Santa Teresa High School - Compendium Yearbook (San Jose, CA)

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ON TUPPERWARE: Angela D'Agostino What is our great nation com- ing to when the youth of America are subjected to the tauntings and temptations of local Tupperware representatives? As a rule, I try to avoid Tupperware whenever possible. Recently, though, I was invited to a Tupperware Party and, hungry for adventure on a dull Friday night, my curiosity got the better of me and I naively resigned myself to go. I was not aware of the horrors that would take place that night. I, and the friend” who brought me, were the first to arrive. Accor- ding to ancient Tupperware tradi- tion the first person to arrive gets the Early Bird” prize. My friend Miss —received a key ring shoehorn, and a hook to hang it on, I got zilch. After a while the other guests arrived. One usually thinks of a Tupperware party as being attend- ed by old ladies — maybe a few newlyweds or young mothers, but not in this case. All the guests were still in high school. It frightened me to think that Tup- perware had gained control over the next generation — the future of our nation. It thought No, these young people would never be taken in by this Tupperware sham. Remember the ’60’s? These kids will surely rebel.” Little did I know how wrong I was. After the Tupperware spokesperson gave out her bag of useless items to us all (I got a sew- ing kit, egg separator, key chain, and back scratcher), she started in on her pitch. She was smooth all right. She loosened us up with a few games first (that’s the party part of the Tupperware Party.) After the first ten minutes, An accounting of a living nightmare though, it was all business. We were bombarded with slogans: locks in freshness, great gift items, and burp seal.” In minutes she had all the teens in the room reduced to a bunch of mindless zombies, ready to buy anything. The lady almost had me convinced that I really needed a green, plastic jello mold. The represtnative paused for a second and in that moment I had time to remove myself from my stupor and look around me. The sight I saw turned the darkest dep- ths of my soul to ice. Here was a group of high school students sit- ting, entranced, nodding their heads in time with that soft- spoken sorceresses sales pitch. The venim-tongued representative went on about the wonders of plastic cookie bowls in the all new colors.” The look of utter devotion to Tupperware in the eyes of these young people sent shivers up and down my spine. I felt like screaming, You guys are worse than those dang Moonies!! but, I knew it wouldn’t do any good — they were hooked. Even though I didn’t fall for any of the woman's sales pitch, I still felt guilty as I walked out the door with all those free gifts. I was hav- ing second thought — maybe I could use a set of plastic measur- ing cups — no, no, I must be strong. I barely got out that night with my conscience intact. I had taken their gifts, eaten their food and not ordered a thing, but when would ever use a plastic jello mold? •Name withheld on request from lawyer. Day Camp Kids Heather Dillon I have often heard people s that all children are the sam however, this insinuation is f from the truth. Kids come in variety of shapes, sizes, and c ors, and especially personalitie each distinctly unique. Daycan seems to attract at least one every type of child. Two of the groups are: the cute innocer seemingly-cherubic-blond” ki and the “going-for-an-ac demy-kid. The most common type seen to be the cute-innocent-seeminj cherubic-blond.” I use the ter seemingly” because often tho little blond dolls are actually w animals in disguise. Take for stance J-J, a three-foo California-tanned, fawn-eye blond-haired, six-year-old. J- which is actually his nickname, in the true sense of the phrase, little blond doll. He knows th when he gazes up with his hue luminous, chocolate-colored ey that he is irresistible and, con; quently, can get away with ji about anything, even if that eludes acting like a cannibal wl has just returned from a tv month imprisonment in vegetable garden. I can rememb numerous times when J-J woi run around the playground, flap ing his arms yelling, “I’m chicken! Bach, bach, bachaaac I’m a chicken! All the while bot ing his head. He would fly ov anything and everything that w in his way, including: (and this w just one incident) a bologna sar wich, a St. Bernard named Tui two garbage cans, the camp din tor, five skateboards, and three tie girls who had been playi jacks. Everyone at camp, eluding the disillusioned car director, said nothing but, Is that precious? The other kind of child is t going-for-an-academy-kid. could not hope for a more lustrative example than that Matt an, inevitably, seeminc cherubic-blond. At one particu camp last summer I was assign to five campers, one of which v 244 Legerdemain

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'luttered Comer of My Soul iff Suddjian im floating in a sea of ruthless stares; ley pound on my body and engulf my person — m left alone. sople look at me, yet their looks bore holes irough my body and their eyes focus on something lat can’t be seen. eel like screaming and releasing tension — awing all these people’s attention to me — vould thrive on their pity. st I know that I shall remain quiet, silently eeding — My heart shall cry out in unheard pain ;cause of the hurt I feel. ut my life spring will not run dry in this crowded, nely room, and my hurt will be pushed into uttered corners of my soul. Departure Kim Fisher My Room Debra Reese Posters, folders, paper sacks Clips and staples, pins and tacks Books that crowd the dusty shelves Christmas cards of Santa’s Elves Way up high sit baby dolls Leaning on the peach toned walls Purses, coins, matches and tags From trips abroad, lie in bags Empty boxes taking space Torn up shades with hanging lace Animals, Blankets and dust galore Slippers and pillows cover the floor Even though there’s not much space My room is my very own private place. I wake up early this morning. I turn and look out of my window. Sunshine and clouds are there to greet me, and make the day warm and bright. I look around my room at boxes of clothes and clutter which used to have a place in this room of mine. Four years of my life have gone by like one week. Freshman, Sophomore, Junior and Senior years at high school. Friends and Teachers whom I’ll never forget. I stop — I don’t want to cry. Strength is the key. I must be strong, especially today. I dress and go downstairs into the kitchen. “Hi. ‘‘Hi, sleep well?” “Yeah, Okay. What are you cooking?” Eggs, bacon, muffins. Mm, sounds good.” I hate eggs and all of the tradi- tional breakfast foods, but I keep silent. I feel I mustn’t stop my mom’s good intentions. My sister runs into the kitchen and breaks the peaceful calm by asking if she inherits my phone. She doesn’t wait for an answer; she never does. “I promise I’ll pay for the bills and just think — I’ll never be using your phone — I always talk for too long and now that Kim will be gone ...” That did it. My mom ran out of the room crying and muttering words of her sadness. I take over the breakfast, burn the bacon and the whole kitchen looks like a mess. I go up to my room and begin to pack my things. My mom comes in and walks around, outlining the pic- tures, carefully touching the furniture. I can’t believe you’re really going. “Mom, please...” “Sorry.” I keep silent, I can’t let her know how I really feel. She thinks I am almost an adult, a responsible, trustworthy person. I tell her I have to go now, and walk out to the car. Quick, hurried goodbyes because I insist I’m late already. I drive away. About half an hour I begin to think, really think, and reflect on the morn- ing. What an idiot I guess I could have shed a tear or two, it was so hard not to. Strength is the pits! I turn around. I open the door, and stand face to face with my mom. “I forgot something.” I rush into her arms, not feeling embarrassed or ashamed, but rather secure and warm. I did forget something. Legerdemain 243

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he infamous Matt. It is not un- mmon for the boy campers to icome very attached to the girl aders, thus was the case with att. My little “born-to-bea- amatic-actor” camper had been clinging vine all day, and when it ime time for all the campers to averse to the opposite side of e playground for an exciting iw game, I was overjoyed; I Duld be able to breathe. My little end, however, did not view the situation similarly and did not want to leave me. After he was told that Battle for a Baked Potato” was probably the funnest game he'd ever play, or he’d ever hope to play, he replied that he’d leave my side, But only after a kiss!” I told him no. All of a sud- den his face contorted, his walk turned to a limp, and he said with a deep throaty goran, “But Heather, I’m going off ... to WAR! Legerdemain 245