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Chapter 20 Eleventh Grade
"I was always reminded of a tea kettle filled with boiling water which had to let off steam or explode; had I been unable to "blow-it-out," my emotions would have strained violently against my being, and while a shattered teapot could be replaced, sanity was less easily restored."
CHAPTER TWENTY
Eleventh Grade
Adolescence is an explosive age wherein change is an intrinsic factor. One begins to weigh the significance of specific values in an attempt to discover which values shall be given foremost importance in life. There are numerous trials and errors, and many lessons are learned through failure or fear. An elder's words of wisdom are not always sufficient to curb the pangs of rebellion; the youth wishes to use his own mind to dictate that which he shall experience rather than to live through the vision of greater knowledge.
With the onset of 11th grade, I had gained enough confidence to pursue my version of parental rebellion which, compared to my characteristic desire to please and meld, baffled and then concerned my mom and dad. Disputes generally centered on minor details such as curfew, yet progressed to include whose company I could keep and which events I could attend. For the first time in my life, I was trying to make my conflicting views heard. This measure only created misery on all fronts, however, because my father did not welcome variances of opinion. I never yelled in my efforts to illustrate my views, for that would have proven disastrous; but despite my steady-voiced assertions, conversation became more difficult and rendered the family bliss into a sort of haphazard time-bomb. As a result, I began to foster unwanted feelings of intolerance toward little quirks and mannerisms, as often will accompany deeper grievances and unsettled disputes. Instead of accepting the gap of understanding that had evolved, I projected the frustration which came from the impasse upon petty outlets. The little things ate at my mind and aggravated me beyond all reason; I despised myself for allowing such inconsequential details to taint my father's image or turn me from his love.
With my mom, it was different. She allowed me to voice my opinions although they differed from her own. Despite my plea for "freedom " I was choked by the ambivalence of my emotions. I longed for choice yet craved intervention. For example, certain days found me in an unexplainably aggressive state of mind and my anger begged to be given reign over rationality. So perturbed was I with my inner turmoil that sometimes I wished to argue for its own sake, creating an issue to banter back and forth like a volley ball; other times I wanted mom to say "no" and thereby settle a dispute which raged internally, for parental objections were often weightier and less subject to contestation than were personal decisions to forego a particular event. Of course, there were also those things which I desired to discuss, yet felt compelled to remain hidden from my mom; I knew that to share certain instances would have jeopardized my ability to see many "friends," and although many of those individuals I later decided to avoid, I needed to make the decision on my own.
One person who understood was Norm. It was not so long ago that he had undergone the need for independence, and sympathized with my sometimes over-blown grievances. When I spoke to Norm it seemed that my "problems" dissipated into the wind or became so insignificant that I could easily bear their weight. The changes in my outlook and disposition seemed only fleeting steps to adulthood, rather than imprisoning hours.
In my eyes, Norm's life was a reflection of perfect balance, self-sufficiency and peace of mind. I longed for the day when I too would be able to own a house and make all the choices that were his. I dreamed of such a life, and it seemed incredible that he would ever seek an alternative. Paradise, however, as well as prison, is in the eye of the beholder.