Art And Design High School - Prism Yearbook (New York, NY)

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Aa DEBORAH AND ME At the tender age of twelve, one is innocent enough to defy society, yet vulnerable enough to be scarred by it. I entered the vast schoolyard of Winthrop Junior High School, with eyes wide and hands trembling. I swallowed hard and stepped across the threshold into a new world of new friends and new ideas. New, strange, the building, the faces, oh, the faces, so many. I walked slowly through the faces, past the faces, between the faces, my eyes swallowing each one, checking each detail, establishing an opinion of each in my mind. I walked among the endless lines of faces, looking for my own. I saw a girl, an older girl, with makeup on her face and soft, smooth hair, holding a sign reading a few numbers and letters. I glanced down at my clumsy pocketbook and pulled outa postcard, whose corners I care- fully straightened and pressed, and then I read my class section on it. I looked once more at the markings on the girl's sign, and upon finding it identical with the one on my card, I latched onto the line, sighed a deep sigh of relief, and half- smiled nervously as I felt my face grow red. I stood quietly on the line, glancing about as casually as I could, and nibbling on my lower lip. After what seemed to be quite a while, but was probably two minutes, a bell sounded and the lines began to shuffle along slowly toward the building. I watched the alien structure en- velop the stream of figures, and my heart began to pound. I don't know what I expected to be inside, but to my surprise, it looked much like my elementary school, only larger and older. The room we entered had grown-up desks and a large blackboard with a name and a room and that same class section written on it. I took a seat and eyed the one next to me. It was empty, and I glanced nervously at each passing figure, wondering who would sit next to me, why they would, and why the others weren't. Finally, a climax was reached when a tall, stocky girl plopped herself down in the neighboring seat. I peered out of the corners of my eyes and saw her assembling her books and things on the desk. She looked at me openly and my eyes quickly darted downward. She smiled and said, Hi, and I smiled weakly and murmured the same. I did look at her though and I saw before me a tallish girl with large wet, gleaming brown eyes framed with long curly eyelashes, shiny, neatly assembled hair, chestnut brown skin, and wide lips and nose. Deborah's eyes were laughingly inviting and I rather felt myself grow less conscious of my be- ing, and more involved in hers. I was no longer stiff and scared, but instead enchanted by the energetic, adventurous spirit in my new friend. Deborah took me under her wing, I, a year younger and somewhat less courageous than she. We laughed every day, every minute. School was of no matter to either of us, and it was only on report card days that we could be seen trudging home, sniffling and consoling and uttering snide remarks about this teacher or that. But those were the only tears between Deborah and me for the rest of it was laughter. I remember the time we hiked up to Woolworths and invested our last dollar in a variety of iunky makeup which we both hid until safely in the school bathroom, where we would transform ourselves into two painted dolls. It was horrible, and messy, but it was prohibited and we wore it with a proud de- fiance. Deborah and I weren't delinquents, only two carefree irresponsible kids whose person- alities merged and submerged. It wasn't too far into the term when I de- cided to invite Deborah to my house. I did, and we enioyed ourselves as usual. My parents told me that they thought Deborah was a sweet, friendly girl. Things were fine I thought, and Deborah's friendship and mine thrived. Until I made a tragic mistake: I called Deborah when her mother was home. The words, those words, burned in my ears. l'You'd better not call Deborah any more, be- cause her father's a policeman and you will be in a lot of trouble. The tears blurred my vision, the salt stung my tongue, I felt a lump growing hard in my throat. I told my parents of this phone conversa- tion I had with Deborah's mother and I watched them look at each other, nervously, knowingly. They began to explain gently about how they knew of the problems that might arise from our friendship and how it wasn't only what mattered to me or my parents. I nodded although I didn'1 understand, and later wept bitterly over my feel- ings of desperation and confusion. The next day

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THE BRIDGE I awoke, seeing the soft, red-orange sky slowly diffusing before my eyes. It was dawn. The last trailer truck had passed over my yawn- ing, gray asphalt, and I knew that the city would soon awaken to greet me. I slowly stretched myself thoroughly, stretching every cable, every girder, every coil, making sure that I was completely primed and ready for the morning onslaught of the city. At the usual time, about 6:45 A.M., the first brigade of cars came in. Each morning, I said a silent prayer of thanks that there was only a bare mini- mum of cars on the road, because at 6:45 in the morning, one does not drive that well. Perhaps the fact that one is still half-asleep at this time has something to do with it. At that time there are no such things as lanes: or, for that matter, no such things as steering wheels. I could iust imagine the 8:45 group like this. When I do, I simultaneously detest the thought of having chrome-plated trash swept off of me every day. At about 7:00 A.M., my cables stretch slightly as a larger, more wide-awake group comes in. These poor devils have had at least five minutes for a cup of coffee before entering their gas-buggies. These are the alert, defensive drivers you hear so much about. They are orderly, drive at a moderate speed, and comfortable to my asphalt. But, alas, they aren't very interest- ing to talk about. There is, however, a group that is more interesting, the hardy, robust walk- ers. This band of troopers, obviously young men, get their morning exercise this way. Wait till they get in the army .... they'll get lots of exer- cise that way .... You'd be surprised how many athletes abound in the city, deeply breathing the polluted air. Now, 7:00 has become 'log-in time on my concrete. Sometimes it tickles. The ioggers and those drivers who watch out for the other guy are slowly replaced by the wild ones. The time is 8:00 A.M.g the actual onslaught is hitting its peak. Cables and coils stretched, here's an outline of what I am supporting: a multi- tude of drivers and cyclists lmanual and motor- izedj. MULTITIDE OF DRIVERS-primarily made up of forty-five year-olds who must have had ci secret desire to be iet jockeys. Their only reason for being on the road is to experiment on new ways to pass their little friends on my now compressed asphalt. MANUAL CYCLISTS-I never knew bicycles were so popular. They're the only things that soothe my concrete. But the smooth, gentle rolling of bike tires is quite unlike their relatives, the MOTORIZED CYCLES-whose iagged, burning treads feel like an avalanche of peb- bles, and glass all wrapped up in a ball of heavy-grained sandpaper. Why is it when they cross me they begin to roar and spit cracks of vio- lent ignition like cherry bombs in a trashcan? They NEVER seem to do it on any other kind of road. Why me?...why is it always me? 8:45 A.M. Before I describe my guests for this period, I must ask a question. What makes people honk their horns when they know that the only way a car ahead of them can move would be to float above the traffic on a cushion of air? My guests: NORTHBOUND TIP-those who are disgusted with themselves for being late. They figure that they're late anyway so they might as well take it easy. NEAR MIDDLE GROUP- Hey, come on you guys, I'm late enough already. MIDDLE GROUP- Who the hell's up there caus- ing this? NEAR END GROUP fhorn-honkersl-spend their time doing two things: staring at their watches, and honking. SOUTHBOUND CENDJ TIP fhorn-honkersj-mutter dark oaths I don't wish to repeat. At IO:0O, I iust sag from exhaustion ,... and I ponder over the questions .... How come we can't just skip from 4:30 to 6:30 P.M., and elimi- nate the demon in between? DANIEL HASKETT C1

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Deborah and I talked, she telling me to call and apologize for calling on a school night and I re- fusing out of fear of a repetition of my anguish. The subiect was dropped and our friendship re- sumed to normal, except that I had special hours in which I was allowed to call, and that when Deborah came over she would tell her mother she was going to a school committee meeting. My parents sighed but in spite of it all, welcomed Deborah in our house. Once in a while, I could go to Deborah's house, when she was sure her mother wouldn't be home for a while. We en- dured, however, and these problems were in- significant to us, non-existent almost. We were known throughout the school by teachers and students alike. The former would tsk at us sadly because we never applied ourselves in our school- work, but deep inside they smiled down on us. The kids, well, they saw us as two laughing, friendly faces and thought of nothing more. A summer passed, and so did letters be- tween us, and school resumed. Deborah and I changed little, and we still were two crazy, irresponsible kids. Never home on time, she and I would stop at the old Carvel stand, covered up with stickers, and others above those indicating the age of the bottom ones by a price change. We would buy frozen brown bonnets, a tangy milky vanilla custard cone, covered and inter- mingled with a sweet sticky dark chocolate. Fro- zen, yes, and difficult to bite, and later we hoped it would melt and soften. But it didn't have to for Deborah and me, for we digested it quite well in its original state. I guess it was toward the winter, when the Carvel stand closed and the wind becomes biting, that my parents announced that they had found the house into which we were moving. Although it wasn't that far from my present neighborhood, it was a much newer, more expensive neighbor- hood with long, modern schools and neat, orderly lawns. I guess it was Deborah who faced it first when she asked me if it was an all white neighbor- hood. I swallowed my overdone gaiety and ex- citement abruptly, and nodded quietly, and Deborah nodded back quickly in recognition. Time and events went on quickly from then, my marks getting a little better, I guess hers too. The spring shot up around us, and the days until school would close became less and less. Finally, the last day came, my last day in Winthrop, in this neighborhood, and my last day with Deborah. It was a dry, sticky, sunny day, the excitement of summer bubbled within the hearts of everyone, everyone but Deborah and me. By the time we trudged quietly down the monotonous stairs, the yard was empty of scream- ing, shouting, running kids, who made it their business to get away from the stately old build- ing. Deborah and I were two small figures, heads down, casting long willowy shadows in the vacant, sticky yard, which seemed as large somehow as it did on my first day there. We passed the Carvel stand, and approached the bus stop where Deb- orah got her bus. We stood mumbling words, dumb, silly words that weren't really what we wanted to say. Only seconds passed when the bus appeared before us, sneezing loudly and opening its doors. Deborah and I smiled sheep- ishly at each other, and said, Well, goodbye, and keep in touch , and stuff like that, when suddenly I flung my arms around the girl I had leaned on for two years, the one whose nervy courage offered me protection from the tough kids in the school, and whose adventurous spirit had become a part of me. Tears flooded her eyes and mine, and Deborah stepped on the bus, her shining eyes looking into mine, both our cheeks stained with salty tears. The bus pulled away, and Deborah waved violently, smiling and weep- ing. I stood frozen, sobbing out loud, and through my tears I saw the uncrossable bridge between her parents and mine, the one we ourselves walked cautiously to the middle of, where we exchanged packages of friendship in a fleeting minute. Hurry, hurry before the bridge parts and lets society pass between! At the tender age of twelve, one is innocent enough to defy society, yet vulnerable enough to be scarred by it .... ELLEN PEARLSTEIN G