friend Rhonda got her hand slapped with a ruler because a teacher heard her say “dang it” at recess.
The way they all seem to see it, if we follow the rules—don’t drink or smoke or have sex until we’re married, don’t wear skirts that show our knees, always go to church on Sundays—we’ll be rewarded with a house and a dog and a husband and children and a picket fence and all the other things we’re supposed to want. Except I don’t know if that is what I want. I’m allergic to dogs, for one thing. Plus, I’m sure my mother wanted all those things when she was my age, but she followed all the rules and my dad left anyway. What’s the point?
Wow. Okay, I’m sorry. I know you said we could be honest in these letters, but I’m still tempted to cross out some of what I just wrote.
It’s only that…it was kind of nice, putting all that down. I have a diary, but that’s mostly for writing about what I’ve been doing lately. This feels different.
So I’ll leave it. I should probably ask you not to put it in your report, but you don’t seem like someone who’d tell your teachers on me.
Shoot, it’s getting late and I haven’t even looked at the question list. Oh—favorite TV show. This one’s easy, because it’s the same as yours—Sonny & Cher. Or, well, I can’t stand Sonny, but Cher is hilarious. Even if her music is basically the opposite of Patti Smith’s.
My boyfriend says Sonny and Cher represent middle America’s response to the hippie movement. I haven’t told him I’ve started listening to punk yet, but he’ll probably have an opinion on that, too. He wants to be a psychiatrist, but he can’t afford med school, so he’s majoring in business at SF State.
Yikes, sorry, I’d better stop and go to bed or this will be our longest letter yet!
Yours truly, Sharon
Wednesday, July 27, 1977
Dear Sharon,
I really enjoy getting these letters from you. It’s interesting hearing about your life in San Francisco. I never would’ve thought teachers there would slap kids with rulers. Maybe your city isn’t as different from here as I thought.
Also, I liked what you said—about picket fences and all that. I know exactly what you mean. Exactly.
My school sounds a lot more similar to yours than I expected. Plus, it’s kind of hilarious that we’re both into Cher and punk music.
Would it be okay if I asked you another question that isn’t on the list? I want to know what it’s like having a boyfriend. I’ve never had a real one, I’ve only gone to parties and stuff with guys. My sister says the best thing about having a boyfriend is that you don’t have to worry about whether anyone will ask you to dances, but I hope she was joking.
Yours truly, Tammy
Sunday, July 31, 1977
Dear Diary,
I think my brother’s mad at me.
We were leaving church this morning, and it was gorgeous out. The fog had burned away while we were inside, and I peeled off my cardigan and slung it over my purse. I was wearing a new tunic dress, a yellow one with cap sleeves, and Mom frowned down at my bare arms.
I tried to come up with a strategy in case she ordered me to put my cardigan back on. I could tell her we were outside, and that I’d bought the dress myself, with my own money. Or that I was almost sixteen and what I wore was my decision, and besides, there was nothing inappropriate about wearing a cap-sleeve dress outside, even on the church steps.
But before Mom could comment on my arms, Mrs. Upton started talking about local politics.
“It’s these strange supervisor elections they’re having now,” Mrs. Upton said, fanning herself with a bulletin. She was my Sunday school teacher when I was in fourth-through-sixth grades, and somehow she looks twenty years older now than she did then. And she looked awfully old then. “District elections. I can’t keep track of the candidates anymore.”
“That