"Me, 60 Years Ago"

I wrote this reflection about my first day of high school, in early September 1966, for the “Class Notes” published for the 50^th reunion of Lauralton Hall’s Class of 1970.  Because of the pandemic, the reunion (an awkward distanced/hybrid/Zoom affair) took place in September 2021.  The only change I’d make today: “60 years ago” in the first line, not “55”.  BTW, I received not one single response to what I thought, even after so many years, was a very brave revelation; oh, well.

When I think back to the 13-year-old girl I was 55 years ago, on that September morning when I walked up High Street from the train station for the first time and through the gates of Lauralton Hall as a brand-new freshman, I am full of compassion for her.  

You see, I had a secret -- that I was having my period for the first time.  Hidden under my stiff navy-blue jumper with its knife-sharp pleats was an already sodden sanitary napkin, Modess or Kotex, whatever brand Mom had bought for me.  At least, I hoped it was hidden.  Could the other girls tell?  They were strangers! I didn't even know their names yet.  What would they think of me? 

I hoped that nobody walking along with me could detect the weird strappy contraption holding the bulky pad against my body between my legs.  I hoped that my underpants would stay in place.  Most of all, I hoped that no trickle of blood would leak its way down a bare leg.  If that happened, well, the uniform skirt was long enough to work as a cover-up and my knee socks were absorbent, weren’t they?  Self-conscious and embarrassed as I was, should I confide in someone, ask for help?  Would anyone understand? 

I was the center of my own universe, a lonely place to be, at any time.  And a heck of a place to start my high school career.  All that I cared about at that moment was, how soon could I find a bathroom and … clean up?  Swap out the used pad for a fresh one from the supply stashed in my book bag?  And what was I supposed to do with the old pad?  Talk about a formative experience! 

When I think back to the girls we all were on that first day of high school in September 1966, and through the blur of days that would follow until we graduated, I am full of compassion for every single one of us.  How little we knew!  How much there was to learn! Brave, bright-eyed and hopeful members of the new Class of 1970 -- were we ready, or not, for whatever lay ahead?

Our years at Lauralton would bring each of us our own versions of possibly leaking sanitary napkins, our own formative experiences.  Some we shared with each other, others we kept to ourselves, some we forgot; all shaped us in one way or another.  Today, these experiences remain as vital and as educational as every class we took, every sport we played, every club we joined, every friend we made, every teacher we met. 

Let compassion for ourselves and each other be our watchword as we move -- ready, or not -- into the rest of our lives.