My friend Tony was always the ringleader of our little circus of adolescence. When we were 15 or 16, he had an idea for creating our own holidays. He called them "The Thirteen Radical Days of Christmas" ("Twelve days has already been done"), and we'd celebrate them for the thirteen days leading up to our Christmas break from school.
We held a meeting of the drama guild officers, and planned the events, one for each day. Sometimes they were things we'd do at school, like everyone wearing a shirt from any show we'd done. "Some people's parents won't let them go out every night," Tony said. Some were things we'd do at night, especially on the weekends.
Tony designed and printed sweatshirts for all of us to wear. The logo had different items representing the letters in the word "radical." One was a hand holding a glass of red wine; yes, we were all too young to drink, but it was about the look for Tony. At that age, he didn't drink. I still have my shirt, although it hasn't fit me for years.
I think we did the Thirteen Radical Days for three years. I can't remember everything, but it was the highlight of the holiday for those years.
We did some traditional things, like caroling. I have great memories of one caroling night. Only a few of us showed up, and we tweaked our songs just slightly after each house. Pretty soon, we had a version of "Do You Hear What I Hear?" with full harmony. It was gorgeous. I remember that night every time I hear the song. Some of the houses gave us cocoa or candy. Some wanted to know if we were collecting donations for anything. "No," we said. "Just sharing some music. Merry Christmas!"
It was sheer good luck that a local theater held a Monty Python film festival during the first Thirteen Radical Days. We could not pass up that opportunity.
The rest of the theater undoubtedly wondered why the two rows of teens in the center of the auditorium cheered loudly any time someone onscreen said, "Go away." (You'd be surprised by how many times that phrase showed up, too.)
When we were working on our fall show that year, someone broke into the theater and vandalized our set. They spray painted the words "GO AWAY" on the refrigerator on our set, along with a weird, hooded figure. They also spray painted "GO AWAY" on the doors on the exterior of the school that led to the backstage area. (Who vandalizes a high school theater?)
We decided to embrace the phrase as our all purpose greeting. It became both "hello" and "goodbye," and sometimes, "I'm thinking of you," "I miss you," or other sentiment. I carried on my binder a picture of Oscar the Grouch hanging a sign on his trash can that said, "GO AWAY!" To this day, if you were to say "Go away" to one of us who was in the drama guild at that point, they'd likely smile and respond, "Go away!"
So there we were, cheering loudly any time John Cleese, Eric Idle or the other Pythons said, "Go away!" It was a good time.
Anyone our age or older remembers the first generic groceries, the ones in white labels with black lettering. They'd have no photos, no adjectives, just a single word: "Peaches." The peaches might be slices or chunks - it was basically whatever was left after the name brand labels had canned their stock. Some of the products looked downright humorous - take white beverage cans simply labeled "Beer."
All of the non-refrigerated items were kept in their own aisle, a sea of white labels and black printing. One day, our Thirteen Radical Days activity was buying our lunch from the generic aisle of our local Albertson's. We carpooled down and swarmed the aisle, then took our lunch back to school to eat. I tried to get some kind of nutritional value; I think I got fruit cocktail and crackers. Quite a few of us just went for cookies and soda. This is also one of my clearest Radical Days memories.
The last day of the Thirteen was always our drama guild Christmas party. Most of the time, it was held at Tony's house; his brother Guy and sister Angela were also drama guild members. Guy would play Santa and hand out the gifts we brought for each other; he loved the part. He was the youngest, skinniest Santa I'd ever seen, and he did a great job. Guy also recited the story of Alfie from the John Denver and the Muppets Christmas special every year. One year, he also put on a puppet show. Their mom made a chili cheese dip that I loved so much that she gave me the recipe. I took it to potluck parties for years, and still think of her every time I make it.
That first year, I gave my mother a proposal. Money had always been tight, but I was now the only child left at home, so there was some wiggle room in the budget. I asked if I could have part of the money she'd budgeted to spend on me for Christmas so that I could spend it on my friends.
I have repeatedly been the kid that was chosen last for classroom games, the kid who only got Valentines because my classmates were required to give one to everyone. In junior high, I was once invited to a classmate's birthday party, but not the two hours that everyone else spent at the roller skating rink - just the half an hour spent at her house opening gifts and having cake. I wanted to buy a gift for every person in the drama guild, because I was not about to let someone else be that kid, the kid who feels unwanted and not liked.
My mother - let it be noted again that she was amazing - agreed. I had a very strict per gift budget. That meant, in part, that I could not buy special gifts for my best friends. That was OK.
Having a very strict spending limit meant that I had to really think about each gift; I couldn't impulse buy. One friend got a paperback biography of the Beatles. One proud Italian got a glass ball ornament that said "Buon Natale." The newly licensed driver got a keychain.
Buying a gift for one kid was problematic. I was good with outcasts, awkward kids, stoners, the not very bright; theater departments are full of outcasts. I was an outcast myself. I got along well with all of them, and genuinely liked them - except for Bruce. Bruce gave me the willies.
I didn't actively dislike him, but he made me very uneasy. I still don't know why. None of us were very fond of Bruce, and he wasn't terribly talented, but we gave him a tech job on every show, and he came on drama guild trips and to our parties. I knew that I needed to give him a gift, but I didn't want it to send the wrong message; I didn't want him deciding that I had a crush on him or anything.
I thought and thought and puzzled. Then I found the perfect gift at one of our favorite stores.
In the basement shopping mall at the MGM Grand hotel/casino, one of our favorite haunts, was a Hollywood memorabilia store. They had huge books of 8x10 publicity stills of just about every artist from every decade and every genre. It was back in the era when black and white photos were inexpensive and color cost much more, so most of the photos were black and white and only $2.50, unframed. They had racks of postcards, too, many of them in color, and those were only 25 cents.
Bruce collected Marilyn Monroe memorabilia, and I found a beautiful postcard with a photo of Marilyn. I didn't wrap it or even put it in a card; I just put it in a plain white envelope and wrote, "To: Bruce, From: Sharon."
I was so glad that I insisted on gifts for everyone. Some of us got piles of gifts, but some of us got only one - the gift from me. The girl who got the keychain was one of those, and she thanked me profusely. Bruce got one other gift - an unsigned gag gift of edible underwear. His sincere thanks for the Marilyn postcard remains vivid decades later. I was so glad that I had made the effort. I made sure that I purchased for everyone again the next year.
I remember some of the gifts that I received. I still own some, like the Garfield ornaments that still hang on my tree every year. I remember those gifts that I gave more clearly, though. That in itself is a life lesson.
Every year at Christmas time, I think about The Thirteen Radical Days of Christmas, and about my Reed Drama Guild family - and I smile.
Go away!
