Permanent Record

One of the first things I told my kids when they started school was that there was no such thing as a "permanent record." I know, I suppose that if you brought a switchblade to school or some drugs, you would probably acquire a record pretty quickly. But that would probably result in a police record as well. When I say permanent record, I mean the one in which your frequent tardiness or other miscellaneous infractions are recorded, the likes of which I highly doubt a future employer would bother to consult when considering you for a job. Why the threat of it continues to exist beats the heck out of me. No one will be stressing the boy child or girl child with that one.

Years ago when I was in junior high, the lunch aides came out to "the field" where I was hanging out during recess and tapped me on the shoulder. They got my friend, too. We were to come with them. We were in trouble. I was confused. I never got in trouble. Yeah, sure, I was sitting out at "the fence," the area next to the high school track where the "cool" kids hung out, talked and smoked cigarettes. But I had quit smoking at the ripe old age of fourteen, and I was just sitting there. Turns out, my friend and I had been accused of leaving a cafeteria tray under a table. Both of us had brought our lunches that day in brown paper bags, the only cool lunchbox at the time, but apparently that wasn't enough to excuse us. They separated us; I was led to the gym with the principal, my friend down the cafeteria hallway with a teacher, presumably to show him where we had been sitting. The principal told me I had to tell him who did it, or my friend would get detention for two weeks and it would go on her permanent record. Her permanent record. Man, that sucked. I held out for as long as I could, was even late for class, but eventually I caved. I gave the name of the one who had done it, one of the tougher cool girls who had been sitting near us in the cafeteria that day. The name that the boy who had given our names to the principal had been too chicken to give. Because he knew what would happen.

I was shunned. I was a snitch. Did that principal know what he had done? I had been living on the periphery of the cool crowd, too socially inept and self-conscious and immature to really fit in. I was not invited to all of the parties. None of the boys were interested in going out with me. I only wanted to be accepted. But now, it was all over and unfortunately, I had no other friends to turn to. I had been a victim of that cruel shift that often takes place during middle school, when childhood friends drift in different directions. Ultimatums are given. Choices are made. Ill-advisedly, I had blithely tossed away my close friends who rode bikes and flew kites, joined school clubs and sometimes even still played with dolls. Instead, I chose to learn to blow smoke rings. I tried my first joint. My first beer was purchased by someone's older brother and consumed in the woods. I looked and acted like I was ten. I looked like an idiot. Looking back, perhaps the principal had just been trying to do me a favor. Nah . . . he was just a jerk.

Thirty years later, I found myself in that same hallway leading to the cafeteria, fighting flashbacks of my middle school years. We had moved back to the hometown a few years earlier to be near my mom. My junior high had become an elementary school. The classrooms that had housed shop class and home ec were now the kindergarten rooms. My home ec teacher had hated me. She thought I was hopeless. I had forgotten to put the flour in the chocolate chip cookies. Who could blame her? I gritted my teeth and led the girl child down the hall, past the place where one of the popular girls had made fun of what I was wearing, and everyone had laughed. A picture of the former principal hung high on the wall, sneering down at me. I fought the urge to run upstairs to the second floor girls' bathroom to light a cigarette. I didn't even have a cigarette. I forced a smile and made myself push open the classroom door, and there it was. A kindergarten. Complete with blocks and legos and picture books and a throng of teeny tiny adorable people. I could get used to this.

Eventually, I no longer thought of the gym as the location of the many humiliations I suffered those two long years when I was unable to make a basket or climb a rope. When I walked into that room, I no longer pictured the principal threatening my friend. The gym became the place where the girl child won a trophy at the school spelling bee, reciting "f-u-r-n-i-t-u-r-e" so quickly that the moderator could barely keep up, and earning a spot in the regional tournament. It became the scene of carnivals and chorus concerts and awards ceremonies. And on Halloween, the high school marching band crossed "the field," right past "the fence" to the blacktop, where the little ones and their teachers, every one in costume, paraded in a circle while the moms and dads and grandparents laughed and took pictures.

Those childhood friends tossed aside so long ago eventually became friends again. The cool kids? Well, the cool kids are no longer cool. They are just . . . nice. We all meet on Facebook. We admire photos of each others children and grandchildren, celebrate each others successes, give each other encouragement, mourn with each other. We tell each other stories, confess crushes from elementary school. Sometimes, someone will post an old photo. A young girl, leaning against a car. I realize that I don't yet know the woman she has become. I am starting to. But this girl? I know this girl.

These friends are special. More than any other group of friends, we share a unique history of how we came to be. It is a history with a soundtrack. It is the Partridge Family, The Fifth Dimension, The Monkees, The Beatles. I can see the boys playing air guitar to Smoke on the Water. Taking Care of Business transports me to a school cafeteria. The Grateful Dead comes on the radio and there is only one girl I think of. It is an eclectic mix. It is Led Zeppelin, The Nitty Gritty Dirt Band, and Bruce Springsteen. It is the wailing of Jackson Brown and the symphonic, etherial sounds of Renaissance. And so many years later, it is our permanent record.