An excerpt from Just Walk Away – a memoir of growing up in Iowa
In Junior High everything changed. I went from a largely contented child to a mostly discontented child. How could this happen? There was no particular line of demarcation between 6th grade and 7th grade and yet there it was. A journey into the Twilight Zone and no choosing. One day you’re fine, the next day you’re not. What is it about junior high? All the experts say it’s the hormonal changes. Is that it? One thing that I‘m sure of – it’s something that must be gotten through. There’s no way to navigate around it.
I walk down the street arms laden with books to the corner to catch a bus packed with kids. Mom has given me a scrambled egg sandwich that I’m supposed to eat but as soon as I get out of sight of the house, I throw it in the gutter. So embarrassing! And speaking of embarrassing, I’m on the bus and not sure how to act or what to say. I’m the tallest girl except for Judy so that makes me feel weird . There’s a boy who gets on at some point and I’m hoping he’ll notice me, but he never does. I’m too shy to say anything or initiate anything. Oh, well. Better luck next lifetime.
To compensate I spend most of my time studying and trying to get good grades even though what I really want to do is go all googley eyes over the Hildebrand Twins (who are doubly handsome but total greasers), go to Beatles movies, and pass notes to my friends during class. At Anson Junior High we wait outside the front door for school to start and tease each other without mercy. We are stupid little brats, and I have no idea who started it. It doesn’t matter because whoever started it the rest of us jump on board and participate without a second thought. Mean Girls. Eventually someone complains and who can blame them? Then we are called into the principal’s office and properly chastised and after that we never do it again. I am mortified at myself because my nature is not to be a bully. I am a dumb follower.
In the classrooms we pay just enough attention to get by and spend the rest of the time drawing elaborate cartoon stories that Christine and I make up about the exploits of the Beatles who are, of course, our favorite band. No, favorite EVERYthing. We see them on the Ed Sullivan Show and are over the moon from then on. I play all the 45 rpm records I can get my hands on and memorize all the lyrics and sing along. I can’t wait to go to the record store to see if any albums have come in.
We have all the fan magazines. We have all the records. We fanaticize about getting to see them in person and become their girlfriends. We get away with writing notes to each other because it looks like we were taking notes on what the teacher is saying, but we aren’t. This is 1962 and 1963. We are 12 and 13 years old. The notes are very funny and full of pictures and balloon dialogue. When the first Beatles movie comes out, we all troop down to the Orpheum Theater on Main Street on a Saturday to watch as many showings as they let us. I think I might have gone to see A Hard Day’s Night about 10 times. Same with Help!
I like Latin class, oddly enough, because the teacher, Rose Sadoff, is such a character and so very entertaining. Every class she declares, “Latin is not a dead language!” in her quirky voice and then she goes on to demonstrate how it isn’t by citing examples of how Latin is alive and well in many of the words we say every day. From her I get a love of language and later on I’m still enamored (Ha! Latin there!) and I study the etymology of words in a teeny tiny version of the Oxford English Dictionary. I memorize the Latin verb conjugations Mis Sadoff gives us. Amo, amas, amat, amare; amamus, amatis, amant, amare, “o”, I; es “you”; t “he”; mus “we”; tis “you”; ent “they”; amare! This is cleverly set to the tune of One little, two little, three little Indians. She also has us greet each other, “Salve!” (sal-vay) to which we respond, “Salve et tu quoque!” (sal-vay et too qwo-kway). “Salutations!” “Salutations to you also!”
I take Home Ec, because it’s better than the other classes, but I’m no good at it. The recipes they give us are really stupid. How about a Purple Cow, anyone? (Grape juice in milk). Are you kidding me? I am interested in cooking but have no natural talent. In science class Mr. Horgan has us demonstrate a project. Ellen makes a salad and tells us to tear the lettuce and not cut it with a knife because the cut edges will get brown.
I try sewing. The assigned projects are supposed to be simple and easy. Ha! Not simple enough for me apparently. I cannot get it. I’m always putting the wrong sides together, sewing them and then having to rip it out and do it all over again. I’m an impatient person and I want to just get on with it and not be a stickler for details. Please, Mrs. Teacher, don’t examine my work. Please don’t notice that the hem is uneven, and the buttonholes are raggedy. I get by and at least what I make doesn’t fall off me onto the floor.
I’m excited to join 4H where I will learn more cooking, but still on a beginner level. I am picked to demonstrate how to make an egg salad sandwich boat at the county fair. I get up on the tiny stage and show the judges what to do while they watch me with concentration and no sympathy. So, I pretty much ignore them, pretending they are not there, and go about my business. Chop hard cooked eggs, mix with mayo, scoop into a hollowed out hot dog bun and top the whole she-bang with a little sail made out of paper and a toothpick! Quelle drole! Remember this is the 60s. It’s an era full of Mad Men type ladies dressed to the nines just to vacuum the house a la Mrs. Cleaver. TV dinners are all the rage. Frou-frou food items are welcomed. I have absolutely no recollection of what the judges thought of my presentation. I’ve blocked it out. I am just glad to get it over with. Anyway…
It’s Artie who really teaches me to cook. Artie comes into the kitchen where I’m doing my homework at the table. He has an Italian cookbook, which he hands to me and says, “Pick out a recipe. We’ll go to Bacino’s market, and I’ll buy the ingredients. You make it.” So, I look in the cookbook and pick out Spaghetti Bolognese. It looks easy enough so I think I can do it. It has bacon, hamburger, and Italian sausage in it and it turns out really good. Now I’m hooked on cooking.
In junior high there’s a swimming pool in the lower level. We go into the dressing room and get on these horrible blue flimsy tank swimming suits and go to the pool to get lessons from Miss Hasenwinkle (how do Midwestern teachers wind up with such flaming terrible names? We also have Miss Houdyshell who teaches Mathematics). Some of us have our periods and this is an automatic excuse not to participate. We had gotten The Movie in the 6th grade (Very Personally Yours) which was incredibly embarrassing. In junior high some girls have figured out how to use tampons but most of us wear the belt and the giant Modess pad which we were sure is visible to everyone. More junior high misery.
I almost drown in one of our swimming sessions. We are told to swim the length of the pool and back and maybe I haven’t had enough sleep or I’m hypoglycemic (because I wouldn’t eat the egg sandwich) but at some point, I just cannot make it to the edge of the pool. Back and forth back and forth and then my energy just gives out, and I’m going under. I struggle but nobody notices until Ellen sees and jumps in to pull me to the edge.
A sociopathic boy in home room catches flies and tears their wings off so he can watch them crawl around the desk suffering. I am grossed out and disgusted. Does he go on to become a serial killer or wife beater? I’ll never know and don’t want to know.
I look forward to the school dances but I hate them at the same time. I get all dressed up in what I think is a cool empire waist dress. Then I stand at the edges of the gym floor terrified that someone might ask me to dance. No one ever does and this is a great relief. One of my friends tells me that her older brother thinks I’m cute. This makes me feel good, but can I now just run away and hide? I have absolutely no clue how to handle boys. They are an exciting idea but the reality? Totally overwhelming! No one has ever told me what is expected of me, how to converse, anything. Mom is busy with other things and Artie, well, he would never ever have such a personal talk with me. I am 100% on my own. I watch what my friends do and try to stay out of trouble.
Then in 1963 President Kennedy is assassinated. Someone comes in the classroom and tells us. We sit there stunned not knowing what to think or feel and then we are sent home. At home we watch the funeral on TV when we should be eating Thanksgiving dinner. I am impressed with the horse handler doing his best to control the riderless black horse “Black Jack” jigging beside him down Pennsylvania Avenue, the cavalry boots turned backwards in the stirrups. It is so sad to see Jackie with her widow’s veil barely concealing her tear-stained face and the sight of little John-John, their son, fumbling his hand under the flag of his father’s casket and then saluting. This was the first time I am aware of politics.
R L Benoit - Writer/Artist 