On the three-hour drive from the Birmingham airport last night, my mother told me that she had a task for me: "Go through those five boxes of old notes and stuff from high school and cull it down, please. We are trying to downsize."
I think she thought I would resist, but I love going through this stuff. We passed dozens of notes every day in high school�public high school in Alabama did not require much attention�and I must have saved half of them. I�m not sure why I did it at the time, but they are hilarious to read now.
Most of the notes contain elaborate descriptions of the boredom of the writer. Many contain commentary on other people�s hair, the stupidity of our teachers, and the cuteness of various boys.
The bulk of them are from my friend Barbara. Barbara was one of those kids who is actually a genius, but refuses to do her health homework, and so ends up in remedial classes which bore her even more. Since she had a lot of time on her hands, my notes from Barb contained elaborate drawings, as well as quotations from Emerson and Millay and Capote. She eventually dropped out of school and got her GED.
There is also a sizable pile of notes from my first real boyfriend, Punk Rock Matt.* A selection from a typical Matt note:
I just walked to my locker and one of those fucking Rent A Cops told me not to wear my Melvins shirt tomorrow because of what it said across the back. So then I told her that I didn�t know about her but I don�t wear the same shirt 2 days in a row. She told me she didn�t need the sarcasm or she would write me up. Stupid fucking bitch!
Some are from my next boyfriend, David, who I was really crazy about but whose heart I inexplicably broke. Dave�s notes usually go like this:
I�m in French. The entire class should be destroyed. Not really, some can live. The problem is here [Dave includes a diagram of the class, circling and drawing an arrow pointing to the area of difficulty]. An atomic bomb should be dropped on these fools.
That same note also contains a cartoon of a little bird who says, "I�ve got feathers, Hayden! Forget Dave and swing with me!" Then the bird is shot with a rifle.
I kind of wish I�d married Dave.
*Everyone called him this, even me. He�s now one of my Friendsters and under "Occupation" he wrote "Punk Rock Enforcer." I kid you not.
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