George Rogers Clark High School - Powder Horn Yearbook (Whiting, IN)

Page 9 text:

Since i find it much easier to walk around those steps i cut through a man-destroyed trample-made path. While pondering whether the steps are paralleled to life i arrive at the north end of the building only to be confused and shocked by the proclamation of two numerals, ' 75 ' gratified on the doors. I stumble up nine worn slabs to the doors, only to discover that they are mysteriously closed by several silver links. I turn to walk unnecessarily to the south end of the school. I can ' t figure out why i’m being held out and question what damage to expect if i get in. I struggle through an obstacle of little people and realize the lack of concern toward them. I wonder why two generations of peers are allowed to be taught in the same building. I plod on past the gym. Our rival’s green paint strewn on the corner of the structure breaks the monotony of its architectural beauty. I pause at the door and enter the building, dropping a wall between me and the outside. Rust, aqua, and tan ceramic bricks startle me, but i stride on through the corridor of the newborn one-year-old structure. I pass the g lass trophy cases contemplating the pride and activities of past years. Wondering if history repeats itself, i almost sense the vibrations of apathy from within the four walls. Doors marked men and women, and doors marked for certain classes remind me of the inner boundaries one is confined to. As i struggle through the air current which separates the atmospheres of the two buildings i realize that the wind might be sucking and pulling me into its clutches, trying by some strange force, to keep me confined within its walls—perhaps a memory! Yet, i know i will be let go. The separate forces of the two buildings compliment the differences and similarities of the newer and older walls. Entering the main hall, walls suddenly change their smooth shiny finish reflecting ones move to the future, to reveal the gloominess of the chipped fortifications. The air seems dampened as the smell of tradition wafts its way down dank corridors. As i arrive i am aroused by the distinctions between different personalities of different backgrounds, different religions, different opinions—these are our people!

Page 11 text:

On the way to my locker i associate myself with several individuals. Many are my friends and teachers, others are just acquaintances, and still others are unknown. I arrive at locker 356 and as i am struggling with my lock i overhear a voice exclaim, “Every living and nonliving thing is classified by a number!” While i am dialing 17L-21R-17L i wonder why i am told i am unique, if the only way they can tell me apart from the mass is by a number. As i casually drift into a spontaneous conversation i realize that a group of my classmates are b.s.-ing their way through the controversial subject, the drug problem. I discover whether one considers it a problem or not . . . whether one considers it wrong or right . . . it ' s just a matter of opinion! One fellow, Jay McPipe, anticipates the legalization of marijuana. I question myself and ask if it is considered a drug?—OPINION! People label him as a freak. It doesn’t matter that he is an honor student. I wonder what would be said now if the administration caught wind of his situation? Does it have any bearing on the matter or is it just a usual case of poor judgment? Another person in the conversation, a girl, believes cigarette smoking and liquor can be paralleled to the use of drugs. I conclude that she is classified by others as a ‘straight’ person. I am no longer interested in the conversation specifically because i don ' t want a ninth hour so i proceed to my class. The minutes seem to pass by slowly. The class hours seem never to end. On the way to my sixth period class i am pulled into another conversation. Sally Clark, a proposed ‘rah’ exclaims that she enjoys her last class while someone else contemplates the thought of her being a plastic and overly spirited person. Still a ’freshman’ is confronted by a labeled ’sophomore’ who is questioned by a classified ‘junior’, who was bothered by a ‘senior’! Farther down the hall a ' jock ' is bragging of a winning point and even farther a ' brownie ' is rapping with a teacher. Standing in the hall, taking all this in, i realize the position of people as opinions and stories take form. I wonder why radicals, conservatives, brains, and adults each voice their own individual opinions, and seemingly ignore their neighbors. After all, aren’t we all equal? I now realize . . . There Are Four Sides To Every Story!