Bringing me closer to understanding myself

Nancy

As an awkward Catholic kid, I enjoyed only marginal popularity in junior high. In 7th grade, my first year there, I ran for Student Council President, a daring move considering many of the other kids had known each other since kindergarten, and I had just arrived on the scene.

“Make your mark for Marquis,” my posters boldly declared. As a member of the Young Republicans, I had already campaigned for other elected officials, so why not me? I lost the election by only a few votes. In fact, it was so close, I demanded a recount. Surprisingly good for a new kid!

But by 9th grade, what little popularity I had accrued by running for office had waned and my closest friends ranked in the lower percentiles on the popularity index.

And then along came Nancy. Nancy had always lived in my neighborhood, but our paths hadn’t crossed much as we were growing up. I don’t remember how we eventually connected, but by 9th grade, we began spending a lot of time together.

Nancy exuded brains, wit, personality, and good looks. As a cheerleader, she knew everyone and everything that went on in school and beyond, so even though I watched from the sidelines, I knew all the good gossip. I felt honored to be considered her friend. Plus, Nancy knew all the cute boys, and I knew that was something I was supposed to care about.

The moment I turned 16, I had my driver’s license and that changed everything. Now we could do more than talk about boys—we could go out in search of them. My mom’s blue 1967 Chevrolet station wagon wasn’t exactly the hottest car out there, but a car nonetheless.

“Mom, can I take the car to go see Nancy? We’re just going to tool around a little bit.”

“Where are you going to go?” Mom inevitably wanted to know.

“Just out,” I’d reply.

Whether it was deserving or not, Mom trusted me, so after a little back and forth, she would eventually say yes. I never remember a time when she didn’t. “Don’t leave town, and be home by 11,” she’d yell after me, as I bounded down the stairs to the car and freedom.

According to Nancy, all the cute boys lived in Bentonville, the next town over, so she’d convince me that Mom didn’t really mean we couldn’t go there. “It’s just Bentonville,” Nancy would say. ”It’s really just an extension of Rogers (that is truer today—although because of Wal-Mart headquarters, Rogers has become an extension of Bentonville rather than the other way around—but back then, considering it one town was a stretch).

When we got there, we’d swing by the Bentonville Bowl because of a certain boy who would hang out there. Nancy would run in to see if it was worth staying. If not, we’d just tour around town until something or someone interesting showed up. Eventually, we’d head back to Rogers to go cruising around the Jan-Lyn, a drive-in restaurant straight out of Happy Days—one of the greatest contributors to global warning of our generation where countless teens in sexy sports cars and beat-up old station wagons circled for hours looking to see and be seen.

When we couldn’t be together, Nancy and I talked on the phone gossiping about boys, school, relationships, and life. Although I loved the time we spent laughing and talking, I became clearer with each passing day that the conversations about boys just didn’t interest me. Nancy, more than anyone else, helped me discover that. Although at that time I figured it was because I didn’t interest them. It would take a couple more years for me to realize it wasn’t the boys’ fault.

Nancy and I drifted apart as our lives took different courses, but I will always be grateful to her for giving me a glimpse of an archetypal high school life, one I never would have experienced without her. Most importantly, though, I appreciate her for helping me take my first steps toward discerning my own sexual identity.

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The 1970s