high school

February 16, 1967

Me, with my father and his parents when we still lived in Iowa - early fifties. — Me, with my father and his parents when we still lived in Iowa – early fifties.

I wasn’t as lucky as my Iowa cousins or my children – they grew up in close proximity to at least one set of grandparents. Since my sisters and I lived within five miles of our parents, all of our children spent a lot of time with Grandma and Grandpa. I saw my grandparents once a year at most when we went to Iowa or they came to California.

Consequently, while I have vivid impressions of my grandparents, I can’t say I really knew them – certainly not as well as my cousins did. My grandmother was particularly elusive – quiet, sensitive, soft-spoken and introverted although in fairness most people would appear quiet in the shadow of my extroverted grandfather R.S. He was so gregarious and entertaining it was only natural that she let him do most of the talking.

My sisters and I with parents, grandparents and parish worker Marion Voxland - probably 1964 or so. — My sisters and I with parents, grandparents and parish worker Marion Voxland – probably 1964 or so.

I see elements of both my father’s parents in my father. Like RS, he was comfortable talking to others and easy for them to talk to – because, like my grandmother, he listened more than he talked. His gentle nature and sensitivity resembled his mother more than his father but he was very much his own man – as he had to be, to leave his family roots in Iowa to move to California.

My dad and I with Chris and Alex. It was great they lived close enough to go on fun outings together.

What I like about this diary entry is the way Grandma spoke up for herself in a clear but non-confrontational way. She didn’t disagree or contradict RS often, but on the rare occasions she did, what she said was worth hearing. I wish I’d written more of it down.

February 14, 1981

John and I in Mexico-themed photo booth with Co-hostess Anne Kurrasch

The invitation for this party (reproduced above) explains it all. I wore the dress I actually wore to real proms in the sixties when I thought it was the most beautiful gown I’d ever seen. The style failed to age as well as I hoped – the dresses worn by most of the other female guests fared better (but I still got to be Prom Queen, an opportunity denied me in real life)

Kirk Hulstrom and Arthur Everett in character.

In this case, the photos are worth a thousand words so here are some of my favorites.

Ceiling stars and disco ball were more effective live than they appear in photos - I guess you had to be there. — Ceiling stars and disco ball were more effective live than they appear in photos – I guess you had to be there.

Joyce and John Salter (one of few people who look young enough to actually be in high school)

Bennett Traub with JJ Johnson - Danny and JoAnn Hill — Bennett Traub with JJ Johnson – JoAnn Hill and Danny

Kim Mistretta and Karen Hermann, the future Mrs. Art Everett (this was the night they met) & Ken Millikian and Steffani Graham

Some girls campaigned shamelessly to be elected Prom Queen (Anne Kurrasch and Bill Connell)

Don't judge Mr. Hulstrom too harshly. You'd be drinking too if you had to chaperone this thing. The photographer gets frisky with Joyce Salter and Denise Gail Williams. — Don’t judge Mr. Hulstrom too harshly. You’d be drinking too if you had to chaperone this thing. The photographer gets frisky with Joyce Salter and Denise Gail Williams.

You didn't hear it from me, but something's fishy with the Queen of the Prom ballots! (Diane Larson, Joyce Salter, Steffani Graham) — You didn’t hear it from me, but something’s fishy with the Queen of the Prom ballots! (Diane Larson, Joyce Salter, Steffani Graham)

Somebody dropped something! (Kathy Williamson, Kirk Hulstrom, Sharon and Russ Carpenter )

Karen Hermann, Russ Carpenter, ??, Vicki Hill - Waiting to learn who will be crowned Prom Queen (me, Michael Wasserman, Melanie Sayler, Diane Larson plus people I can't identify) — Karen Hermann, Russ Carpenter, ??, Vicki Hill – Waiting to learn who will be crowned Prom Queen (me, Michael Wasserman, Melanie Sayler, Diane Larson plus people I can’t identify)

I was as surprised as everyone else when Mr. Hulstrom announced I was Prom Queen.

When you're a winner, you have to deal with the envy of others. (Sharon Grish, Father Dan) - Denise Trette, Gail Williams - a good time was had by all Joyce Salter, Michael Wasserman — When you’re a winner, you have to deal with the envy of others. (Sharon Grish, Father Dan) – Denise Trette, Gail Williams – a good time was had by all Joyce Salter, Michael Wasserman

January 29, 1967

I was far too quick to judge; I grossly underestimated the power of Nice’n’Easy. Under sunlight – any normal light, really – my hair blazed. You’d need to be blind not to notice and both of my parents were sighted. “You took out all the pretty darkness,” my mother lamented. My Wilcox cohorts assured me it was a vast improvement (not so hard, after 15 bad hair years).

To the best of my recollection, I was a natural brunette.

This was my first foray into the new world of multi-hued hair – a world I’d return to often. Addicts claim their first hit of cocaine is the one they chase for the rest of their lives. Likewise, my first rinse of permanent hair dye was the sweetest. Drugs or alcohol would’ve been redundant. Pounding down neighborhood streets on our secret mission was intoxicating enough.

sANDY + Kathy = KANDY — My secret mission ally Sandy Walker (Hegwood)

My Sunnyvale ally, Natalie Nilsen (pigtails, I know. I told you - 15 years of bad hair days.) — My Sunnyvale ally, Natalie Nilsen (pigtails, I know. I told you – 15 years of bad hair days.)

Due to the aerobic work-out we got from running all over town, our endorphins probably maxed out. Stir in the promise implicit in every Clairol commercial – by changing your hair color, you can change your life!- and we became unstoppable, the world was ours for the taking. If that’s not 20^th century alchemy, what is?

Dear me, whatever can I do with my hair?

As far as my parents were concerned, it wasn’t my finest hour. It wasn’t the worst, either. Still, even now – fifty years later to the day – bursts of our laughter and the pounding of our hearts echoes in my memory. We had so much fun it hurt – in an oddly pleasant way.

I remember it so clearly but I can’t recapture the feelings – the roller coaster highs and lows, intense moods and flooding emotions that were part and parcel of being fifteen. I couldn’t live at that fevered pitch forever – but I wouldn’t say no to another taste. After all these years, I’m chasing that fifteen-years-old high.

January 19, 1981

I was sandwiched in the center of a vinyl booth, two boys on either side. While they seemed semi-civilized at school, a round of Pepsis and fries at Denny’s unleashed their inner beast. As much as I hated to encounter obnoxious loud teenagers in real life, it was a thousand times worse to be dead center in a pack of them.

Disguised as high school student for my return enrollment at Wilcox in 1981. I hoped the huge hair would draw attention away from my face.

My adult self wanted to read them the riot act but my high school persona hunched speechless, red-faced.

They poured out the condiments Denny’s provided in little baskets on every table and scrawled their names in catsup, subbing salt for glitter. They blew straw wrappers at each other. They insulted diners who viewed us with disgust. If my four-year-old acted like this, I’d whisk him outside where he’d remain until he could behave himself but I didn’t have that option here. I wanted to beg our waitress’s forgiveness and leave a huge tip – I doubted the boys would leave a dime – but I couldn’t without calling attention to myself.

After they dropped me off, I called J in LA. “What’s up with your high school boyfriend?” he asked. I told him I wanted to dive under the table at Denny’s. It was hard for him to relate, since he lived a grown-up life with other adults.

After a date at Denny's with four teen-age boys, I need a glass of wine. — After a date at Denny’s with four teen-age boys, I need a glass of wine.

The worst was yet to come. My 3^rd period teacher sent me to the library because they were taking a pop quiz on material I missed. Another class, taught by Mrs. Murray, one of my former teachers in real life, already occupied the library.

When the lunch bell blared, students mobbed the door. A popular-looking perky blonde shook her bangled wrist and regaled her court with details about where she bought it, who designed it, and how much she paid. Most “girl talk” I overheard concerned fashion. They were as passionate about cute clothes as my sixties friends were about rock concerts and Viet Nam. My musings skidded to a halt when Mrs. Murray peered over their heads and said,

My adrenalin lurched into flight or fight mode. It was all I could do not to react, to pretend I didn’t realize Mrs. Murray addressed me. She repeated herself, not taking her eyes off me.

I feigned confusion. “No,” I said.

“You look exactly like a girl I had ten years ago,” Mrs. Murray said.

“Sorry, not me,” I said. As a preacher’s kid prone to Biblical references, I felt like Peter in the Garden of Gethsemane, denying my own identity three times. How could that exchange not arouse a glimmer of curiosity from one of the student witnesses? It didn’t. They were all more interested in being first in line at the snack bar than anything Mrs. Murray or I said.

January 16, 1981

Third period physiology was taught in the same classroom where another hapless instructor tried to teach me chemistry. I recognized the Periodic Table of the Elements I failed to memorize as a genuine junior. This time around, my lab partner was Jennifer, a girl who projected calm intelligence – just the type I’d be best friends with if we existed in the same time frame. At the end of the period, as she scrubbed our beakers, I said, “Want to have lunch?”

“Sorry. I eat with my friends.”

Rejection! It doesn’t get much more unequivocal. It felt as crummy as it did the first time I did high school. What disqualified me as a friend of Jennifer? The wrong shoes, my aging face, my lack of aptitude for physiology?

These questions will never be answered. Girls either like or dislike you “because.” That’s as specific as it gets. For what it’s worth, here’s my personal theory about how and why any hope of being BFF with Jennifer died in September, long before I returned to Wilcox.

I had more to worry about than if a girl half my age liked me or not.

Female cliques form hard and fast and – once established – they aren’t known for flexibility, diversity or the warm welcome extended to strangers – quite the contrary. The more exclusive and difficult a group is to access, the higher their status. I was four months too late to Jennifer’s party and nothing I did could change that.

In comparison, boys were a breeze. Looking lost and stupid – something I excelled at – was basis enough for a relationship. A boy named Brian showed me the ropes, introduced me to his friends, fixed my car and got me a part-time job at the same place he worked.

The latter was problematical since I couldn’t offer my real social security number (and get paid) without the risk of revealing my true age.

To be continued….

January 14, 1981

I was 29 years old – married and the mother of a 4-year-old – when I returned to Wilcox, the high school I graduated from, as a transfer student. Technically, I was there to research a script I’d been hired to write based on S.E. Hinton’s novel the Outsiders. The director and producers wanted to know if high school kids in 81 were much different from those in the early sixties.

At home in my real identity (albeit with weird hair) as a professional writer.

On a deeper level, I was obsessed with high school and curious about how it would feel to do it again. Would the benefit of my vast college, professional and personal experiences make me more confident? Would I feel like I had all the answers? In a word – NO.

A major component of my "disguise" was big frizzy 80s hair (to deflect attention from my face) — A major component of my “disguise” was big frizzy 80s hair (to deflect attention from my face)

If anything, it was more hair-raising than the first time around. In part, this was due to my realistic fear that someone would notice I looked closer to 30 then 17, assume I was a narc (because why else would a woman my age be posing as a student?) and knife me in the girl’s bathroom. Making the situation even dicier, I was staying with one of my real Wilcox contemporaries – Debbie Callan – who, at that time, worked as a dispatcher/translator for the Santa Clara police department. How could I not be a narc?

Maybe i should've thought this through a little better. — Maybe i should’ve thought this through a little better.

There was never a moment I could relax. I didn’t have a fake driver’s license and I needed to carry the real one – which meant taking pains to make sure nobody saw it (especially the birthdate). I didn’t carry credit cards or checks because a 17-year-old wouldn’t. When making reference to music or books that weren’t contemporary, I had to calculate how old my fake self would’ve been as opposed to my real self.

Twenty-nine going on 17 (prolly not right photo but this was the caption) — Twenty-nine going on 17

Before I started, I devised an elaborate backstory to explain my mid-semester transfer – an alcoholic mother in rehab, I was staying with an aunt etc. – but it turned out to be totally unnecessary. Nobody I met showed the slightest interest in my backstory.

To be continued in upcoming blogs – because January ’81 was one of the more interesting Januarys in my life.

December 7, 1968

Baby Boomers approached the SAT exam far more casually than millennials or gen-Xers. We didn’t hire tutors or spend Saturday afternoons in training seminars practicing multiple choice questions. We faced the exam armed only with our sharpened #2 pencils and took the darn thing cold.

Speaking strictly for myself, I didn’t even review fundamental math concepts[1] – how to determine the circumference of a circle, for example – even though that’s the kind of information I didn’t retain then, forget now. As Peggy Sue observed in Peggy Sue Got Married, my lack of knowledge didn’t hinder me in “real” life.

I didn’t score a perfect 1600 – nobody I knew then did – but I didn’t embarrass myself. Stanford and Yale weren’t going to ply me with scholarships but UCLA said yes (with no scholarship). My score wouldn’t get me through their door today.

Reading my acceptance letter to UCLA in the fall of '68. — Reading my acceptance letter to UCLA in the fall of ’68.

I was good at taking tests but not great like my sisters, both of whom the state of California deemed “Gifted”. Because of Janet’s and Joyce’s impressive IQs, the Board of Education invested considerable time and resources on the assumption I, too, might be a bit gifted. Alas, at best I was “above average” – which isn’t even in the same zip code as “gifted”.

Two of these three sisters are gifted. Who's the dummy? Hint - look for a vapid stare instead of a smile. — Two of these three sisters are gifted. Who’s the dummy? Hint – look for a vapid stare instead of a smile.

Did it bother me, being the dumbest Knutsen sister? Not as much as you’d think, since I was the oldest – so by default, the wisest. I suspect my IQ was sabotaged by my abysmal performance in “Spatial Reasoning”. How bad am I at Spatial Reasoning? I rank in the 20^th percentile, meaning 80% of the entire USA population is smarter at spatial reasoning than me.

There’s always a silver lining, though. I haven’t loaded luggage or groceries in a car trunk for decades. I smile and say, “I’d love to help but I’m terrible at spatial reasoning – and I can prove it.”

[1] I do not recommend this approach.

November 26, 1966

She didn’t wait till the next day; she called my father long-distance that night. She made Natalie trade rooms with her and didn’t let me out of her sight. I was supposed to meet Alan for church in the morning so we could exchange phone numbers and contact information but it was impossible. Since he thought my name was Natalie, I figured that was that.

Kathy and Natalie - which is which? — Kathy and Natalie – which is which?

Back at home, my father expressed mild disappointment but he didn’t make it into a big deal. I was home free.

A week later, my father knocked on my bedroom door. “I got an unusual letter at church.”

He unfolded a sheet of paper. “Dear Pastor Knutsen,” he read. “My name is Alan Sorenson.” He glanced at me. A surge of adrenalin left me shaky. He resumed. “I’m a Luther Leaguer from Pacific Palisades Lutheran who recently attended the “Get a Light” convention in Palm Springs. I’m trying to locate a young lady I met there named Natalie. She’s tall, around 5’9”, with shoulder-length brown hair.” He stopped. “Sound like anybody you know, Kathleen?”

Natalie and Kathy - which is which? — Natalie and Kathy – which is which?

Uh-oh. He called me Kathleen, not Kathy. “A little like me, maybe?”

“That’s what I thought – but your name’s not Natalie.”

I couldn’t concoct a plausible lie. “All right, Nat and I wanted to try being someone else. But it wasn’t to be mean.”

The right corner of his mouth turned up. He wasn’t angry – he was amused.

Although I am the pastor's kid, I couldn't help getting my halo slightly tarnished now and then — Although I was and still am the pastor’s kid, I couldn’t help getting my halo slightly tarnished now and then

Alan was not even slightly amused. He was mortified that he addressed his letter to my father. He didn’t appreciate being lied to, especially about being a PK, the likes of which he’s not really into dating. Tough luck for him, I’m a PK for life. So what if league sponsors spied on me and concerned parishioners gossiped? As long as the pastor in question was my dad, I wouldn’t have it any other way.

November 17, 1967

I think this show took place at the San Jose Civic – is it still standing? I was – and still am – a devoted Simon and Garfunkel fan.

Ticket stub for the Simon and Garfunklel concert

I’m fascinated by boyhood friends who become successful creative collaborators only to discover they can’t stand each other and implode. I’ve read several Paul Simon biographies – all of them discuss the friction, none of them explain it in a way I understand. They’re far from the only paired performers to be so afflicted, though, so a lot of people probably relate.

Sweet shy Mary in our backyard in the sixties

The truly remarkable thing about this night was Mary and I actually blazed a path all the way to Simon and Garfunkel’s admittedly empty dressing room. Granted, security would’ve been tighter if the stars were still on site, but factor in the fact Mary and I were as far removed from bona fide groupies as possible. I wouldn’t have known what “groupie” meant, let alone believed there were girls who actually acted like that. (And there were. Lots of them.)

Mary and me suburban matrons - about a decade later — Mary and me suburban matrons – about a decade later

For another thing that makes you go “huh”, tomorrow’s diary blog finds me on a trans-Atlantic phone call with Gene Simmons in London; he wants me to write a groupie movie for him. Stranger still, while I’m not as naïve as the girl fighting my way backstage at this Simon and Garfunkel concert 49 years ago tonight – I’m not that much wilder, either.

October 14, 2006

Before CD could apply to UCLA, he had to survive California’s community college system. PCC (Pasadena City College) is one of its best schools – but not one of the easiest. When the state cut its budget, Chris had to battle for even his most basic courses.

For his language requirement, he chose Chinese. Unable to take Chinese 3 at PCC (due to budget cuts, not low grades) he completed Chinese under stiff competition at UCLA. This summer when we toured Russia, he astonished a group of Chinese tourists by talking to them in their language. They were so awed by the tall Caucasian speaking Chinese that they asked for his autograph and insisted on having their photos taken with him.

His accomplishments would impress me even if I didn’t know how far he’s come. He dropped out of high school halfway through his sophomore year when he turned 16 and passed the GED. We’d exhausted every educational alternative. From private school to public school – where they whisked him into the “At Risk” program for potential drop-outs – then on to boarding school followed by another private Lutheran school.

Chris was fatally shot in the play. Note bullet hole in forehead.

We sent him to private therapy and participated in family therapy. I read books about how to motivate kids determined to fail. My breaking point came when I conferenced with his math teacher to supervise every homework assignment. I verified he completed every single one correctly. Each morning I reminded him not to forget his homework. At the end of the week, his teacher informed me he hadn’t turned in a single page.

That’s when I gave up. I couldn’t read his failure to turn in completed assignments as anything but the finger. Short of going to school with him every day to ensure he handed in assignments, there was nothing I could do.

The applicable cliche here is you can lead a horse to water but you can’t make him drink. CD’s will to fail was stronger than our will to prolong this futile battle. We felt like we just failed parenting. When friends bragged about their kid’s early admission to Yale, then asked about CD’s college prospects, it painful to admit he didn’t get through his sophomore year.

Given all this, we didn’t expect him to perform in a college play or speak Chinese, let alone win a place in UCLA’s Film School, graduate first in his class and give a speech as Valedictorian.

I claim no credit for his miraculous transformation. He figured out how to change his life and followed through. His father and I always believed he was smart despite his early academic performance. Much like he opted to learn Chinese instead of Spanish, CD chose the hard way to obtain his education and succeeded against all odds.

Forgive me for bragging; I waited a long time for this. I couldn’t be any prouder of his unique journey to become the man he is today.

high school

February 16, 1967

February 14, 1981

January 29, 1967

January 19, 1981

January 16, 1981

January 14, 1981

December 7, 1968

November 26, 1966

November 17, 1967

October 14, 2006

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