Respect

Shame is a powerful tool of the enemy, able to morph into a million avatars, but no match for God’s sovereignty and grace. Here’s what I mean.

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It’s 1967 at the tail end of the summer, and my mom’s hairstylist, Mr. John, gives me a Twiggy cut. My mom makes my new school clothes: a brown polyester mini dress with wide lapels and bell sleeves, brown wool culottes, and a Black Watch plaid hip hugger skirt. With new tortoise shell, octagonal glasses I am as cool as a skinny fourteen-year-old can be.   

My first day of high school I discover my best friends, Linda and Marie are in none of my classes. Alone, I follow my ninth-grade schedule: algebra, world history, biology, English, French, gym, home economics, and personal typing.   

The building is a one-story sprawl with a maze of corridors, but no matter where you’re headed, you need to pass the Crossroads, a key intersection where the upperclassmen hang out at round tables.  

Within a week Linda, Marie, and I are rushed for Kappa Beta Epsilon, the high school sorority Linda’s older sister, Laura belongs to. At an introductory meeting, I listen to the bylaws. Basically, I have to pin a blue and white bow to my clothing at all times, learn the Greek alphabet, and memorize all the KBE sisters in my school, so I can say hi whenever I see them. Not saying hi is a demerit that might keep me out of something I’m not sure I want into.

Most of the cheerleaders are in KBE and sit by the Crossroads with senior guys. Don Bouchard is a senior who’s always there seventh period on my way to gym. Cindy Dickinson, KBE cheerleader, slouches at his table.  

I turn my head. “Hi, Cindy.”

Don gives me a mincing wave. “Hi, sweetheart.” Cindy laughs.  

That night, after dinner, the phone rings. I answer, “Hello.”

“Don’t you mean, hi? It’s Don Bouchard.”

I can’t think.  

“I was wondering if you want to go out with me Saturday.”

I want to scream no, I think you were making fun of me, but “I’ll ask my mom,” comes out my mouth.  

“Okey dokey.” He snickers.   

I drop the phone on my mom’s desk and poke my head around the corner of the living room. Mom is reading the paper. Dad is snoozing in his naugahyde recliner. “Can I go out with a senior on Saturday?”

“What?” My father is alert. My question hangs in the air. I can’t say it again.

They glance at each other. Dad speaks, “Your mom and I agreed you’re not allowed to date until you’re sixteen.”

My shoulders relax. “Okay.”

I sprint for the phone. “Sorry, I’m not allowed,” and hang up.  

Next day, at the Crossroads, Cindy and Laura catch up to me.  

“Hi.”

Cindy walks to my right. “You going to the dance on Saturday?”

Laura walks to my left. “My parents said they can take us if your parents can pick us up.”

I gulp. “Probably, I’ll ask.”

There’s no parental sanction against school dances, so Saturday at eight o’clock, wearing my Black Watch hip hugger skirt, and a green poor boy sweater, I enter the gym with Linda and Laura. Linda is instantly asked to dance, and Laura disappears. I’m abandoned to scan the room for girls I have to say hi to.   

Danny Gallagher, a cute junior with dark eyes and dark eyebrows pulls me onto the dance floor. He shakes his curly brown hair to the beat of “A Little Bit of Soul” and flashes a goofy smile. I shake my Twiggy cut and shuffle my feet.

Groovin’ by The Rascals plays next, and I let Danny enfold me in his arms as the dance floor swells with bear-hugging couples.  

“Respect” is the next song, one of my favorites, and I cut loose when Aretha belts out, “What you want, baby I got it.”

Laura swoops in. “Linda and I are taking off with Dale Eagan. There’s a party at Phil Blomberg’s house.”

I hesitate.  

“Come on! We’ll be back before your parents pick us up.”

Danny Gallagher takes my hand, and we all exit the gym.

A white Chevy wagon with fake wood paneling idles at the curb where my dad’s car will be parked by eleven o’clock. Linda is already in the back seat on an upperclassman’s lap. Laura squishes in the middle. Danny Gallagher slides next to Laura and gives me a place on his lap. Marie climbs onto the roof rack with Hawley Jenkins. Upper classmen I don’t know fill the front seat and the way back. By the time Dale squeals out of the parking lot, there must be a dozen kids packed inside. Someone passes me a bottle of Ripple. I down the whole thing since it’s the size of a Coke. But if this is what wine tastes like, yuck.  

We take a right out of the parking lot and another at the light. The tires scream around the traffic circle, and we blow by the farm where my mom buys summer corn. I hope Marie is still on the roof. We jerk another right, and I realize my head is spinning.  

The next thing I know, the car door opens. I get out. The ground tilts. I guess this is Phil Blomberg’s, a well-kept split level surrounded by rhododendrons. The Animals’ “House of the Rising Sun” blasts into the street. Kids pour past me into the front door. There are two stairwells in the entry, one goes up, one down. My head swims. I grab the upstairs railing, raise my eyes, and blink.   

Don Bouchard stands at the top of the steps, wearing nothing but a paisley tie. He shouts down at me, “Aren’t you going to say hi?”

Cindy Dickinson tickles him in the ribs and cackles.  

“Hi,” I don’t know where to put my eyes. “I mean, hi.”

“Out of the way Bouchard!” Danny helps me into the kitchen. “Want something to eat?”  

I grab a handful of potato chips from a bowl on the kitchen table, but my head feels sloshy. The living room lights are off. The couch and chairs are filled with kids making out. I just need to lie down and find a spot on the carpet beneath the grand piano. Danny crawls under too and cradles my head for I don’t know how long until someone down the hall yells, “Everybody, out! The neighbors called the cops.”

I squint at Danny. “Is that Phil Blomberg?”

Danny ushers me back into the front seat of Dale’s Chevy. My sick head hangs out the window like a dog’s. We’re flying down the road, when my purple potato chip puke splatters the station wagon’s wood paneling. Danny rummages in the glove compartment and hands me a mashed packet of dusty Kleenex.   

Back in the school lot, He puts his arm around me, and escorts me to the restroom as if I’m the perfect date. I drink water out of my hand and spit in the sink. I take off my cool octagonal glasses and splash my face. I finger my Twiggy cut into place. By the time I come out of the bathroom, the dance is over. I look for Danny, but he’s gone. Following the crowd out to the curb, I find my mom waiting in the car. Linda and Laura materialize from the dark and hop in the backseat. As we pull away from the school, I’m relieved to see Marie alive and making out with Hawley Jenkins by the flagpole.   

My mom stops at the red light by the First National Bank. “Have a good time?” she asks without turning around.  

“Yes,” we mumble in unison.  

We drop off Linda and Laura. “Good night.” My mom waves.  

Back in my bed, my head swirls. I can’t believe what I’ve gotten away with.  

But Monday morning the gauntlet awaits.  

Don Bouchard is grinning at his table. “Hi, again.”

I can’t believe I say, “Hi,” back.

And I can’t believe Danny Gallagher gave me even a little bit of R.E.S.P.E.C.T.

I had no idea how much self-respect meant, until I began to lose it.

Looking back, I can’t thank dark-eyed, Danny Gallagher (obviously not his real name) enough! He was with me in my humiliation, offering me far more than I deserved, long before I could see him as an unknowing avatar of Christ.

How about you sister? Don’t let shame bully you into thinking your most regrettable moments equal your identity.

“All of us have sinned and fallen short of God’s glory. But God treats us much better than we deserve, and because of Christ Jesus, he freely accepts us and sets us free from our sins.”

Romans 3:23-24 (CEV)

Cover photo by Pawel Czerwinski on Unsplash