Daughter #2 is going to homecoming with her friend, a girl. Girls do that now. They go to homecoming without boys because, well, who needs 'em. They can all go together and have fun without the pressure of "the date."
I never once went to homecoming because I was never asked. And since I was raised a strict Baptist destined for Hades if I danced, especially with a boy, it was just as well. I dated boys--a guitar player, a trombone player, a snare drum player, a marimba player--but through all of those awkward and unproductive entanglements (except maybe the marimba player), I maintained an undying crush on one boy, a tuba player named Don Clark.
I would have jumped off a bridge with Don Clark if that's what he wanted to do--tall, skinny, shaggy, diabetic boy that he was. I would have risked eternal damnation for mixed swimming if Don Clark had taken me to the beach. But despite my devotion and what I thought was requited affection, Don Clark chose someone else, a clarinet player, to be his girlfriend.
Near the end of my junior year, when Don Clark was a senior, this girlfriend suggested that he take me to the prom because she was a freshmen and not allowed to go. What a thoughtful girl to throw me such a bone--I don't think I would have shared so easily. Don really wanted to go to his last dance in high school, so he agreed.
Most of my older sisters were never allowed to go to dances, but by the time I was 16, my parents were tired of being the barrier between their children and hell--so I was allowed to go to the prom. My mother made my dress from a wedding dress pattern using off-white Qiana (it was 1979). It was absolutely matronly, as you can see here. There would be no Hell-dancing in this dress, that was clear.
This is what Mennonites would wear if they went to proms.
We sat with Don's friends and their majorette girlfriends whose mothers did not make their spaghetti-strap dresses--majorette girlfriends who knew how to dance. The saving grace during that miserable evening was that Don didn't know how to dance either, except for slow dancing. When the band would switch to something in high gear, we sat down, stared at the table cloth, and waited for a slow song. Just as Long and Winding Road was trailing off, the lead singer from the band screamed, "How about giving your girl a kiss!" Don Clark thought he said, "How about something from KISS!" a band he hated, so he shouted back, "No, not KISS," which was interpreted by the kids on the floor to be, "No, no kissing!" They all looked at me and laughed a pathetic pity laugh. Thank you for dinner, but please take me home.
So, it's good that #2 is going with a girl, and they can eat cookies if they want to, and they can giggle if they want to, and they can go to the restroom together if they want to. And if a boy asks one of them to dance, they can say "yes" or "no thank you," and there won't be any awkwardness to make them wish they had stayed home, and that the clarinet player had gone instead.
All we need now is a free afternoon to find the perfect store-bought dress.
I never once went to homecoming because I was never asked. And since I was raised a strict Baptist destined for Hades if I danced, especially with a boy, it was just as well. I dated boys--a guitar player, a trombone player, a snare drum player, a marimba player--but through all of those awkward and unproductive entanglements (except maybe the marimba player), I maintained an undying crush on one boy, a tuba player named Don Clark.
I would have jumped off a bridge with Don Clark if that's what he wanted to do--tall, skinny, shaggy, diabetic boy that he was. I would have risked eternal damnation for mixed swimming if Don Clark had taken me to the beach. But despite my devotion and what I thought was requited affection, Don Clark chose someone else, a clarinet player, to be his girlfriend.
Near the end of my junior year, when Don Clark was a senior, this girlfriend suggested that he take me to the prom because she was a freshmen and not allowed to go. What a thoughtful girl to throw me such a bone--I don't think I would have shared so easily. Don really wanted to go to his last dance in high school, so he agreed.
Most of my older sisters were never allowed to go to dances, but by the time I was 16, my parents were tired of being the barrier between their children and hell--so I was allowed to go to the prom. My mother made my dress from a wedding dress pattern using off-white Qiana (it was 1979). It was absolutely matronly, as you can see here. There would be no Hell-dancing in this dress, that was clear.This is what Mennonites would wear if they went to proms.
We sat with Don's friends and their majorette girlfriends whose mothers did not make their spaghetti-strap dresses--majorette girlfriends who knew how to dance. The saving grace during that miserable evening was that Don didn't know how to dance either, except for slow dancing. When the band would switch to something in high gear, we sat down, stared at the table cloth, and waited for a slow song. Just as Long and Winding Road was trailing off, the lead singer from the band screamed, "How about giving your girl a kiss!" Don Clark thought he said, "How about something from KISS!" a band he hated, so he shouted back, "No, not KISS," which was interpreted by the kids on the floor to be, "No, no kissing!" They all looked at me and laughed a pathetic pity laugh. Thank you for dinner, but please take me home.
So, it's good that #2 is going with a girl, and they can eat cookies if they want to, and they can giggle if they want to, and they can go to the restroom together if they want to. And if a boy asks one of them to dance, they can say "yes" or "no thank you," and there won't be any awkwardness to make them wish they had stayed home, and that the clarinet player had gone instead.
All we need now is a free afternoon to find the perfect store-bought dress.
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