Lately I’ve been reading blogs written by teenagers because, well let’s face it, I’m immature. Their musings on high school remind me of my own 4 years at PHS and a few choice teachers who I made way too much fun of. Now that I am a teacher with my own set of quirks and, perhaps, even a few students who hate me, I feel some compassion for those teachers but it doesn’t lessen the strangeness of a particular A.P. History teacher’s obsession with the federal prison system, “They like the blondies,” she would quip. I still don’t understand the glee with which she told us that they hide bloody eggs in chocolate cake mixes. “That’s why I only buy white, kids. And you should do the same!”
Hearing present day accounts of teachers I used to have makes me feel a little dumb. (At this point in my bloglife you must be asking yourself, what doesn’t make you feel dumb, embarrassed or uncomfortable Kacy? Not much, my friends, not much.) Why does it affect me like this? Because I thought I was so original in my day. But it’s like, oh. Everyone gets that she was bald and he was a pervert. I guess I wasn’t hilariously insightful. Nevertheless, it serves to bond any and all PHS graduates within blogging distance. You know what I’m talking about. That’s right. I’ve referenced 3 oldtimers in the above paragraph (4 if you count you know who’s roommate.) There. We’ve all bonded, remembered the good old days, and I’ve slandered no one so I won’t have to delete this blog. (I’ll do it too!)
But what I really want to talk about are 2 trips I went on as a child and the disbelief I feel when I look back on what seemed normal and fun to me at the time. When I was in Jr. High I went on a school trip to Cancun with Senor Urish. I totally ruled at Simon Dice and spoke some of the best Spanish in the group. Nevertheless, that doesn’t really seem to qualify me for the job of “guide” among my fellow 13 year olds. We were allowed to jump in taxis at night and leave our hotel. I always sat up front and did the talking. “Miguel, my hell” sung to the tune of “Michelle, my belle” always got a BIG laugh from the drivers. “A la corazon de la cuidad!” 15,000 pesos later and hopefully we would make it to the mall where we would eat pistachio ice cream and talk to anyone and everyone who gave us any attention—which was a lot of people. A couple of my friends accidentally got kissed on the mouth. I was propositioned by a man (a tourist) who said (in English) that he had an incredible urge to kiss me. (1) What a pervert and (2 )Where was Senor Urish? Near molestations aside, we thought it was a riot. But we were 13. Could I be remembering this wrong? I guess it all turned out ok. I spoke lots of Spanish and bought great souvenirs. I don’t remember eating any Mexican food though. Ay Carumba!
My next trip was the U.S. History Tour in High School. There was one teacher and maybe a few parents on the trip with us. For me this trip was all about getting to the David Letterman Show. Sadly, it was during the infamous “writers’ strike” so I didn’t get in. Of course, I didn’t have tickets or anything, but I cursed those writers for ruining my trip. My friend, Jenny, and I were left to plan our day and make our way around New York City. By most standards we were pretty square. (Even though we did develop a little bit of a rep when we retired early to our double bed before the other 2 girls who were sharing our room had returned to the hotel. So when some people came into our hotel room to visit us there we were, side by side in a double bed with a perfectly good, empty, double bed right next to us unused. This was one of those situations where explaining made it seem worse.) Were all the chaperones focusing on the real troublemakers who might have been trying to buy booze or steal? Wait a second, was I afforded such freedom because I was so lame? Did Mrs. B. know that all Jenny and I wanted to do was visit Just Bulbs and Just Shades and take pictures of each other hailing taxi cabs? Well good for her. I guess she’s getting the last laugh. Nevertheless, I’m still appalled. We totally got lost and stuff. Like, I went to Maryland. Which was not on the itinerary. And there was another near molestation involving Jenny and a person named Takuji at the Kennedy Center. Yikes.
These were great times. It’s only when I think of it as a grown-up that it all seems a little questionable. Speaking of questionable, at my Senior Dinner Dance the assistant vice principal told me I looked like a ZZ Top girl. What's that supposed to mean?Does that seem like a compliment to you? Doesn’t it have all kinds of implications that are unflattering? Anyway, I looked lovely. I know I’ve mentioned a few boyfriends here and there on this blog and there was the whole Robert Plant bra thing (which, by the way, can be done in a very modest and perfectly circumspect manner if you plan ahead) but I was a nice girl, not ZZ Top girlish at all and I don’t think I deserved that. I really don’t. Would a ZZ Top girl let loose in NYC spend the day trying to find Just Bulbs? I think not.