identity

May 8, 1968

IMG_20160504_0001

May 8 1968

Girls Swimming

I’m not sure today’s millennials could survive the sixties high school experience. While searching for a photo of the frigid Wilcox High swimming pool, I unearthed an impressive array of “Mermen” shots – but this was the sole illustration of girls in the water. (I’m so disappointed I couldn’t show you the hideous dark green maillots we wore.)  In fact, this was the only photo I found depicting girls in any athletic endeavor. Based on my Wilcox yearbooks, athletics and team sports were a “Men Only” preserve – not that my consciousness was high enough to perceive this slight at the time. Until I sought a photo for this blog, I never noticed the omission. Although Friedan’s Feminine Mystique was  published in 1963, feminism wasn’t on my radar.

In addition to an outdoor pool in the dead of winter, the class of ’69 was the last to be subjected to a dress code – which meant girls wore dresses every day. If your hem failed to skim the floor when a teacher ordered you to kneel, you were sent home to change. Once a year – on “Grub Day” – girls were allowed to wear pants to school. The top photo of me with the rest of the Literary Magazine staff illustrates typical Wilcox style. For the epitome of high school fashion, see the photo below of the pair my class voted “Best Dressed”.

Best Dressed

High school has loomed large in my writing career and I will revisit aspects of my experience in future diary-blogs. If you recognize yourself in a photo, please tag it!

Class Picture

 

If I knew then – May 3, 1966

 

Diary May 3, 1966_edited-1

When I was fifteen, a year was an eternity – long enough for me to become “a completely different person”.  I’ve always had a morbid inclination to nostalgia. Upon turning ten years old, my diary entry lamented the fact my age would never be a single digit again.  In this entry, I mournfully reflect on where I was less than eleven months ago – “Gone forever, now.” (Or was this a premonition? True Fact: Jefferson Jr. High is literally gone forever, now, razed to build office buildings.)

Time accelerated as I aged. I wish years still crawled like they did when I was fifteen but instead they fly. Preferring Paul McCartney to Mark Lindsay is no longer grounds to dissolve a friendship.

One thing remains the same – my fascination (some might use the word obsession) with the past. Why else would I blog about old diary entries?

It was a thrill to connect with a few other people (Rebecca Dormire LaRussa and Robin Rutan Russell) who lived through the momentous election of 1964 (not Goldwater-Kennedy, the Jefferson Junior High election for student body officers.) This could never happen without Facebook; the fact that it happened so easily, with my very first diary-blog, reassures me this effort is worth it. With luck, I’ll connect with other people whose paths crossed mine. (Hopefully, these diary entries won’t hurt anyone’s feelings. I could be a catty little bitch in the privacy of my diary.)

 

If I Knew Then…. 4/30/64

IF I KNEW THEN… April 30, 1964

On this day in 1964, I was a seventh grade dork, running for Class Secretary.

April 30 1964

 

No vote

 Although I knew that I would lose, I hoped for a miracle. Alas, it was not to be. When the ballots were tallied, Robin was the new Class Secretary and I was the unpopular loser. All of my construction-paper campaign posters, the hours devoted to honing my speech, came to naught. My life would be forever tainted by this humiliating loss.

Another moment in time I didn't think I would survive.
Another moment in time I didn’t think I would survive.

But guess what? If I listed my top hundred terrible, tragic experiences, this crushing defeat wouldn’t make it. It might not make the top two hundred. The ache in my gut and crying jags didn’t last a week. In less than a month, it just didn’t matter that I wasn’t elected 8th grade Class Secretary.  While it’s true I never campaigned for anything again, that’s not much of a loss – for me or mankind. The day it happened it hurt like hell, but it just wasn’t important in the overall scheme of my life.

I have been blessed with so much in my life.
I have been blessed with so much in my life.

I’ll try to remember this next time I lose something I desperately want and can’t live without. The truth is, I will survive. I’m still here. And before I know it, it just won’t matter.

My Top Secret Diary

This will be my format for upcoming blog posts. Once or twice a week, I’ll post a diary entry from between 1964 and the present, a photo if I can find one, and my thoughts on what it all meant given the benefit of hindsight. Diary selections will correspond to the date the blog is posted, but will not be chronological. I have thousands of hand-written diary entries – I might as well use them for something.

 

 

51 YEARS BETWEEN CHAD & JEREMY CONCERTS



Clippings

My diary entry for February 21, 1965 (the two clippings above were pasted into the diary.) In my defense, I was only 13 years old.

Diary 2-21-1965

Not only was I overly fond of exclamation points, in ’65 my life was a long seriously bad hair day. (See 8th grade school picture below, taken on what I then believed to be a good hair day.)  

School Picture

But I digress. Last night – slightly more than 51 years after their performance at the Hyatt Music Theater, I saw Chad and Jeremy at McCabe’s guitar store in Santa Monica – a considerably smaller and calmer venue.  No one fainted during their highly entertaining show which included renditions of two of my favorite Chad and Jeremy songs – “A Summer Song” and “Distant Shores”.  Here they are on stage. Sorry about the bad photo – our cell phones were supposed to be off.

C&J Concert

Even though we saw the second show, which started at 10 PM and didn’t end until midnight, they stuck around afterwards to talk to fans and sign autographs. I got one too.

Concert4

C&JConcert3

Music is the closest I’ll get to time travel. When familiar – usually melancholy – chords cast their spell, 51 years dissolve. Contrary to the title of Chad and Jeremy’s first USA hit, yesterday is never gone. Long buried memories and feelings spring to life. My world-weary adult self morphs into the yearning dork I used to be. How much of a dork? Another diary entry from 1965.

Diary 1965_edited-1

As angst-ridden as I was at 13, I miss the passionate highs and lows. Where did all that intensity go?

I didn’t scream deliriously at last night’s show like I did in 1965, but I remembered how it felt. Exhilarating. 1965 was a very good year.

song

As long as there’s music, I don’t have to say goodbye to anything.  If a band you used to love passes anywhere near your town, it’s definitely worth the trip.

 

Losing You

%22Love%22

Losing You_edited-1
 Randy Newman “Losing You”

Introducing his brilliant song “Losing You”, Randy Newman explains it was inspired by parental grief at losing a son.  While it’s far more typical and expected for children to lose their parents, the lyric speaks to me. My mother was ninety years and four months old when she died on Saturday, March 12th. Assuming I live as long, there still won’t be enough time to get over losing Geneva Alayne Knutsen.

This is not to imply she was a saint or that our relationship was perfect. If anything, as the eldest daughter – and the one who most clearly carries her genetic profile – I was a miniature version of her and her expectations of herself were high. I know because she shared every one of them with me – a lot.

As a rebellious adolescent, I fought to quiet her voice. Smile. Be friendlier. Ugh, look at those fingernails! You’ve gained weight. You’d look so much prettier with a little make-up. Is that what you’re wearing to church? Nobody likes to vacuum, Kathleen, but we all have to do things we don’t like to do. You’d better get rich or marry rich because you’re going to need a maid. Straighten your shoulders. Smile.

It was enough to drive a sensitive soul crazy. It was more than enough to obscure the motivation behind these advisory bulletins. I heard a meddling mother picking on me, I didn’t see it was her love for me overflowing – far too much love to maintain a respectful distance.

She got too close; we bruised each other. We disappointed. I said things I regret; I carelessly broke a few of her dreams because they weren’t mine. We hurt each other. You’d think I couldn’t wait to escape her voice but it was never an option. Her voice is my voice as my face holds her face.

Beneath the admonitions – Smile. Be friendlier. Straighten your shoulders – lives the real message, flowing like a river. I love you, I love you, I love you. I want the world for you. You’re my world. She’s the enduring voice and breath in my world. How could I ever get over losing her?

Forgetting Who I Am

 

Am I the only person this happens to?

  • I read an article about an intense boot camp for dieters where they are forced to exercise all day long and think to myself, “What a great idea! I’ll sign up!” I’ve forgotten who I am.
  • I’m captivated by a jewelry display and reach for my credit card to buy a necklace. I do not wear jewelry because it irritates my skin. I’ve forgotten who I am.
  • I buy an adorable tennis outfit that looks great on me. I have not played tennis since the seventh grade, when I wore my Jr. High PE uniform. I’ve forgotten who I am.

Does this happen to you? When?