HEART BEATS

          There is nothing like having a boyfriend when you are fourteen, unless it is having two of them.  Paul and Rob were as different as day and night.  To complicate matters, they were best of friends.

          I met Paul when I was elected, (probably because I was the clown of our home room class) to Student Council.  There, in front of all the representatives, at the school meeting was tall, dark and handsome, Paul.

          He was President of the Student Council.  I was sure my heart would stop!

          Rob, as I said before, was Paul’s best friend.  When Paul walked me to class and began calling me “his” girl, Rob was always with us.  Rob was a good three inches shorter then Paul.  Rob wasn’t handsome, but he had compelling mischief written all over his smiling face.  Before long, Paul and Rob were saying, “she’s my girl” and both were asking me to go steady.  (Going steady consisted of: wearing a boys ring on your finger with gobs of tape or string in order to make it fit, or hanging it on a chain around your neck.  This gave the fellow exclusive rights to walk you to class, phone you or come over to your house.  All other boys were off limits.)

          I was reveling in the attention.  But, I knew it couldn’t last forever.  They were bearing down for a decision.  What should I do?  I liked them both. 
         I was in a quandary until...he was approximately 5”9” tall, had blond curly hair, green eyes, covered with long lashes and full lips that lifted slightly, in a cocky smile.  He was wearing the latest rage: a black leather jacket with silver zippers on the pockets.  He walked toward me in the school hallway.  For once, Paul and Rob weren’t around, and I was glad!

          My eyes met his light greens and his lips parted in a grin.

          “Hello there!” he said enthusiastically, as he stopped right in front of me.

          “Hi”, I said casually, trying hard not to show too much interest.

          “Are you new in school?  I haven’t seen you around.”

          I wanted to say, “You haven’t been looking”, but instead I replied, “I’ve been here since the beginning of the year.” (I didn’t acknowledge the fact that I had noticed him from a distance.)

          “Which way is your next class?” he asked as he took my arm, “I’ll walk you there.”

          I happily obliged.  Be quiet my heart!

          Paul and Rob remained my friends, but it wasn’t long before David's  large silver ring dangled on a chain around my neck.

        

A RUMBLE IN THE HALLWAYS

CATS, STOMPERS AND NEUTRALS

          Socorro’s schools were predominantly Spanish, and there were racial problems.  The school was divided into three groups: the Cats, the Stompers, and the remaining neutral students.  The Stompers were white boys (Anglo’s).  Their hair was short and they dressed in western shirts, Levi’s and leather belts with large belt buckles.  The girls, who ran around with the Stompers, dressed in western attire off the school grounds.  (Only dresses were worn at school.)

          The Cats were mostly Spanish.  The boys wore their hair longer and slicked back on the sides.  Their style was: Ivy League shirts, baggy pants that were inches too long and hung low with on their hips.

          I belonged to the neutral group who had friends on both sides. (Although away from school, I often wore my western clothes and my leather belt with a 4X4 buckle.)

          There were stories circulating of Stompers ganging up on Cats and visa versa.  One day
between classes in the High School hall, someone locked the instructors in the teacher’s lounge, and the Stompers and Cats had a free-for-all.

          There were bodies hurled against lockers and fists thrown into chins and stomachs, as feet hit shinbones. One Spanish girl picked up a small, Stomper boy and threw him down the hallway.

          The Junior High had not been involved in the upheaval, but we were included in the school assembly that followed.  The School Superintendent paced in front of the student body, as he threatened, exhorted and expressed his approval.  The angry, red-faced principal followed his speech.  The last speaker was the Chief of Police.  They all repeated the same warning...

          “This type of behavior will not be tolerated!  If another incident occurs, there will be stronger measures taken!”

          There wasn’t another “incident”, but the coolness of a cold war remained.  Toward the end of the school year, something happened that united the student body (at least for a time).  Two football players, Bob Price and Herman Aragon, were in a car wreck.  Herman, a popular Spanish boy, was killed.  Bob Price, a white boy, who all the girls swooned over, was left paralyzed from the waist down.  Jill and I attended Herman’s funeral at the Catholic Church.  Once more I was faced with the realities.  Life was full of uncertainties!  No one knew what would happen around the next curve in the road or in a river swim.

My 4x4 belt buckle...stomper style (although I was neutral)

LIES

          My feet felt like lead as I crossed the playground.  I kept my eyes on the girls standing in front of the school building.  This was worse then the first day of school; but I might as well face them and let everyone know that I lied.  I thought back to the first lie I told.  The other girls were jumping rope at recess: there I stood the outsider.  I had been in school two weeks, and I still didn’t “belong.”

“Hey Janet,” I yelled to one of the girls as she waited her turn to jump.

Reluctantly, she came in my direction.

“Did you know Fess Parker is my uncle?” I asked boastfully.

“The Fess Parker who plays Davy Crockett in the movies?” she questioned as her eyes widened.

“That’s the one!”

“Hey girls, come over here,” Janet yelled.

The group quit jumping and gathered around us.

“Tell them what you told me,” Janet instructed.

I repeated my story and threw in some extra details: a trip to California, which included a visit in Fess Parker’s mansion in Beverly Hills. (I was sure he must live in Beverly Hills.)

They were impressed!  Encouraged that I had their attention.  I knew I had to do something to keep it.  The next day, I brought some sketches to school that one of my aunts had drawn and given to me.

“Did you see the sketches I drew, Janet?” I bragged as I help them up for her inspection.

“Wow, Gloria, did you draw these?” Janet exclaimed, obviously impressed.

The rest of the girls took their turns examining the pictures.  Pats face registered unbelief.

“I don’t believe you drew them,” she said assertively, “For every picture you draw and bring to school tomorrow, I’ll give you a nickel.”

That night, with pencil in hand and a pit in my stomach, I tried desperately to draw like the other sketches.  My drawings were amateurish, to say the least, compared to my aunt’s.  My head throbbed with each unsuccessful stroke of the pencil.

“What’s wrong, Gloria?” Mom asked.

“I don’t feel good,” I covered my mouth and ran to the bathroom where I threw up.  The vision in the corner of my eyes was blurry, and my head pounded incessantly.  For two days I suffered my first migraine headache.

Now, after being at home sick, I was returning to school without the drawings, and prepared to take the consequences.  I would admit I had lied.

Pat stood with the other girls as I approached.

“Hi Gloria,” Janet said, “I hear you’ve been sick.”

“Yes, I was,” I answered; bracing myself for the confrontation I was sure would follow.  I glanced at Pat and waited for her to ask for the sketches.  She never uttered a word!  Much to my relief and surprise no one ever mentioned them again.

I had been rescued from myself.