Why, today, do I think of Mary,

a girl I barely knew, who, having missed the bus to school, and her parents having already left for work, called a cab company to come fetch her. Nobel Junior High School. Northridge, California. 1966, 67, 68. Mod was all the rage. Mary and the other girls wore white lipstick, Twiggy lashes, blue and green eye shadow. Dresses with puffed sleeves and beribboned lace around the empire waist. Square-toed patent leather shoes with buckles or bows. Textured stockings. And those long, multi-strand plastic necklaces they bought at drug stores and, like flappers, tied into a knot. Nobel had strict dress codes. To prevent girls from wearing minis, they had to kneel on a chair during Homeroom and be measured: Hems weren’t allowed to be higher than an inch above the knee. How many risked punishment in order to be hip? Why, today, do I think of this? I, who was forced to take Woodshop and Drafting when I would much rather have learned to cook and sew in Home Ec. I might have become a chef, a costume designer for the movies. Aren’t I happy with who I am? Poet. Professor. Connoisseur of lost worlds. I thought Mary’s action showed great ingenuity. But when a teacher saw her get out of a taxi in front of school, she was carted off to the principal’s office.

Photograph by Nick Twemlow