I never planned to vandalize the wall. Leaving the classroom was an act of self-preservation. Smothered by meaningless tasks that led nowhere and took forever, I had to escape. A self-determined outcast amongst the perfect and privileged, I needed to withdraw. My contempt for their pampered innocence and little punk hair-cuts mingled with my hunger for their approval; this conflict created a pounding fury that could not sit in a desk, could not remain in a classroom, could not do it.
Grade nine girls were never denied the opportunity to use the bathroom. Peace and relief fell upon me as I stood in the dim, quiet hallway outside of the classroom. Overhead fluorescent lights reflected on the checkered linoleum, lighting a path. I stood at the end of the path and reveled in my freedom. Uncaged, my joy simmered; I needed to celebrate, to mark my liberty, and unleash my contempt for what I thought was beneath and above me.
Lipstick tucked into jeans so tight, I had to dig the tube out of my pocket with one finger. I stared at the smooth, beige wall above the lockers and the lipstick came alive in my hand. It challenged me, beckoned me, and the ridiculousness made me laugh. A maniacal smile took over my face as I reached for the moulding that ran atop the wooden lockers – I was always a tall girl. I pulled the cap of the fuchsia lipstick and freed the medium. Excitement became euphoria, and I scrawled the first shocking, insulting thing that I could think of. “PUNK ROCKERS EAT SHIT” – all in capitals, of course.
I don’t think I ever did use the bathroom. Loping back into the classroom, I found my one, dear friend. Thank God for Brenda, a kindred free-spirit. I bragged about my bravado and showed the lipstick. In a split-second, Brenda had grabbed the tube and was walk-running out of the classroom. Everything around me faded into unimportance as I sat giddy anticipation. Brenda returned, big blue eyes and white teeth shiny and agape.
I longed to see her work, but our elation was obvious and the teacher knew something was amiss. No more trips to the bathroom. I didn’t have to wait long, though. The principal came, and after a few words with the teacher, he summoned us. On the way to the office I admired my work, the bright pink letters that filled the entire moulding. A few steps later, on the other side of the hall I spied Brenda’s contribution. On the smooth, bare wall above the water fountain, “6 6 6” was smeared in 12-inch fuschia letters. The number of the beast – Brenda had outdone herself!
The calm, confused principal questioned us. I blamed the vile punk-rockers. Brenda explained that “666” was from a cool band, Iron Maiden, and I swear she had the principal convinced that she had performed a public service by promoting their hit song, Number of the Beast.
Bottles of cleaner thrust at us, scrubbing, curious stares and jeering-probably from the damn punk-rockers. Waiting on the bench of shame for my mother to come. Banned from grade nine graduation. Not sorry.
We needed an outlet. Feelings have to go somewhere. Sometimes acts of rebellion are acts of cathartic angst. Brenda and I found better outlets – teaching, creating, pushing, learning – master’s degrees, and hope. Now I pursue a path lit by Love and Grace. It’s hard to stay on that path; the punk-rockers still taunt me. The angst still rouses me. But the redemptive Light finds me and reaches out his scarred hand.
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