We were reminiscing like we do, Rosita and I, talking about old friends and good times. We perused through the topics one by one. Those things all tied back in some sort of way to one room.
Room 501…just up the stairs
Drama.
It was the room where we focused on theater arts instead of social drama. It was the only class where you left your high school status at the door. No one was the outcast…everyone was the star. It was a hodgepodge of students from nearly every group of the school, like a sociology experiment. There was a dose of football players, a hit of stoners, a few metal heads, a couple of honor rollers, some preppies, a share of trekkies, etc, etc. Some of us were there for a fairly easy grade but most were there because we were drawn to the stage whether we admitted it or not. More often than not, the drama class itself came secondary to the laughter and the friends we made there.
As I said, we reminisced. We laughed like we do about times we had…hanging out in the drama “closet” which was a small office that had been turned into a storage room for costumes and props. If those costumes could talk, they’d have some pretty R-rated tales to tell you. I used to think those tales belonged solely to my husband and I but I discovered that we weren’t the only ones making out on the prop sofa from time to time. Good thing I constantly sprayed that thing with Lysol when I cleaned up in there. Who knows what kind of high school cooties that thing would have been harboring? Does Lysol kill gonorrherpesyphilydia?
We reminisced about the star football player that ended up in our class…no doubt for an easy pass suggested by the coach. My friend declared him gorgeous. I agreed. He was pretty good looking. She said she ran into him recently. She referred to him as “man meat”. I was nearly in tears laughing. Then, she told me something that surprised me…flattered me. Mr. High School Stereo-type not only asked about me but proceeded to tell her how sexy he thought I was. Of course, he didn’t remember my name…he asked her about “that other white girl” as if her and I were the only white girls in the class.
She and I laughed because apparently we were the only white girls that mattered. Yeah, we were pretty awesome.
We reminisced about how people used to be and how many change so much after high school. She started telling me about the ten year reunion that I skipped and about one person in particular showing up with body guards not because she was attending a New Orleans event but because apparently that shit is required when you are on the BET show, 106 & Park. It’s sort of a big deal…I suppose even though I had to google it because I had no idea what or who Rosita was talking about.
And yes, it required digging out a yearbook because I didn’t recognize the woman at all. All I can say is I will spare all of you the year book photo (I’m sure Raquel…or Rocsi…or whatever she is going by now days will appreciate it as well) and I'll just say good for her. Her stylists are doing an amazing job.
Rosita told a tale of phoniness, not necessarily of our ugly duckling classmate (and I use that description out of awe…not insult). People are flat out fake when it comes to money, power, and celebrities and our average old school chums are no different. But it’s just silly when people trip over themselves when a star is near…especially something so low on the totem pole as a reality star.
Let’s face it. Reality television is taking over the televisions sets (and intelligence) of this country and these so-called “stars” are a dime a dozen. Pretty soon, there will be a reality show about a reality show. Can you imagine? Camera crews following camera crews…boom mics everywhere.
I can’t say from experience that I’d never be star struck. Of course, I’ve never ran into George Clooney or Brad Pitt. I can assume though if I ever ran into a Snooki, I’d head in the other direction.
So it seems, the tale of the high school ugly duckling (aka just your average teenage girl minus the stylist a la’ She’s All That movie montage) turned reality star hottie, I’m sure, is becoming an epidemic among high school reunions nationwide.
Even this topic about a girl not even in our drama class went back to Room 501. Rosita laughed as I gave my reasons for skipping the reunion…about how I have no interest in seeing people that I had no interest of seeing then. Maybe that makes me snotty. Maybe it does. I explained that there were roughly a dozen or so people I’d be interesting in catching up with and they were in that room at one time or another. One of which has started
her own blog. Most people that mattered at all to me, I have regained some form of contact with all thanks to Facebook. Of course, there are some I could have done without.
Room 501 was like a teenage Las Vegas in a sense that what was said there, stayed there. The teacher was amazing.
She was the sort of adult that every teenager needs in their life. You were able to confide in her and she would give you a mature, sometimes motherly opinion without being judgmental. Each tidbit of advice was given with a side of understanding that made you feel confident in yourself that you were capable of making the right decision on your own. She was the only adult that ever made me feel that way other than my older cousin who was 30ish at the time.
That room was a haven…a sanctuary. I had never felt so safe, accepted, or understood. I felt free to be myself…even though I had no idea exactly who I was just yet. Room 501 assisted me in finding the Asha that I’ve become.
So, I never shagged the star football player or made it anywhere other than home video but I have found the adult version of Room 501 right here in my simple, little life. You know what? That makes me happy and no matter how much Rosita and I reminisce there isn’t a damn thing I’d change.
