Growing Up Catholic in a Small Texas Town: I Did What?!

This weekend, my West High School graduating class will celebrate fifty years. I flipped through my 1971 yearbook, and the half-century quickly disappeared. My young classmates and I were still there, all looking hopeful, some looking relieved. We made it! I remember a strong sense of freedom and thinking I could now go anywhere and do anything. The anywhere would be Austin, and eventually, New York City and the anything would be college. Beyond that, I didn’t have much of a plan.

Thumbing through the pages of the yearbook brought back memories. I wasn’t the most popular girl in high school, even though I wanted to be—what teenage girl doesn’t? I checked the yearbook index and saw that my name was mentioned on only three pages. One was my high-school photo in the senior section, one was a photo of the West High School Band, of which I was a member. The final page showed a group photo of the drama club, of which I was NOT a member. I wondered if the yearbook committee felt sorry for me and gave me an extra page in the listing.

Most teenagers have fond memories of their high-school years. I have a few. Here’s my take on those four years: I didn’t date much. My socializing was centered around band activities. I convinced myself that if it weren’t for the band performing during Friday-night football games, I never would have attended because no boy would ask me out. I didn’t go to many parties and only occasionally hung around with friends, usually at Circle Burger. Once I even went steady with a guy, but we broke up after a few weeks. I think we went steady, just to go steady. After the breakup, I was sad for about two hours. Then, I thought, “no big deal.” I’m sure he felt the same way. My most daring exploit involved piling into a car with a bunch of kids and driving through the cemetery at night, hoping to see the eerie green light that purportedly floated from grave to grave. We never saw it. One night a few of us ran around inside the school. I’m not sure how we got in, but I didn’t enjoy it because I was too scared we’d get caught.

Recently my sisters and I were talking about this very topic. I discovered they have better memories of my high school days than me. My sister, Krisann, remembers me sewing dresses for both of us when I was in Mrs. Harris’s Home Ec class. We modeled them during a fashion show. She remembers being scared to walk on stage. I must have been too, because I’ve blocked out that memory. What I do recall from freshman Home Ec was doing a poor job of finishing a dress, so I stuffed it in my lunch sack and brought it home for my mother to finish. The next day I brought it back stuffed in another sack. My mother made an A on that project.

Then Karen really surprised me when she told me I would often bring a bunch of friends over to the house (I had a BUNCH of friends?) when Mom and Dad were out. One friend in particular (no name mentioned) would bring over his own jug of Mogen David wine, and once when he wasn’t looking, we poured out the wine and filled the jug with grape juice. That sounded like so much fun—a typical thing for teenagers to do. I wish I remembered that then I could look back on those days and feel like I wasn’t such a wallflower.

I also scanned the yearbook pages that featured our teachers. I remembered them all, but three stood out in my mind the most and were responsible for my becoming a teacher.

Mrs. Case taught me freshman and senior English. She had shiny black hair, which she wore in a neat bun held tight by a pencil. Her wardrobe—white tailored blouses, dark pencil skirts, and black heels—spoke of professionalism, confidence, and no-nonsense teaching. At least that’s how I remember her. She taught me to appreciate literature: Shakespeare, Homer, Dickens, and much more. When she read George Eliot’s Silas Marner aloud, I gave her my full attention. I identified with Silas and his desire to make good on the evil inflicted upon him. Who wouldn’t say yea to that?

Then there was Coach Martin, who taught American History. I’m not sure how he fared in coaching football, but he was a phenomenal history teacher. Seems that every class was like a racy storytime. He didn’t have much use for the state-issued textbook. He wanted us to know the real story, the scandal, the sordid secrets behind people and events that shaped our country, so he taught from American History magazine. We learned about Thomas Jefferson’s relationship with Sally Hemings, an indentured slave who bored him six children. Coach Martin had no trouble getting teenagers to pay attention to his lessons; we were enthralled. While in his class, I began to feel a budding desire to become a teacher.

But my all-time favorite was my biology teacher Miss Mosher. I was scared to death to take her class because she seemed so mincing. But she turned out to be the most patient teacher. And from her, I learned to LOVE biology and go on to teach it. Years later, I wrote a short story about her. I changed her name, of course. My friend convinced me to put it up on Amazon. This was the only self-published writing I’ve ever done. I priced it for 99 cents, and I think I’ve earned a total of $1.49. Here’s the link in case you want to read it: Role Model . If you have the Kindle app, you can download it for free. I like to think I’ve improved as a writer since I wrote that story, or at least I hope I have.

To all of you who are planning to attend the reunion and those like me who won’t be able to, I will be sure and toast you and wish you many more healthy, happy years. Cheers!