One year, my high school sponsored a Halloween "sock hop." My closest friends and I still were too young to date, so most of us went to the dance in small groups. I invited my Best Friend. She attended a different high school, and I thought she would enjoying seeing my school.
The dance took place in the school's gymnasium. The school administration oversaw decoration of the space, and during the dance, the nuns permitted us to dim the gymnasium lights. A live band played music by Chicago and the Beach Boys.
Because this was a "sock hop," the school urged us to wear 1950s-inspired costumes to the dance.
This is where I encountered some "lost in translation" trouble. First-generation children of Displaced Persons sometimes didn't transition into American culture fluidly. For example, my family did not understand how different universities in the United States offer varying levels of prestige. They didn't see, for example, how a degree from the University of Chicago might look differently on a cv than a degree from a satellite campus of a state school. Similarly, when a relative won a Rhodes Scholarship, no one seemed to notice what potential that honor offered. Many related examples arose during my childhood. I remember watching my favorite cartoon, Fractured Fairytales, and repeating the end line of each episode, "And the moral of the story is …" My Mom became agitated because she thought I was commenting on ethics, and she found it inappropriate for a child to address "morals." Another example was that first-grade lunchbox. It was an adorable lunchbox, but it was not cool.
This cultural disconnect again came into play when I prepared my costume for the "sock hop." Most of my friends planned to wear poodle skirts, bobby socks, and saddle shoes. My family didn't understand the whole "fifties revival" thing; it wasn't on the radar screen—at all. My folks persuaded me that I shouldn't look like everyone else—and besides, why buy items to create an unoriginal costume? So, I instead borrowed pieces from ladies in the neighborhood—a wig, a cocktail dress, stilettos, and a mink stole—and went to the dance as that 1950s icon, Marilyn Monroe.
Suburban Chicago, 1973. Family members still laugh when they look at this photo.
4 comments:
Re. the university issue: my wife and I lived in the dorms at a boarding school for a few years. One of our students was from Thailand. He wanted to study engineering in college, but would not consider RPI or any other school that had "institute" in its name. He insisted that he had to go to a university. As he saw it, going back to Thailand with a degree from an institute would not have the necessary prestige.
As for being dressed like Marilyn at the Sock Hop, cringe. It's good to grow up and move past that sort of stuff, eh?
Peter, that's a great story. "MIT" pops into mind. When I was in grad school, I knew some mathematicians, and they used to sing, "MIT ... PhD ... M-O-N-E-Y."
The unversity prestige issue later loomed large for me. I was admitted to a prestigious grad school, but my Dad was ill, money was tight, and I didn't think I should go to the school because it was too far from home. I ended up at a great, state school. But I think my life would have unfolded differently had I earned a sheepskin from the fancier place.
"Cringe" describes the evening well.
FYI, the builder of the LEGO Rialto Bridge has uploaded her own photos.
http://www.flickr.com/photos/28560051@N05/8129697491/in/photostream/
Thank you, Peter!
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