High School Can Really Suck

       They are not hard to find. They form a distinctive part of the student body in schools both small and large. Attend a high school pep assembly and you will have no problem locating them. They sit on the top row, usually isolated, off in one corner. They will not stand for the school song and through their nonchalant and non-attentive behavior, it is clear the distain they feel for their school mates who are the guests of honor at this party, one that requires their mandatory attendance. They dress different and are outspoken when describing their lack of interest in main-stream high school social life.

     “Football players are pussies,” states the young man dressed all in black. He is small in stature and seems to have several nervous habits, such as constantly tapping his foot as he sits and talks. “They run the whole school and think they should get anything they want. F*#k this place. I am sick of everything about this place. Soon as I get out of school I am gone from here. The best thing to happen to this place would be if someone would blow the whole fu#$ing town up.”

     The makeshift gathering took place down a dead-end gravel road, nothing more than an abandoned farm road. “Here is where we come to party,” said a young lady, sporting multi-colored hair, featuring pink highlights. Her makeup was chalky, her lipstick a deep black. “Everybody knows we come here. So if you are a narc, telling them will do you no good. They know we come out here. I think they leave us alone because it keeps us out of town and out of sight. As you can see, we dress a little different. They all call us ‘Goths’, and I guess that is cool, that is who we are. We do dress different and we are not hard to pick out.”

      The group numbered seven. I had asked to be brought along for this after school “social.” A marijuana cigarette was soon passed amongst the group. “You sure you are not a narc,” a young man confronted me with the same question I had answered in town shortly before we began our caravan out into the country. My interrogator who had multiple facial piercings and was also dressed all in black, was questioning my deferring on the community joint when it reached me. Rest easy, I assured him, the cops don’t normally send 54-year-old men to infiltrate high school drug parties. My presence, I told the group, was for educational purposes, only.

      “I can’t say the jocks bother us,” offered another young man. “They just ignore us. That is what most of the town does. The same at school with the teachers, they just ignore us, hoping we will go away. They use to try and make us cut our hair, wear our clothes different. They even took away our chains.” He was interrupted by the second young lady of the group who complained, “they threatened to kick me out and take me to court, put me in a home if I didn’t stop wearing my dog collar to school. Now what kind of sh*t is that?”

      The group appeared to be intelligent, their ability to discuss issues and argue values impressive. “I don’t really care about all the attention this school and town gives the jocks. But it gets old. Sometimes I just want to scream,” complained the girl with multi-colored hair. “It is so stupid. Who cares who wins a dumb game?” She admitted that to her knowledge, neither she nor her friends had ever suffered from a major confrontation with the more main-stream students of the local school. She even-admitted, to at one time, entertaining thoughts of joining the jock culture. “When I was little, I played on the softball teams in the summer. It was fun and I was pretty good. I am still pretty good at the games in PE, when I want to be,” she offered. “But as we got older, it got so much more intense. And I didn’t have parents who were going to haul me around to all the different towns where the games were to be played. It just was not worth it, so I quit playing. When that happened, it wasn’t like the other girls kicked me out of their group; we just didn’t have anything in common anymore. It wasn’t a big deal. So I started hanging with the other kids who didn’t play sports. We just all kind of found each other. I don’t dislike the other girls at school, we just don’t have anything in common, but it’s cool.”

       A tall young man with a mature build for his age of 16 was the group’s vocal leader and the most outspoken. “I could have been pretty good at sports. Up until about the last year, the coaches were always trying to get me to come out, come over to their side. I will admit that I liked the attention and thought about it; maybe going over to the other side. But it just was not going to work for me. I just didn’t want to change, you know what I mean? If I wanted to be in football I had to change my hair, my clothes and my friends, so I said ‘forget it.’ I think they have finally given up on me. I guess I am past saving,” he said with a sarcastic giggle. “I live with my mom. She does not care about sports and if your parents don’t get interested, it’s tough, when you are too young to drive, to start playing.”

        He took another long drag on the rolled up weed cigarette and passed it to his girlfriend (I assumed), seated on his right. “Hey, after school, we just come out here and get high. How else are we supposed to tolerate this f#*cking hick town? I just want out. I don’t need anyone here saving me. I am just putting in my time, not bothering anyone, until I can get out of here and get someplace where nobody gives a damn who won some silly f#*king game.”

       The weed cigarette exhausted, a cheap bottle of wine was now passed back and forth among the group. The sun was starting to set, the wind picking up and the temperature dropping steadily, as it always did on a late fall afternoon on the idyllic plains of the American heartland. As the bottle reached the tall leader, he tipped his head back to take a long swallow. He then raised the half empty wine bottle in his right hand, a symbolic salute to his friends, and perhaps to his life. He stated loudly, “f#*k football.” The group cheered.