Through these Eyes Part 31

Nonsense

It was only yesterday, And hours before when I, Without a thought of calories, Had baked a chocolate pie.

In reflecting culinary action, Its value I must a.s.sess For in the act of doing so, I created quite a mess!

Buying property is like peanut b.u.t.ter on bread...

The more peanuts you've got, the better the spread.

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Chapter 21 Twelfth Grade

"One must like himself; self-love is the core from which all else grows, including the ability to give and to accept."

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

Twelfth Grade

At the onset of 12th grade, I had found employment at a large department store where I worked in ladies fashions, hanging merchandise or ringing up sales on a computerized register. I worked hard, thinking of myself as having just one of many thankless jobs in which the "reward" came only via Friday paychecks. Yet hard work did pay off, and my boss had, indeed, noticed.

A comment I had written in February of 1980 read: Pete came up to me at work and said, "Laurie, I just want to say that you are a super gal and a fine employee."

The next line, written as a matter of fact, stated: I had a hernia.

Compliments can come as a shock when they are not freely given, but perhaps that is when they mean the most.

Three days later I found he really meant the words he had said when he changed the work schedule for me so I could go to Mexico over the week of spring break.

Feb. 29, 1980... I started crying! He said, "I'll break my back for someone who's willing to break their's for me."

It was almost more praise than I could ingest in three days. Almost, but not quite.

Mexico was a sweet memory, although I would never choose to travel there again. A gift from my parents after having studied Spanish for four years, the trip was educational as well as recreational, and also proved to be the most enjoyable group experience I had ever known.

The tour led by two high school language teachers, skirted the less wholesome neighborhoods of Mexico City for our eye-opening benefit. We saw rampant filth encircling the street vendors and gutters which ran foul with the discarded carvings of meat markets. In such areas a rotten stench ruled over the otherwise pervasive fumes of car exhausts, creating what seemed a playground for the generation of a killing plague. No one looked surprised as a man ran half-clothed through the crowd, his hair a matted ma.s.s which could not conceal the madness evident in his wild eyes and hideous grin.

After such sights, a taxi would slash its way into the traffic and whisk us away on a perilous drive to more hospitable places. Busses would carry us to major sights where we viewed the country-side, the pyramids, and museum artifacts. We marveled at the splendor of Catholic churches, caressed by the many offerings of peasants whose coins beautified the altars and columns with gold. No where else had I witnessed such awesome wealth amidst such utter poverty.

One sight which seared my memory was a church wherein a funeral was taking place. Undaunted by the mourners, a Mexican tour guide led us through the church as if death and grief were impersonal matters, unworthy of respect. I hesitated at the doorway, not wishing to enter, then realized that I knew nothing about the city and might find myself lost if I did not follow. I narrowed my eyes in disgust for the awkward situation and, head lowered in a token of sympathy, filed quietly past the aisles of darkly clothed mourners. No wonder people hated tourists; the incident could have been avoided altogether with a sensitive guide.

Taxco was the most enchanting of the tour's three cities, for it facilitated a preserved glimpse of old Mexico. Here the streets remained narrow corridors of brick, twined up and down the hillside between stucco buildings like wildly frolicking vines. Palms soared toward untainted, blue skies, and red tiled roofs basked in the warmth of the sun. Evening was an enchantment, a brief step into the past.

The stars crept slowly from behind their sapphire blanket as the sun's last rays set on fire the gleaming dome of a church. As the night deepened, many of us made our way down to the main street where an Easter procession was to be held. There we witnessed a reverent celebration of faith, silently watching a line of worshippers as each guarded a candle, sheltering its life as their savior sheltered their lives. In a world of uncertainty, these lovely people were content in their faith; it was beautiful, but it was not for everyone.

The final stop of the tour was Acapulco which most resembled a city of the United States. No one scoffed or gestured comically in our direction at our "different" types of apparel as they had done in Mexico City; there, slacks were not considered proper attire for women, nor were shorts for either gender. One episode in the zoo made all of us smile when a little Mexican child, curious to see blond hair on a pair of man's legs, walked up to one in our party, felt his legs to determine their validity, and then gazed up at him wonderously.

In Acapulco white skin and blond hair was still the exception, yet it was no spectacle. Moreover, shorts and "American" attire seemed to be the rule, which made everyone more comfortable. Personally, I wanted to make a good impression or leave none at all, for when traveling in a foreign country, one may offend without the slightest intention; custom and language differences can create barriers and eventually, prejudice.

Having encountered one "bad egg" in a dozen, it is far less involved to condemn the entire batch rather than to survey them as individuals; certain people are more p.r.o.ne to this att.i.tude than others. This apparently was the type of philosophy which ruled an unforgettable ice cream parlor patriarch, for when five of us respectably waited to be served at his busy establishment, we finally realized that we were not being overlooked but ignored. The man sat motionless behind the counter with his legs splayed widely and arms folded on his rotund belly, intently watching the progress made by his employees until one waitress looked at us and inquired with her eyes. "Maria!" The patriarch spat the name with agitation. "No!" The girl looked down and sought another customer.

This was a new experience; so deep was his hatred that it overruled the typical l.u.s.t for profit. We turned from the counter, smiling at each other. Once outside we all shared a hearty laugh. The stupidity of the situation was incredible to me, for not only had the patriarch's attempt to belittle and demean fail, but he had also lost money. I pondered the scenario, asking myself why it did not bother me, and concluded that it was because self-satisfaction was of more importance to me than the manner in which I was viewed by others. One must like himself; self-love is the core from which all else grows, including the ability to give and to accept. And, in an ice cream parlor in Acapulco, I found that self-love is also the best defense.

Acapulco was the grand finale of an exciting week; white sand beaches above a frothy surf, cool draughts beneath rustling palms, tempting meals and flea market sprees, and a special evening roving the quiet sh.o.r.eline after sunset. It all seemed an incredible fantasy, especially in retrospect, having spent a week apart from familiarity.

Only one aspect of the days in Acapulco could have been channeled into a category other than fantasy; after days of careful food consumption, the inevitable curse of Montezuma fell upon me. Luckily, I was not so horridly afflicted that it made any appreciable difference in my plans; perhaps after so many years, Montezuma's need for revenge had become less poignant. Or it could have been the Kaopectate. Of course, I do not support superst.i.tious curses as being the cause. . . but when the affect is of such magnitude, I bear arms to combat the siege.

On Easter Sunday we boarded a jet and headed for Chicago. Between shifting positions, stretching, peeps out of the porthole windows and in-flight snacks, the hours drifted past. Somehow, the holiday itself was lost. I simply was not accustomed to spending spring break away from home, let alone Easter in mid-air. It reminded me of the Christmas my family spent in Florida; I felt cheated even though I had fun. My mild depression left with the landing in Chicago, where we deplaned and motored the remaining distance.

Norm met me in his old Belvedere. He and his fish car were a welcome sight as I stepped into the frigid air. It had even snowed since I was last home. This was reality, I thought with a smile. The trip ended as suddenly as it had begun, taken in the wintry gusts and buried beneath the joy of homecoming. I watched the others as they turned and whirled, anxiously seeking their families and securing their luggage in a wild flurry of activity. This was the world I knew; Mexico was far away, and soon its memory would be a distant, clouded image, destined to share only the past.

For the present I shared the glowing impressions in my mind, relating the vast differences amid basic human cohesiveness. Despite various cultures, people remained relatively the same; I thought of the curiosity of the child and the calculating hatred of the patriarch, knowing that such people existed in every city. Well into the night I rambled excitedly of my experiences abroad, content that I was home.

I might fit in many places, but home was where I belonged.

I was never much of a romantic. There were inside of me, however, pieces of idealistic images which, due to their inconsistency with reality, provoked great surges of duress. These mental pictures, depicting that which "should be," stuck in my mind and festered there.

Whether they were derived of societal suggestions or secret aspirations of my own concoction, I could not tell, yet they were infuriating, whatever their origin might have been, because of their unattainable quality. The latter part of 12th grade was infiltrated by such lofty ideals, and I had to watch myself closely to make certain I did not begin to play a role other than me. "One's senior year," stated the ideal, "should be a celebration of the past and the future; one's days should be filled with blissful fun and one's company should include the steadfast friends made through the course of the years." I observed cla.s.smates and for some, my ideal seemed their reality. Deep inside of me, however, I knew that, in reference to my life, my ideal was a sinking ship. I possessed perfectionistic qualities but lacked the ambition and the need to acquire awards. For myself I wanted to succeed. I did not, however, have to be the best; depending on so many variables, who could determine what was "best"?

Idly I reflected on my achievements: two year member of the National Honor Society, member of the Spanish Honor Society, and placed second in the school (after a native speaker) for a National Spanish Exam, for which I received a Spanish Dictionary. It was not a lengthy or conspicuous list, but I was satisfied. I could never live up to my ideal because I disliked public display; I felt that accepting recognition would direct undue attention and I would be placed on trial. Within the realm of intelligence, I felt myself to be quite small; knowledge is infinitous, and to claim praise for a.s.similating such a minute portion as was encased in my mind seemed unfit.

My reactions, or lack thereof, regarding academic achievement were greeted by my mom and dad with a degree of chagrin and disappointment.

A child's success is a good reflection on the parents; thus, when I failed to pose for the yearbook photos which honored Society members as a group, she despaired that the anonymity of my accomplishments would hurl me into oblivion. Had I seen through her eyes the importance of recognition, perhaps I would have remained after school and posed for posterity. . . and for my parents.

"Blissful fun" was yet another part of my ideal which had no parallel to reality. Fun was not a given property of one's senior year, a mindless embellishment punctuating the culmination of twelve years of public education. Instead, fun was a state of mind, quite dependent upon one's capacity for having fun. It was imperative to possess creativity, openness and fearlessness toward work; bored people were often simply lazy.

Fun, a highly personal noun, too often was used generically, which led to overrating certain pastimes and berating others. The result, of course, was either harrowing disappointment, or pleasant surprise, depending on one's particular luck. There was also the possibility that one could fake the role of having fun merely because it was the appropriate response; this, more than any other aspect of my ideal, ensnared my sense of reality. I found the power of suggestion, combined with my mind's ideal, would let me take part in an activity, p.r.o.nounce that I had enjoyed myself, and continue to believe such even after the experience was over; then, in later reflection, I would realize my pretense and wonder why I had allowed myself to adopt another's definition of fun rather than pursuing my own intuition.

Such departures from rationality disturbed me, particularly because they were uncharacteristic; while I often sat steeped in thought or immersed in dreams, I rarely played out those reflections in the physical sense. Furthermore, play-acting was a nuisance because when such activity resulted in emptiness, it was a sore waste of time. Free time was one commodity with which I was rather stingy; therefore I tried to be selective regarding how the precious moments were spent.

Even so,mistakes were made, and less favorable outcomes became a source of bitter resentment if I allowed myself to stew in their memory.