“Here We Are, There Ain’t No More, Yea Seniors ’64”

The life of a person is not what happened, but what he remembers and how he remembers it.  Gabriel Garcia Marquez

I dedicate this blog to the Texas City High School Class of 1964, and to all the graduates of that time and place. The Class of ’64 has mystically reinvented itself as we should have been, and not as we were, all in the name of second chances. A few generous leaders sent out an invitation: Come back and be welcome, popular kids, band kids, fringe kids, cowboys, and hoods. Come be part of the class in our wisdom and maturity. Remember as you will what was small and exclusive, but come back and be welcome now. The quote of this introduction, although penned by Marquez, was passed along by an outstanding member of our class, and within this context, it seems particularly appropriate.

The very word memory evokes a visceral response – deep in the heart, in the mind, in a singular place, different in all of us. There’s a barren patch between fact and fiction, a place where we toss out seeds and something grows, something made of memory and truth. Why do we remember things a certain way? Why does someone who shared the same experience remember it so differently? Memory has much to do with truth and little to do with fact, and as for fact? As time goes by I trust that word less and less.

I began this diary to satisfy my creative need, which pesters like a tune stuck in my head. If you have it, you know what I mean. Write something! Paint something! Build something! But would my family or my friends be interested in stories about me?

As I began to write, the main character surfaced, and it wasn’t me. The main character is a time and place. Growing up in Texas in the 1950s – that’s the story, and I’m a minor player, a narrator if you will.

The 40s? The 50s? Where’s the turning point? Change doesn’t line up neatly by decade. The Class of 2002 would say the cataclysm happened on September 11, 2001, when the twin towers thundered down, and a different America emerged from the noise. For the Class of 1942, it was December 7, 1941.

For children of the 50s, the pivot happened on November 22, 1963. In 1961 President John F. Kennedy inspired a “new generation of Americans—born in this century, tempered by war, disciplined by a hard and bitter peace, proud of our ancient heritage—.”

Class of 1964. Me (center, goofy bangs, behind girl in black dress), between HS beau Charles Elfstrom and BFF Lana Hustedde (white buttons).

Class of 1964. Lower left, BFFs Linda Chandler (striped dress with sailor collar) and Carolyn Williams (next to Linda, glasses and white blouse).

That’s who we were when we entered high school, but in November of 1963 JFK was dead, his head blown apart by a sniper’s bullet. Even though it was 1963, “the 60s” in context refers to the late-60s — the ramping up of the Vietnam war, the passage of the Civil Rights Act, the second wave of feminism. The 50s died with President Kennedy.

I remember the moment. We all do. Mrs. Mary Agnes Neyland, the English teacher, left the room at a knock on the door, and when she returned, she stood white and silent in front of us. Teachers at TCHS didn’t lose their composure, but she allowed herself a deep breath. First, she forbade any kind of outburst. Then she told us the news from Dallas.

When the bell rang we walked into the hall shocked, not believing it could be so. We moved through the next months and on to graduation night. The Class of ’64, who thought we would dance into the future, made our way “with measured steps and slow” into a different world than it was when we entered high school.

The Class of ’64 throws itself a birthday party! 60 and going strong — Oct 21, 2006.

This first post serves as a dedication, an invitation, and an introduction, so I’ll take the time to apologize in advance for my imprudent sense of humor. I sometimes laugh at the exchange of wedding vows, giggle at gravesides, and applaud people who behave outrageously in public. A good friend told me she loves me best, because when she used to drink and dance on tabletops, her other friends tried to stop her. I yelled “Go, Joyce, GO!”

And I’m not politically correct. I call things by their names, meaning no offense. I’ve been known to say “Indian” and even “dwarf.” (Really? So it’s Snow White and the Seven Little People?) I would never deliberately hurt anyone, but I’m a human being, and to my regret, I have hurt people and no doubt will again, maybe in this web diary. I apologize to everyone I’ve ever hurt or ever will hurt.

I’ll lead into my next post by remembering what my mother used to say when we were a long way from home. She spoke of Texas with a longing I didn’t understand. Her blue eyes would mist, and she would start a story: When we lived in Texas . . .

One day she amended her opening segue. Tuesday, she said. We’ll be back in Texas. There shortly followed a ride in an actual taxi (my first), a cross-country bus trip, a kidnapping, and although we didn’t make it by Tuesday, we did make it. We got back to her hometown of Texas City, Texas, landing in the lap of unsuspecting relatives.

A map of the Gulf coast and the location of Texas City, though it’s misleading. TC is a port on Galveston Bay, the body of water that isn’t shown, between Galveston Island and the mainland.

Now I invite you to revisit a time and place. I understand my mother’s longing for the Lone Star State like I didn’t when I was a child. I’ve lived elsewhere for many years, yet Texas is the geographic love of my life. It makes me happy to write about growing up there, when it was beautiful and simple.

Or is that just how I remember it?

NEXT:  Welcome to Texas City, Where It’s Always Halloween