I use Facebook for two reasons: connection to those I care about, and self-torture. FB makes it so easy to keep in touch with people whose contact information I'd never retain otherwise, and it's even better for effortlessly sharing pictures with family overseas. It is also a cesspool of opinions, news, and politics -- all triggers for my trauma. I am still picking myself up from a personal tragedy under controversial circumstances. I should know better. But I can't look away. Damn you, Facebook.
This week, something a little different from The Book of Face. I was privy to a former classmate's binge of high school memories -- the bad kind. His memories are not necessarily factually accurate, but they are clearly emotionally real to him. It was as fascinating as it was shocking.
This classmate seemed to view his teenage experience through the lens of being scorned and excluded, which does not match my memory at all. I remember him being well-liked. Popular, even. Maybe not king-of-the-heap popular, or even runs-with-the-coolest-kids popular, but popular in that he was smart and funny and talented and interesting and people seemed to want him around.
It all made me think back to my own high school years. How awkward they were! How uncomfortable! How self-conscious! But also, how very little of what went down in High School can touch me anymore. For instance, I remember some boy asking how my heritage could be Italian and Swedish, because Italian girls and Swedes are such babes, and... well... look at you. That burned at the time, but now, it all just makes me laugh. What was he thinking?
Or how I used to feel so left-out from parties that went on in my town. I wasn't exactly unwelcome, but I didn't drink and had stick-in-the-mud tendencies, so if I did happen to attend a party, I'd have no fun at all. Knowing this, friends didn't often call me to encourage me along. Eventually, I gave up on that kind of socialization and stayed home watching nature documentaries with my mom most weekend nights. It felt lonely at the time, but now it feels like some sort of a badge of honor. So dorky it's cool. Nature! My mom! Those parties really WERE lame if you were sober. Way to stick by your guns, baby-Kate.
The memories that torture me have nothing to do with how other people acted. I am tortured by my own behavior, which can be broken down into a few main categories of life-learning that still had to happen:
- Live and Let Live
- Feminism: You're Doing it Wrong!
- OMG, OMG, OMG... How Am I Supposed to Act Around Boys?
- When to Keep A Big Mouth Shut
I wronged people in all of these ways. I spread gossip. I turned cold shoulders. I instigated misunderstandings. I succumbed to jealousy. I passed judgment. These memories make me shudder, even still.
I wasn't a mean kid overall. Somewhere in my yearbook, there's a picture of me with DB, holding a big paper heart. Underneath the picture is our superlative: Kindest Heart. I was nice to almost everyone the vast majority of the time. But I can vividly remember every time that I wasn't.
Wouldn't it be lovely if I could impress these lessons upon my daughters BEFORE they go through their awkward and uncomfortable stages? It's a lost cause, as we all have to fully embody our teenage selves, including the missteps, but it's a lovely dream.
I could write out all my thoughts for you, all the advice I wish I could have had in high school, but it turns out, Kurt Vonnegut already summed it up in three lines.
Hello, babies. Welcome to Earth. It's hot in the summer and cold in the winter. It's round and wet and crowded. At the outside, babies, you've got about a hundred years here. There's only one rule that I know of, babies — "God damn it, you've got to be kind."
ooof. this rings true for me. i still burn with shame when i remember how unkind i was at times in high school, to certain people who didn't deserve it. i like the quote.
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