Sign 'O' The Times: Memoir Meets Musing: An Introduction

Purple Rain

Adolescence is portrayed as very different from generation to generation, yet at the core, it is very much the same. Angst, assertion, and amplified emotions. Every generation had their music, their movies, their culture. For mine, the 1980’s it was built around Prince’s music. He sang our feelings, our heartbreak, our aspirations. “Purple Rain” was our battle cry. For some it was other songs, but for our group, our tight knit cohort- it was the song we fell quiet too. It was the color we wore, at least a splash of, it was the echo of our commitment to each other. We attended a small high school, open campus, freedom to go to the beach during lunch, or just hang in the band quad. We had the independence many schools lack today- but this squelched our rebelliousness, it made us feel free and thus we didn’t search for ways to cause an insurgency.

Laguna Beach was a small town in the 1980's. At least it felt small. Two supermarkets, one high school. Nestled into a cove between Dana Point and Newport Beach, California. Summer was crowded with tourists; our Art's Festival was famous. Sawdust on the floor, I used to walk through it with bare feet, feeling the wood between my toes. After I graduated, I worked there, selling jewelry I didn't make myself. I would spend hours wandering and looking at beautiful art, I could never afford. But the festival didn't feel pretentious, it felt accessible to us. It was the social center of our community from June to August and I wanted to feel a part of it. Yet I was always on the outside looking in. What felt like a rural community was suburban, but from a coming of age teenager perspective, it was heaven. Big enough where we felt we had a connection to the world and small enough where most of the world left us alone for most of the year, at least.

Little Red Corvette or rather an AMC Hornet

Population wise we saw circles and cliques at our high school, but it didn't really matter. The cliques just seemed to ebb and flow, merge and separate like wax in a lava lamp. I had friends, we were a misfit group of oddballs- we were odd even for the 80's. Prince, Oingo Boingo, The Cure, The Smiths, Depeche Mode and Duran Duran were our bands of choice but Violent Femmes, Jane's Addiction and U2 were among the many blaring from our car speakers, as we drove through the streets of our small coastal town. We were the outcasts before the Breakfast Club made it cool to be one. Our vehicles were beaten down jalopies: An AMC Hornet, Oldsmobile and 1982 Honda Accord (duct-taped bumper). Laguna Beach in the 1980's as far as a teens point of view, was not about prestige or popularity, even wealth- it was about making the best of what you had.

Unless you drove Laguna Canyon or El Toro Road- Laguna Beach was unreachable back then, now there is a toll road leading straight to it. The isolation back then, made us creative as teenagers: no cell phones, computers or Internet. We had mix tapes, board games and driving around. This we mastered. We also had MTV- real videos that spoke to us, inspired us. We saw opportunities to have fun and we did. We got bored and found ways not to be bored, like scavenger hunts and lip syncs. These were free. We didn't have a lot of money, but we did have each other, and this is very different from today, mainly because we didn't have everything at our fingertips- we had to go out and find our adventures. Our noses were not facing down to our phones, or up on Instagram trying to outdo one another. We drove to the Circle K and hung out in the parking lot on Friday nights. We had bonfires on Saturday nights at Aliso Beach. We were always together, physically, socially and mentally, we talked a lot, face to face, worked out our problems in person not via trolling or texting. It was very much a different time.

Let’s Go Crazy- or Not

Curfew was in place, but we generally stayed at each others houses so frequently- it was understood, that our responsibility was to check-in, not be home every night. We left a message on the answering machine. The infamous answering machines. We used pay phones to do so, or we left messages with parents and they shared it with one another. Strange to think about that world, free of instant communication. We made it through weeks without seeing our parents faces- messages on the fridge sufficed, when we stopped by to take a shower and grab a change of clothes. 

This may sound like a fictional place, a fairy tale- but it was just life in the 1980's, in a small beach town in California. The place is gone, replaced with modernity but the past is never replaced, it is forever edging the angles and carving the valleys of adulthood. When I see my children engrossed with You Tube and their eyes on a piece of technology, it makes me feel sad. We were lucky, we saw a wide-open space and decided to go check it out. We "hiked to Canada" as we used to call it- getting lost for the day outside in the middle of nowhere, that's a story for later.

These days getting lost is immersing in the Internet, inwards rather than outwards. This novel is going to be a bridge between modern ideals and the 1980's vision of a teenage girl, who may have grown up with simpler perspectives and still holds them dear, but who has adapted to the 'Sign 'O' the Times, as Prince so eloquently put it. Music may have changed, technology advanced, but at the heart of all of us who grew up in a decade of opulence, personal connection and individualism- we remember. We do not necessarily want to go back, but we want to keep those quintessential aspects of our teenage aspirations and dreams alive, for they are the core of who we are. We may use our phones every day for more than their original purpose- to simply talk to one another. They are now tools of global connection, albeit a virtual one. But deep down, we can still envision a pay phone, change in hand at the side of the road, We can still hear that tape rewinding, as we checked our messages.

Raspberry Beret, or Various Hats Maybe

This tale, told through anecdotes and tales of my teenage years and those of my children, is going to be how things may seem drastically different, how the 1980's almost seem foreign to millennial's, but in reality- we are very much the same, simply with different instruments at our fingertips. I hope you join me on this adventure. Every week a new chapter in the story of my collision of past and present, music infused with memory and comparison. 1980’s, 1990’s and the new century. I hope you enjoy the ride. Oh, and did I mention I love hats. I used to wear a huge black one at the beach, blocking my very pale skin from the sun. Many would say I was goth in high school but trust me I was everything but. That, however, is another story.

Oddities, Curiosities and Eccentricities: Mom, Teacher, Coach

It is a very strange feeling when family and classroom meet. When my educator persona bumps up against mom mode.There is a certain wall generally, between the two for me. If my husband were to walk into my classroom, as I was teaching it would definitely stop me in my tracks. Only for the reason that my family posture kicks in, once the bell has rung and I am exciting the building. When I am in the building I am in teacher mode.

But, when it comes to Quiz bowl- the wall has crumbled and the two aspects of my life seem to connect to a certain degree. Rather than staying in teacher mode, I have to jump back and forth, this does not necessarily blend seamlessly- sometimes it causes oddities, curiosities and eccentricities. My students always say you are so different with your children around. It is a pitch, yaw and lift that keeps my flight path directional, however it also creates some turbulence. I have a difficult time giving attention to my youngest when I am on the teacher path.

This last weekend for the first time ever, my whole family traveled to Chicago with my Quiz Bowl team for the nationals competition. At the airport I was in a parent and teacher conundrum. I switched back and forth so quickly, I forgot who I was talking to and my teacher voice came out with my children and my mom voice with my students. It was funny. My students even commented that I sounded like their parents rather than their teacher. Oddities due to the blending of roles.

Curiosities sprung from every angle. Would my children get along with my students, they had met a few times, but would they get along? Would parents get along with my husband? Would my youngest son behave with the other younger travelers? My family is definitely not a mainstream, normal family. My boys have long hair, they are loud and expressive and above all they argue a lot with one another because of it. It felt like I was diffusing situations with my own children more than I was with my students.

We are definitely eccentric. This is what makes my family so fun. But, we are home bodies and getting on a plane and traveling across country was a first for us as a whole family. My youngest had never even been on a plane. The co-pilot overheard this and invited him into the cockpit. It was awesome. My students, most well-traveled, hunkered down and were excellent on the plane, which gave me two hours to be just mom and wife. It was a nice respite before the very busy weekend. With parents in attendance, I focused my energy on being coach and let them take on the role of parent. My family, stepped aside and went into Chicago as I led my team through the competition days.

But after games and after the rounds my family joined in as we celebrated making playoffs. My family has become very much a part of the team. But, it is weird to hear "Mom" and "Mrs.CJ" at the same time. Generally teacher mode and parent mode stay separate. But for me the oddities, curiosities and eccentricities of both have merged into more of a comfortable place. It is strange to switch so quickly from Mrs. CJ to Mom but it is kind of fun. My classroom is teacher mode, my home parent mode and Quiz Bowl has allowed the two to combine, even if for the weekend tournaments.

We All Tell Stories....Hear Versions of Others' Stories... Alter the Endings

We All Tell Stories

When we experience the world, even if we are sharing it with others, our practice, participation, and purpose, is our own. Formulated and designed around our observations and understanding of what we feel is real and what we know to be reality. We tell ourselves anecdotes, connect our memories, to steer us into our personal setting, characters and all. We choose who to add to our narrative. We decide who are our arch-enemies and allies. We paint a perfect picture of what we want our landscape to look like and then we fill it with dialogue and interactions.

This dialogue may be different from our imagined conversation- it may be repartee rather than meaningful exchanges, but nonetheless, we hear what we want to hear, make judgments based on what we think we hear, and sometimes we ignore what we hear in order, to shift our story. Our story is our concept of who we are. Villains do not think they are villains. Heroes know they are heroes, mostly because others tell them so. But we know if we are villainous or heroic, at least in our story we do.

The story of us, is only a version of a complete picture, as we want it to be. If we want to see our flaws, recognize our need to edit, we can re-write our autobiography- especially the version no one else is aware of. We keep most of our memoir private, so taking a chance on the rewrite, recast and re-release, is risk free. All we need to do is hit the backspace, edit and adapt. But, this takes awareness and mindfulness. This takes seeing past the façade of what we tell others and taking a deep look behind the curtain.

We see trouble when it isn't there or we refuse to recognize its tendrils as they grab hold. Why? Because we are so busy creating our plot, writing the ending to each chapter of our story, that we do not allow ourselves to use the backspace. We want to type so fast, add graphics and plot twists and just keep the flow going that we do not stop to make sure that our characters are fully formed, that their character traits are well-developed. We often lose sight of their motivation, of our motivation. We tell ourselves stories to shape our fictional world and blend it with our documentary version of our lives. When the documentary becomes boring we shift to the fictional to make the read more interesting.

Hear Versions of Other's Stories

Life is a library. Shelves full of horror, comedy, historical and self-help. Others, romance, political treatises, plays and classic. There are endless genres to choose from. We wake up in the morning with our own legend, replaying in our heads. Then when we begin interacting with others, their chronicles, serials and cliffhangers, merge into our own. Changing our tale. We move about our days listening to others, interpreting their stories and deciding if their words are fables or truths. We are only hearing their version of their story, however. Until they have become characters in ours, they do not have dimension. Life's characters follow their arc or they make dramatic changes to type. Either way, they are only as realistic, as we make them and as much as they allow us, to know them.

It is fascinating to listen to the narratives of others, on the sly. Often when we are not part of their chapter, we hear more truth. We see the bigger picture. When we are a main cast member, we fall into the main narrative and then we have difficulty seeing the subplot. When we are the reader rather than the narrator, we can see other aspects to the story. We may not be able to change the outcome, but hopefully we can recognize the motivation and understand the impetus for it. When we silence our own speech and truly listen to the voices of others, we identify the gaps in the plot- we make sense of the vague dialogue, meant to distract us from the theme.

We can never alter the novel of others, all we can do is add some plot points. Maybe the episode will become a two parter or a mini-series. Or we will be written off, after a single scene. But, if we don't try to word-bomb or photo-bomb the story, we won't even get a walk on role. Listening is key, there are hidden twists and red herrings everywhere. The more we hear, the more we can decipher between them. In every story there are lies and deceptions. They may be purposeful plot points or merely the antagonist’s narrative- but making sure we use them to push our own story forward is key. Stories merge, alter, and re-write themselves on a daily basis. We are both audience, reader and lead actor, protagonist.

Alter the Ending's

Every day we look upon a library of stories, some short, some poetic, some purely comedic. We interact with these books, each with a cover either hardback or paperback. Some are more accessible, more copies available, while others are first editions and difficult to find. The more we open, the more narratives we add to our own the more changes our ending, branches to our story emerge. Each chapter we write in our heads, about ourselves, becomes more fleshed out, more meaningful. We must realize that the narratives of others are still in the editing process, as is our own. Each new twist and plot device, creating a new ending. 

Characters enter the story, some with good intentions and some not. Some moving the story forward, some reminding us where we were and how far we have come. In our classroom, each story has multiple endings, each student has their own version of their story, while we create our own. There are situations we do not read about, there are expositions, conflicts and resolutions that are kept hidden from us. We may not be able to alter the ending of their story, but we can help shape the current chapter- in this chapter, we are a side character. 

We play a role in the plot. We can lead them to a rising action and capstone. We can get them to the summit if we listen to their story. The words their own, the theme positive. If we lay down a setting of excitement and intrigue, we can help them design a landscape for themselves that is on-going, full of curiosity and imagination. We can help them rewrite the chapter from a doldrums day to a happy memory, if we provide them the independence to write their own story. As children we were often placed inside a story not of our own creation. We were told when to sit, when to eat, when to talk. This stifled our creativity. Our stories became biographies, rather than autobiographies.

Letting the Narrative Go

We all have a narrative. A story we tell ourselves. Many of us stick strictly to the plot, we have created for ourselves, while other let go of the narrative and edit and rewrite their story frequently. They recognize the need to stir things up. Some read the ending first, they like to know where the characters are going. Others read at a slower pace, letting the characters resonate. Letting the setting become familiar. Letting the dialogue merge with their own.

If we allow ourselves to truly do this, let the narrative go, we will have more time to read the cornucopia of titles, on our shelves. We will be able to make a new landscape from the settings within each story. Create an inter-changeable backdrop where students take stage, write the play and act every role in the performance.

This backdrop is our classroom. This backdrop, flexible and student-painted, can be raised and lowered depending on the scene. This flexibility creates a community of plot-lines, stories and narratives- this is education. We can be minor characters or major plot devices- the choice is theirs, all we can do is be real, be honest and be kind and they will write us into their stories, as they remember us.