or so they think.  Today’s teenage cohort is much savvier with technology on than their originators.

Most of my colleagues, with greater financial resources, already have the brand-new iPhone X, celebrating a decade of product innovation at Apple.  Meanwhile, I’m stuck with a refurbished Version 6 offering.

In this era, everything is online.  As a result, cellphones are a form of currency, with which I’m poorly endowed.  This rectangular box of electronics technology is linked to every element of life, from coursework to communication.

At least I’ve upgraded this old beater with some key augmentation that allows fully addicted functionality to be achieved.  A durable case, able to withstand any drop onto hallway tile, or even worse, a watery toilet bowl.

On the back of this protective coating, I’ve stuck a rubbery protrusion, with enables me to hold and manipulate the small screen using just two adjacent fingers of my left appendage.  Which leaves my entire right hand free for the important scrolling, pointing, and typing actions necessary to navigate this dense digital world.

Currently, I focused on eating, as opposed to entertainment.  Despite my relatively new strict vegan diet, I’m still a bit on the chucky side.  This heft must be a result of portion control issues, or more likely inherited genetics, as opposed to the type of intake.  As Lady Gaga says, I was “Born This Way”.

I blame my fake and fleeting friends, followers of fads, as opposed to fancy forerunners, for getting me into this silly nourishment regimen.

In this era of constant social media overstimulation, everyone is being visually judged.  I wish I could escape this toxic spiral, but the relentless tempest continues to pull me in.  I’m about ready to give up, as evidenced by my daily attire of late.

I used to wear blue jeans and t-shirts, as several generations of teenage youth have done in prior decades.  Over the past month, just halfway through the inaugural year in high school, I’ve finally conceded defeat.  My new daily wardrobe is entirely composed of “athleisure” gear.

It’s hard to argue with the cut and comfort of these clothes, though the look is by no means flattering.  I’m a little meatier, and not as shapely, as the currently preferred “slim-thick” classification for women.  However, my aesthetic transition from “on fleek” to “chillaxing” has been made, and there’s no going back.  Maybe in the future, overwhelmed by peer pressure, I’ll transition to “jeggings”.

My shoe execution has also waned, from crisp Nike Air Force 1’s, the all-white colorway requiring daily spot cleaning, to drab grey slip-on Crocs, which I could care less about maintaining or protecting.  My life is coming apart at the seams in many ways.

Ironically, as I contemplate my physique, the next song piped through my earbuds becomes incredibly poignant.  Ed Sheeran’s latest hit, “Shape Of You”, a tune which is both motivating and demeaning at the same time.  At least in my current mental state.  After the second verse, I jab at the screen with purpose, moving on to the next tune.

Bored, I poke at the stir fry concoction in my plastic Tupperware bowl, an unappetizing mix of tempeh, cabbage, and carrots, on a bed of wild rice, all of which have been stained brown by the acidic and salty rice wine vinegar and soy sauce blend.

What this slop could use is some “guac”.  Enough of this swill.  I need a sweet treat.  Too bad they don’t sell any vegan products at this crappy cafeteria.

Turning my attention back to my phone, I navigate to the curated baked goods section on my Instagram.  All these fancy dessert offerings look amazing.  Are these products actual produced in mass, and available for public consumption?  Or are these images of special recipes, which look amazing, but taste like cardboard?

I’ll never know.  Like beach vacation pictures, expensive new cars, and magic pet tricks, that’s how the visual scam of online social media works.  Which isn’t helping my sanity.

As if to twist the knife, a new message comes in on my dopamine device.  I open it immediately, the hit of anticipation impossible to ignore.  This enthusiastic high quickly transitions to depressive panic, as I view the image on my screen.  I’m “shook”.

It’s a picture of me lounging on a floaty in the pool, last summer, or maybe two years back.  A common occurrence for anyone who wants to escape the Tucson heat. Unfortunately, in this instance, I must have dozed off, and lost my balance.  As my chubby, swimsuit-clad, frame tips into the water, a digital graphic has been deftly overlaid on the video.  A plump blue whale icon, which replaces me on the now-empty raft.

Girls have always been cruel.  But in the past, at least bitches were forced to look you in the eye when dishing out verbal insults.  This electronic era has made bullying anonymous, rampant, and brutal.  I want to cry, but this emotional outburst will only spur on my combatants.

I “side-eye” glare over towards the octet of teenage gals, at one of the only full tables, where all manner of muted giggling is being exuded.  I used to have a seat in that circle, before us ladies transitioned to high school.  In fact, my former “BFF” is now the ringleader of this new troupe.  I’ve been “unfriended”, in both the digital and physical world.

I’m constantly craving the innocent simplicity of middle school.  As the popular Gotye title line goes, this is “Somebody That I Used To Know”.

Stressing “to the max”, I clear the awkward “meme”, and navigate to my music options.  There’s one way I can always improve my mood, a lively “earworm” which is saved at the top of my playlist.  “Happy” by Pharrell Williams, a song which I spent the summer blasting on repeat as a naïve 6th grader.  How times have changed.

“Zoomer”: Portland, OR – 2024

History sucks.  I can think of no conceivable scenario where having a detailed timeline of Napoleon’s life exploits is relevant in modern society.

Granted, a trip to the French Riviera, to work on my tan could be quite enjoyable, but I doubt the Napoleonic Wars would come up in general conversation.  Especially considering my “meh” French conversational skills, despite four years of mandated foreign language study.

Maybe I could at least catch Taylor Swift on her current Era’s Tour in Europe.  Tickets were way too expensive last year on the U.S. sweep.  That’s what happens when you’re the “G.O.A.T.”.  Seeing a live concert in Paris would be “lit”.  I’m such a “stan” for Tay Tay.

Looking up from my laptop, I steal a glance at the individual seated in the recliner to my right.  My classmate.  My friend.  And most recently, and relevantly, my lover.  This boy is “fire”.

Ironically, Glass Animals “Heat Waves” comes on over the portable speaker which sits between us.  There are definitely some exhilarating “feels” in this room right now.  But we’re both trying to keep our heads down, and focus on the studious task at hand.  For now.

We’ve always been close, as neighbors since 1st grade.  However, it wasn’t until this year, about to finally finish off the high school journey, that our adolescent maturity developed to the point where we were able to recognize the carnal urges we both share.

Fortunately, after decades of oppression, modern society has been finally stopped “throwing shade”, and made same-sex relationships like ours acceptable.  For most open-minded folks, at least.

This basement sanctuary in my “fam’s” modest abode has been a blessing.  Granted, this secluded pad wasn’t available for private usage until recently, when my brother, 8 years older, finally got a real job, and moved away from home.  For the second time, his first hiatus being college.

My mother has been especially enabling, providing free room and board for someone who should have been launched out of the nest years ago.  Good riddance at last.  The relationship between us pair of divergent male siblings has always been “salty”.

I have no interest in spending the next phase of my life at home.  I look forward to “adulting”, and can’t wait to enter the real world, embracing all the challenges which such an self-sufficient existence implies.

We’re supposed to be studying.  The goal was to spend 30 minutes reading the relevant material, then quiz each other on the finer points of Napoleon’s conquest.   But a different conquest is becoming increasingly interesting in my malleable mind.  “Facts”.

The two of us are still fledglings in the art of love, with any willing participant, regardless of sex.

At least we can hang out with each other “in the real” again.  For over two years, as a result of the COVID-19 pandemic, all classes were remote, with no extracurricular activities, or even weekend hangouts.

As it turned out, my home city on Portland, on the west coast as opposed to the east, was exceedingly draconian with regards to the level and length of these lockdowns.  My favorite morning coffee shop and lunchtime food truck both closed as a result of confusing business reopening policies, which made food preparation an impossible industry to remain profitable in.

Meanwhile, based on my extensive online friend network, ranging from close pals to “randos”, in less imposing states like Florida and Texas, daily life was hardly disrupted by the outbreak.  Which no doubt fostered a more enjoyable experience for perpetually inquisitive teenagers like me.

As rising seniors, we’ll be just the second cohort this decade to have an in-person graduation with our peers.  I remember watching my classmates dressed up in their cap and grown, walking across the camera frame in their living room.

There are some celebrations which are just better when done together, in the flesh.  Like snuggling with my “bestie”.  Hopefully we can enjoy some “tea” together later this afternoon, either “sipped” or “spilled”.  There’s no shortage of gossip in high school these days.  Especially now that everyone’s back together, out in the open for public viewing.  And judgment.

Trying to learn via computer conference calls is lame, but my generation is quite proficient being in front of the camera.  Facebook profile images.  Facetime video chats.  Instagram vacation pictures.  TikTok dance performances.

It’s way different deciding, as opposed to being dictated, to partake in visual documentation.  Somehow, it’s easier to express oneself with the filter of a lens as a buffer.  Even if the digital wires by which this content is transmitted allows viewing by many orders of magnitude more individuals than the local auditorium.

I’m excited to finish this chapter in my educational journey.  But am decidedly worried about my next life phase of life.  College would be the logical progression; my grades are respectable enough to get into several secondary schools.  However, the costs of college is steep, and the burden of debt high.

Not to mention my cynicism about the U.S. economy and future job opportunities.  Maybe that’s why fewer folks are heading to university these days.  Anecdotally, a few of my older acquaintances are living a “boujee” lifestyle as social media influencers.  At least that’s what their fancy stream of posts suggests.  Maybe the self-employed online path is a better career choice.  Albeit, a competitive one.

Eschewing the boring historical content on my tablet again, I sneak another peek at my boy.  With immaculately styled hair, a trendy golf shirt, and short khaki shorts, this boy has “rizz”.  His musculature is easy to assess under this tidy outfit; the lad’s not fully “swoll”, just well-toned.  Hopefully I’m worthy of him.

Both of us are still finding our life path: academics, attraction, and aspirations still a jumbled mess.  Unable to focus, I slam my laptop case closed.  Napoleon, and the infinite amount of information available on the internet, can wait.  Plus, my battery is about to die.  Time for a “vibe check”.

I’m ready to go for a walk with my “bea”.  “Touching grass” is important to escape this perpetual digital bombardment; just a few minutes strolling in the local woods can clear the mind.  With the climate changing rapidly, now is the time to enjoy the natural world we’re all lucky to have.  Provided our duo doesn’t get distracted on the way out of the basement.