A Small Awakening
But first, let me get one thing straight: I didn't even know I'd done it. * * * There was giggling, there was pointing, a bunch of sophomores gawking. And it was all coming at me. I went on to class, head scratching. In the room, there it was again — a couple of classmates grinning, a couple more shaking their heads. I turned to the girl next to me. What is going on? What's the joke? She whispered: the yearbook is here. Then I recalled that conscience pang: the class officers photograph, the picture I shouldn't be in. High-school peer-pressure politics ramming candidates through by force. I was one of the unworthy. I turned to my classmate again. The senior officers picture? She nodded, giggled, and turned pink. But my regret couldn't be the cause; that would be shame shame, not blush blush. The official handing-out came and I received my own copy. I flipped quickly, turning pages to the class officers photo. There I was, front row, on the end. There I was, kneeling and smiling. There I was, hand draped over knee. There I was, giving the finger. Was it a trick of the shadows? Just the way my fingers dangled? Whatever, the bird indeed flew in black and white, for all to see. I turned to one of the grinners and said: I didn't mean to do that. In reply I got an eye roll and a pointed sure-you-didn't smirk. Okay, I thought: that's how it is; people will believe what they will. And no amount of denial will dislodge the misconception. Looking again, I saw glances, some sidelong glances of respect, the kind bestowed upon rebels. And that left a little tingle and that little tingle felt good. So, if I kept on denying — but maybe with a hinted laugh, So, if I left things unspoken — but maybe with a tiny grin, I could find out what it was like to wade at that dark water's edge. Harry W. Yeatts Jr. |