Therapy. That was what high school meant to me. Pacifica High School in Garden Grove, CA. I blossomed during my four year tenure. Freshman year held new wonders for me. I discovered that I was not the shortest girl on campus. That was real fear, and it didn’t serve my low self esteem that my physique was comparable to that of an eleven year-old boy. Teenage angst aside, my sophomore year saw me as an active participant in the Modern Dance Club. Loved my tall, willowy teacher as she was graceful and effective with a quiet demeanor. Either she was giving and gracious or just generous by nature because she deemed me fitting of a solo performance in our spring show. My own choreography. Inspired and amazed by my good fortune.
In my junior year I began a two year residency in the school drill team. All things fun. The morning and after-school practice sessions brought welcome structure into my life. I displayed talent and capability enough that I advanced to status as a line leader responsible for keeping the diagonals neat and tidy each time we marched. Sadly, my home life was falling apart as my parents prepared for divorce. The home atmosphere was grim. I felt completely invested in my high school life. My senior year ushered in the novel appeal of yearbook staff involvement. I learned a great deal about cropping photos and selling ads. A classmate had a car and she and I drove to various local businesses so that we might summon our professional bid to solicit their ad. Whoa, such freedom! Too much fun!
Nothing else could have spoken to me in such clear language. Oh, speaking of language, I received a Spanish scholarship in the final leg of my fourth year. Four amazing, rewarding years of active involvement and celebrated citizenship that brought me respite from an unfriendly family landscape. PHS.