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!