Chico or PV? Our town’s quintessential question

If you grew up in Chico and you meet another person who grew up in Chico, it is inevitable you will be asked: Chico or PV? For those of you reading online, away from our city limits, or for those of you without any contact with teenagers, this means: Which high school did you go to? And there are two answers. It means something here, what high school you attended. An inherent understanding like a secret code. We feel it. We know it. The loyalty is deep. I find this rivalry to be a wholesome and intrinsic part of Chico. And in case you’re wondering, Chico High forever.

This is so ingrained in me that earlier in the year when my husband and I were house hunting, I would not even consider anything in PV’s district.

I know, I know. Should it matter 23 years later? My husband didn’t fully understand. He went to high school in New York City. I just Googled “how many public high schools are in New

York City?” and returned with a whopping 520. This ubiquitous school rivalry doesn’t exist in his growing up reality. But here, we have two. One or THE OTHER. (And some alternative choices, of course). My husband would send real estate listings to me, and before I even looked at a single picture, I’d check the map. If I saw PV’s district, I’d peek just in case the house was perfect enough to transcend my devotion, but only half-heartedly. And nothing did. We are now happily nested in not only my high school’s district but my elementary school’s as well. The latter was not a prerequisite, just a happy coincidence.

I know I’m among the lucky to look back on my high school days with fondness and positivity. So many friends I made after high school did not share this with me and could not wait to get out to find the people who would truly understand them. I was fortunate to find my band of smart and creative weirdos at Chico High.

It’s all about finding your people. Surely, I wanted to leave and see what else was out there in the world, but I had people around me who accepted me for me. Sometimes you don’t find that until college or in the city’s nightlife or wherever else you may be called.

Even though we leaned misfit, we had it. The spirit. It wasn’t about football though. When I was in high school, I didn’t give two you-knowwhats about what the football team was doing. But there was something there. Something I’ve hung onto for over twenty years. We spent so much time on that campus. I still remember my locker combination.

And the tree with the benches around it where we would find each other between classes. And that walk downtown for off-campus lunch, past the Bidwell Mansion, through Children’s Park, to Celestino’s Pizza or 7-11 for Slurpees, or the steps of the Presbyterian Church, or by the Three Sisters Sculpture on the Chico State Campus. I remember the names we gave ourselves in Spanish class, and how we made inside jokes about metaphors from the books we read in AP English. I remember the intensity of emotion we feel only once: when we’re teenagers. First loves, first heartbreaks, first major life decisions. It’s all still in me, swirling around with the backdrop of that sprawling campus with CHS painted in yellow on the gymnasium and the quad that would flood back when it seemed like it rained a lot more than it does now.

Ultimately, when we are adults at dinner parties discussing our alma maters, maybe it shouldn’t matter anymore. I met a PV guy who married a Chico High gal recently and it doesn’t seem to affect their relationship. Maybe I have something to learn from someone who went to PV. Maybe my horizons would broaden if I had more Pleasant Valley friends. Sometimes I wonder if other people, not from Chico, feel annoyed by or left out of the question. But still, we ask. We must. And we still categorize our teen experiences into the two rival schools. And I still want my kids to be Panthers and not Vikings, dang it. Red and gold are emblazoned on my heart forever, it seems.