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saffronhareThe year of my birth was 1969, but 1982 was the year of starting to think for myself..
The year 1982 was still deep in the part of my life that straddled continents -- new schools, new friends, etc. The first half of the year was spent in Germany (Neubruecke, specifically) and the last half of seventh grade at Baumholder High School (a 7-12 DoD school).
Thinking back, I'm really glad I got to attend a 7-12 school. We had lockers and bells and (essentially) a high school academic and extra-curricular environment. I experienced my first disastrous singing audition (in what would be a long line of disastrous singing auditions) and was instead cast as a dancer in our production of Carousel. I got to run track on the JV team and traveled Europe to compete against other American kids -- the European championship meet was in West Berlin that year. You know, while they still had the wall. :)
My parents packed a lot of travel into those last few months. The trip that stands out sharpest in my head was our visit to Munich, about which I remember almost nothing except our afternoon at Dachau. Don't really wanna talk about that much, but it sure made an impression on me.
That summer, I turned 13 and we left Germany for the States. Things changed a LOT. Dad was working in Bethesda and we rented a house in Alexandria, VA. My mother was convinced we were living in the Deep South. She even bought gloves, ferfuxake. For reasons I will never understand, they enrolled me and my brother in a Catholic school...K-8, uniforms for class and PE, religion sessions with Monsignor, and the whole schlemiel. No athletics. No extracurricular activities. Imagine my culture shock. I'd been raised Catholic and had attended CCD all my life (back when that's what they called it) -- heck, my mom even directed the RE program at our church in Germany -- and yet, here, I FAILED religion. This was the point at which my disenchantment with the Catholic church began.
I'm not sure, but this may also be when I developed a distaste for plaid.
Another irksome thing at the school was that they would not call me Nikki. Monsignor and Mother Margaret called me Nicole Catherine, since they thought I should use my middle name more (because it was a saint's name). They encouraged me, in the event of my confirmation, to drop Nikki/Nicole altogether. Fuqqers.
For those few months and the remainder of eighth grade, I suppose it served me well to be an introvert. I buried myself in ballet (which was actually EXCELLENT, since there was a real live ballet company to dance with now), spending upwards of 15 hours every week in the studio. I got to meet Mikhail Barishnikov. Holy crap, was he ever the weirdest-looking sexy beast I've ever met. When he (very correctly) adjusted the turnout of my hips in a master class, it suddenly clicked in my head (and other places) why this man had such an appeal. Let's just say I will always remember what I learned from Misha, when it comes to opening up and turning out my hips. Yow. (Incidenally, he had no problem with calling me Nikki.)
In November, when my classmates started taking field trips to the local Catholic high schools, I horrified Sister Mary Christopher by announcing that I'd go to Jefferson High School, thanks. I was the only one going to public high school in my class of 120+ kids -- the first in three years to do so, as I understand it. The year did not get better after that, but the light at the end of the tunnel held more promise.
Gratuitous redecorating note: Thinking about 1982 and Germany has me remembering all the chickadees that appeared around this time of year. I loved them, even though I mostly have no use for birds whatsoever. There was a breath of spring in the air yesterday, so I wanted to search for a more spring-like LJ theme. And there was a chickadee! Not so fond of the rendition, but hey. Chickadee!
The year 1982 was still deep in the part of my life that straddled continents -- new schools, new friends, etc. The first half of the year was spent in Germany (Neubruecke, specifically) and the last half of seventh grade at Baumholder High School (a 7-12 DoD school).
Thinking back, I'm really glad I got to attend a 7-12 school. We had lockers and bells and (essentially) a high school academic and extra-curricular environment. I experienced my first disastrous singing audition (in what would be a long line of disastrous singing auditions) and was instead cast as a dancer in our production of Carousel. I got to run track on the JV team and traveled Europe to compete against other American kids -- the European championship meet was in West Berlin that year. You know, while they still had the wall. :)
My parents packed a lot of travel into those last few months. The trip that stands out sharpest in my head was our visit to Munich, about which I remember almost nothing except our afternoon at Dachau. Don't really wanna talk about that much, but it sure made an impression on me.
That summer, I turned 13 and we left Germany for the States. Things changed a LOT. Dad was working in Bethesda and we rented a house in Alexandria, VA. My mother was convinced we were living in the Deep South. She even bought gloves, ferfuxake. For reasons I will never understand, they enrolled me and my brother in a Catholic school...K-8, uniforms for class and PE, religion sessions with Monsignor, and the whole schlemiel. No athletics. No extracurricular activities. Imagine my culture shock. I'd been raised Catholic and had attended CCD all my life (back when that's what they called it) -- heck, my mom even directed the RE program at our church in Germany -- and yet, here, I FAILED religion. This was the point at which my disenchantment with the Catholic church began.
I'm not sure, but this may also be when I developed a distaste for plaid.
Another irksome thing at the school was that they would not call me Nikki. Monsignor and Mother Margaret called me Nicole Catherine, since they thought I should use my middle name more (because it was a saint's name). They encouraged me, in the event of my confirmation, to drop Nikki/Nicole altogether. Fuqqers.
For those few months and the remainder of eighth grade, I suppose it served me well to be an introvert. I buried myself in ballet (which was actually EXCELLENT, since there was a real live ballet company to dance with now), spending upwards of 15 hours every week in the studio. I got to meet Mikhail Barishnikov. Holy crap, was he ever the weirdest-looking sexy beast I've ever met. When he (very correctly) adjusted the turnout of my hips in a master class, it suddenly clicked in my head (and other places) why this man had such an appeal. Let's just say I will always remember what I learned from Misha, when it comes to opening up and turning out my hips. Yow. (Incidenally, he had no problem with calling me Nikki.)
In November, when my classmates started taking field trips to the local Catholic high schools, I horrified Sister Mary Christopher by announcing that I'd go to Jefferson High School, thanks. I was the only one going to public high school in my class of 120+ kids -- the first in three years to do so, as I understand it. The year did not get better after that, but the light at the end of the tunnel held more promise.
Gratuitous redecorating note: Thinking about 1982 and Germany has me remembering all the chickadees that appeared around this time of year. I loved them, even though I mostly have no use for birds whatsoever. There was a breath of spring in the air yesterday, so I wanted to search for a more spring-like LJ theme. And there was a chickadee! Not so fond of the rendition, but hey. Chickadee!
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I hear ya, sister.
Date: 2008-02-26 02:50 am (UTC)(solidarity!!!)
Re: I hear ya, sister.
Date: 2008-02-26 03:36 pm (UTC)I also entered the school with many years of learning in Department of Defense schools. Academically, I was with or ahead of my class...but in terms of independence and assertiveness and general expectation of sovereignty/independence? I was an alien and singled out as a Dangerous Person. Weird. (Knowing the shared friends we have, I bet you can imagine the bell curve for conformity in this place that thought *I* was the iconoclast.)