It was very amusing to me that, as a senior in high school, I got a reputation among the adults at school (teachers, administrators, security personnel) of being an anarchist and agitator. It amused me because I am the most rule following person that I know. Remember how in "Back to the Future," all you had to do in order to manipulate Marty was to call him "a chicken"? When I was growing up, all you had to do to manipulate me was to say, "It's the rule."
I've never understood people who are born rebels. I mean, I can tell you, on a factual and intellectual level, why they behave that way, but it's not in my default reactions, at all. I like order and predictability and safety, and rules provide that.
Of course, it is this very admiration for rules and order that elicits outrage when the rules are misguided or just bad, or when those charged with implementing or interpreting them do so badly. In short - there are few things worse than a dirty cop.
So, in high school, I occasionally butted heads with those who were capricious in their enforcement of rules. Like the teacher who'd raise your F to a passing grade if you helped clean the classroom; like the principal who explained his behavior by saying, "You just chose the wrong friends, Sharon." Or, like the teacher who went the other direction, and changed a passing grade to a failing one over personality issues. It was not OK with me to blur academic distinctions with decidedly non-academic ones.
This is not to say that I never broke any rules. It just meant that I was not going to try to hide that fact, but was likely to respond to questioning with, "You bet I did. Let me tell you why."
But, I was a kid, and kids are notoriously without perspective, and few adults wanted to hear my gripes. It was always very important to me that others understand me. I don't care if you agree (or if you like me), but I want your disagreement (or dislike) to be fact based instead of perception based. I am, by nature, an over-explainer. So, it was infuriating when someone didn't even bother to hear me (or anyone else).
For most of my life, I loved school - the teachers and the actual learning. I'd never had a citation, detention, suspension, any disciplinary action at all (aside from having grades docked points for tardiness). At that point in my life (high school), I regularly dropped in on the principal to air a grievance, and his secretary would wave me through, calling, "Sharon's here." (He never said, "I'm too busy." He also rarely intervened, but he listened.) So, when I was summoned to the office of the guidance counselor in January of my senior year, I expected some kind of canned speech about college or other post high school plans. I'd never met the man before, but I hadn't taken the SAT or applied for scholarships or any number of other things related to leaving high school, and I supposed it was his job to see what my plans were.
I was wrong.
He didn't spend any time on pleasantries. He informed me, rather blandly, that I was now banned from taking any theater classes "or being in the theater classroom during any class." I was also now banned from setting foot in the actual theater itself. "The teacher informs me that you are dangerous and disruptive, and she can't teach when you're in the room."
It was not news that the teacher and I didn't get along, or that I was critical of her methods. I'm positive that at that point I actually said out loud, "Yeah, well, she doesn't do that great a job of it when I'm not in the room, either." His eyebrows raised.
The only other thing I could think of to say was, "I'm in the current play. We open soon. There isn't any time for someone else to learn the part. How am I supposed to perform if I'm not allowed in the room? Or are you cancelling the play, too?"
He looked a bit taken aback, as though this was information that he didn't have, and he was now forced to wing it. For just a second, he appeared to contemplate the wrath of many sets of parents if the show was cancelled. "Yes. Well. You'll be allowed to be in the theater during the times you're actually onstage. Otherwise, you'll have to wait in the hall."
I'm pretty quiet and mild mannered, most times. When I'm angry (or depressed, really), it's a different ball game. To mix my sports metaphors, the gloves come off.
"Oh, that'll be really convenient. Every time I have an entrance, the show will grind to a halt while someone comes to get me. That'll be great. And what about performances? Are the actual performances going to have to suspend time while someone comes to hunt me down? Is everyone just going to freeze onstage until I get there?"
The counselor looked annoyed. "You can be in the room during the entire rehearsal or performance as long as you behave properly and aren't disruptive."
"What, exactly, would that entail? Exactly which behaviors are forbidden? Do you have a list?"
"No, I don't have a list. Just don't do anything that would be against the rules."
"Well, since my mere presence is apparently a problem, I'd just like to clarify which behaviors are and aren't allowed. Did she tell you what it is that I do that's a problem?"
More annoyance. "No. She did not. I didn't ask."
"That doesn't seem to be a really great plan. You'd think that she'd have to describe what I did that's a problem."
He leaned back in his chair and clasped his hands. "No, she does not. I take her word for issues involving her classroom management."
"Well, that's a mistake." His eyebrows raised again, and it occurred to me that I might not want to antagonize this man who'd never set eyes on me before, but was willing to believe that I was dangerous.
"Will there be anything else?"
He looked a bit blank. I rephrased. "Is that it?"
Brisk, administrative behavior; he stood up, indicating that the meeting was over, and said, "That'll be it. You can go back to class now." As he held the door open, I reflexively said, "Thank you," and then mentally kicked myself for it. Oh, sure, thanks a lot. Thanks a whole lot for dropping that bombshell on me; I appreciate it so, Guidance Counselor Who I've Never Met Before. Thanks for the "guidance."
I did not go back to class.
I can't remember what class I'd left to go to the office. I think it was after lunch, but I'm not entirely sure. At any rate, my afternoon had just opened up wide, because all I had after lunch were theater classes and after school rehearsal. The whole thing took maybe two minutes; now I was a wreck. I was distraught and weepy.
I began wandering the halls, crying and talking to myself. It was exactly two weeks before my 18th birthday; I remember because I kept saying, "I have another month. I'm supposed to have another month."
It was January 15. The year before, when my best friend was a senior, he'd been suspended on February 15, and finally, expelled. If I was going to be kicked out, it just seemed to me that it should happen on the same day. Like I said, I like predictability.
Classes let out and the halls were suddenly full, so I went outside. I could not handle being around other people.
I kept trying to figure out what had precipitated this, what I had done that had caused backlash. I couldn't think of anything in particular. (I still don't know.)
The irony was that I couldn't imagine offending the teacher, because we barely spoke. The only incident that I thought might be what had her goat had taken place weeks before.
I was a yearbook photographer. I loved the job. A few weeks earlier, we'd taken the drama guild group photo. It was either at lunch or after school, the way most clubs were photographed, so that all the members could be there. The schedule was dictated by yearbook deadlines; we had to turn in a certain number of pages at each deadline during the year. Time specific events - homecoming, sports, etc. - had to be photographed during their time frame, obviously, and things like club photos were spread out over the year.
Another senior was, at that point, barred from the theater. (Yeah, my expelled friend the previous year, Tony, had been the first, but now there were a handful of us not allowed in the theater.) We'd made the teacher angry during set construction by hauling sawhorses and lumber outside the theater to the sidewalk, and having this particular member, Tim Lange, cut the lumber there, so that we could list him in the program under "set construction crew." We also made a big deal about labeling the back of a board he cut - "TIM LANGE CUT THIS BOARD!" - and using it center stage as the fireplace mantle.
(Hence the principal's jibe about my friends; over three decades later, we're still friends.)
I mean, gasp, right? What subversives.
On picture day, Tim was going to wait in the hall - I'd insisted that he be in the photo. He hadn't wanted to, had argued with me, but I really insisted. We set up, placed the camera, had him come in just long enough to take the shot, and he went back into the hall. "Rule" breaking, sure, but I'd do it again.
No, that's not what I think bothered the teacher the most that day.
She was just out of college when she got her job at our school. She was nervous, insecure, not too much older than we were, and eager to be liked. All understandable; all fine. But things deteriorated as she faced strong willed students who knew more about theater than she did; she'd never seen a live production when they gave her the theater classes. It was not a great staffing choice. For a year, everything ran decently, if not smoothly, but that train soon derailed.
It used to be very important to me that people understand, that they hear our side. I left that behind ages ago.
Anyway, as things became more tense, she clamped down with unreasonable rules. We spent an entire set building day being told that we were not allowed to speak, at all, which was then amended to, "You can only ask for tools or give directions;" it was pretty clear that mute, angry kids with power tools miming were an accident waiting to happen.
One of the latest rules was that students could not touch the light switches. It was, in my eyes, a pure power play - I mean, light switches? That's the hill from which you cannot retreat?
In a theater, the "work lights" are standard fluorescent or incandescent lights turned on during set building, early rehearsals, classes, cleaning, and the like. "House" lights are those over the seats, and "stage" lights are the ones directed to the stage, the ones used during performances. We (the students) weren't allowed, at this point, to touch any of them, especially the house or stage lights, unless it was during a performance. Those ran on dimmers on the light board. Back in the days before computers, each light had its own slider on a board full of them. Changing them during a performance meant balancing a bunch of sliders. During class, or any other non-performance time, it just meant running the house slider up to full so that the room was illuminated. It's a one finger operation.
On photo day, I walked into the room, flicked on the work lights (they were a standard light switch just inside the door), and ran up the house lights. The teacher left the room without a word, which I took to be a sign that I could work in peace. We - the drama guild president and I, with a lot of input - were deciding where to take the group photo when the Dean of Men, who was also in charge of most school discipline, came in, with the teacher trailing him.
"I'm told that someone touched the lighting board," he said, with that big, loud, authoritative voice. I found this rather silly.
"Yeah, I did. I turned on the lights."
"Why?"
Seriously? Why did we need light?
"Because I'm taking photos for the yearbook, and I can't do that in the dark."
At that point, I almost wanted him to make a big deal out of it, so that we had to involve the yearbook adviser, and explain that I hadn't been allowed to take photos because I turned on the lights.
This was the only time I saw any staff member behave as though the teacher's complaints were, if not outright silly, at least overblown. He sighed, then turned to her and said, in that voice used when a quarreling parent says, "Tell your father..." even though Father is standing two feet away, but Junior is complying, "She says she's taking pictures for the yearbook. She says she can't take pictures in the dark."
The teacher said, "Oh. OK." The Dean left. The teacher went out without another word and sat in the audience seats until we were done. (I'm pretty sure that I turned the lights back off when we left, but maybe I left them for her.)
So, wandering the campus in tears and talking to myself after being banned, that was the only incident that I could imagine being over the top, in her eyes. It was embarrassing, in front of another faculty member. But why weeks after the fact? Did it matter?
"She's too early. It's too soon. I should have another month."
Now, here comes the crux of this story - what is, for me, the most important part.
I know that, when they're sad, a lot of people would need hugs, consoling, reassurance that they're a good person and the other person is wrong. Usually, that annoys me or makes it worse. It turns out that this time, I needed Joe Beard and Tim Groves.
They were more theater kids, way cooler than I was, and if I remember right, also not allowed in the theater at this point. I ran into them just outside the school as I was wandering and crying. Finding out what was wrong with me did not elicit sympathy and hugs, but loud congratulations and high fives. They acted as though I'd just won the lottery. "Good for you!" "That's great!" "She only does that to people who know what they're doing!"
It worked. The tears dried up. I don't know where they'd been headed to when they found me, but they stayed with me and walked the school grounds aimlessly, talking about nothing in particular, just being next to me. When we ran into Gwen, another theater kid, they told her the story with breathless delight, and large hand gestures, as though it was something to celebrate. Gwen hugged me, but by then I was OK.
When I was finally ready to re-join the world, Tim and Joe wanted to know, "Are you OK?" before they left.
"Yeah. I'm OK." And I meant it.
I finished the play, and the school year, without theater classes. I told my mom the story, but not my dad. And "dangerous and disruptive" became a phrase that made me, and my friends, laugh.
Years later, I told my husband. He, too, laughs at the phrase.
I'm thinking of this because someone recently informed me, again, that I was dangerous. This time, they didn't pair it with "disruptive;" they called me "evil." This is because we have religious and political differences; apparently, that merits a label of dangerous and evil.
They're certainly entitled to their opinion, which I told them. I did not tell them that, at a time in my life when I was vulnerable, someone in a position of power had already fired that particular cannon at me, so its effect is very much blunted now. It's not fun, but it's certainly no longer devastating.
I don't really know what effect the speaker hoped those words would have on me, but I don't think they expected to evoke what's now a warm and fuzzy memory. When I hear myself described that way, I no longer think first of the devastation I was feeling at 17 - I think about Joe and Tim, and high fives. I think about a time that two teenage boys had my back, even though I was a hysterical, weeping teenage girl. I think about them walking with me until I was alright. That's a happy memory.
