Confessions of a Momma's Boy

I was 15 when we moved to Grosse Pointe, Michigan.  It was about as different a place from where I grew up in Lower Westchester County, New York as you could dream up.  Where my schools were diverse racially, ethnically and socio-economically, I now found myself at Grosse Pointe South High School, where the demographics were, shall we say, “uncomplicated.”  Lots of well to do white children. 

The change was jarring for me in its unfamiliarity.  I was excited by the prospect of being in a new place where no one knew me and I could essentially re-make my identity.  And I did eventually get out there, make friends, have fun and get into trouble, as is the custom of people of that age group.

In the beginning, though, I was overwhelmed.  I remember walking down the hall of the high school, wearing an outfit that was all the rage in New York at the time – tight white pants, L’il Abner boots, and a velour shirt, tight on the biceps, and open at the neck. 

This was not what the boys at Grosse Pointe South wore.  They were the quintessential prepsters and wore alligator shirts, knit sweaters and cords.  For footwear it was docksiders or duck shoes. 

As if I wasn’t already mortified enough by how badly I stood out, one of the alpha preps, Andre Augier, called out to me down the hall, “Hey! Are those your sister’s pants you’re wearing?”  As one might imagine, there are few things you can say that will wound a 15 year old boy more than these words.  They stung as badly as if I’d been slapped across the face. 

I’m proud of the fact that I didn’t change my personal style; what I realized, and what Andre and his ilk realized, is that the girls kind of liked my New York style.  It echoed the idols of the time, like Travolta and Stallone.  I felt a little sense of celebrity as I walked the halls, and learned eventually to embrace my uniqueness, which, where I came from, had been a decided sameness. 

Rather than seek out a social life, when we first arrived in Michigan, I would ride my bike directly home from school and sit down with my mother to watch re-runs of M*A*S*H*.  Even though I had the distinct sense that I was too old for it, I would put my head on her lap, and she absently ran her fingers through my hair, which had always served to make me feel safe and cared for.  We would do what we loved to do most – laugh together.  (Watching horror movies came in a close second.)

I won’t be surprised when Jackson and/or Diego come running home from 10^th grade, just to lay their head on Jeanette's lap and let her fingers run soothingly through their hair.