My Painful Feelings of My High School Class of 1972
And a good time was had by "some"
Hello to all members of
My graduating Class of 1972 - Hamilton High School, Hamilton, AL.
Oh we funned, fought, cried, lied, died, and crawled from 1960 through 1972 and for what? A better life? Yeah, for some. Not me. Oh, please. Do not insult me with your old and overly-used phrases, "You had as much of a chance as we did," and this oldie-but-a-goodie, "You were as good as anyone else," for dear classmates, I grew weary of these easy cop-out responses before we graduated. And cringed to die when I heard after 1972.
Me, and those like me, had as much chance as a virgin in a man's prison to succeed when we were the outcasts, dregs, and lepers, who "you," the privileged few, got the favors and teacher's winks, while we scrubbed, scratched and groveled just to get into class.
Am I exaggerating? No. Not a syllable, for I have talked with those just like me who were actually cheated, no, robbed of any chance "we" had of ever making anything good out of our lives.
So good for you, the "elite" members of the Class of 1972, Hamilton High School, in Hamilton, Alabama were personal-politics run wild and coffers are full. And tramps like my friends and I simply look on from the sidelines
The passageway to (my) slow death
Graduation - why not just stick a dagger in my back
Kisses and teary-eye’d lies, we hold our hearts and say goodbye
One walks leaving the talk and Judas’ love so real.
Our learning is done and to life we run—hoping one race we’ve won.
* Photos used in this hub are not of the actual people referred to as "the class of '72," but photos to only represent my subject/KA
Hamilton High School (Hamilton, Al.) today
Someday I knew my true feelings would come out
Young souls staggering innocence dark
Drooling byes to free breeze, sleeping sprees and staring like the lark.
Bowing at masters old and used—struggling, cuddling, wings abused
Sand, hand-in-hand, naïve to hear dead man.
Lyrically obsolete we gaze at feet, eating the street--yearning for meat so pure
Bond in bond we started with one, two, and a hundred and or so
Came death, born thief, and we grew on grief as cloudy changes blow.
Singing cobweb’s song so true, born to you, we are fools for blue.
Sheepish we kiss and laughter amiss—daring her heart to repeat
Shade of love, a few bloody doves walking with no direction to see.
Sheepish we kiss the wind so amiss and wish our allies our songs
Some crawl in mud to scatter their blood and we chant a foolish rhyme.
Oh laughing cursed be time and us just a dime to feed, breed our slime
Forget the vows just a rusted plow and “she” is only my ghost.
We lost most and died to boast a hundred or a hundred or two
Five, maybe six, they died for a fix and me? I never did see.
Young souls staggered in carnal so dark
Stuttering their byes to freedom, unions and marks.
Bowing and laughing at masters old book—struggling, blood puddling so pure.
Dust in hand, hand-in-hand, wise to steering endured.
This is where they ended: The Vietnam Veterans Memorial Wall of Honor
This is how some left
So here we die and thousands we lie—knowing our blood was done
Clutching the soul, doing the role hoping it ends in this hole.
A sudden black bag a nameless nametag and peace is never at ease.
Say what you must for I am but dust—helmet, gun just rust.
And this was "their" lives
starting from the year 1960, first grade and ending in the year 1972. I emphasized "their" in my headline for it was "their" 12 years, not mine. And certainly not the handful of friends I had who were just like me.
And with life's sometimes magical changes you would (in faith) think that "these elite groups" would have changed since high school graduation in 1972 uhtil 2014. No. Not a hair. They are still strutting around in designer shirts, shoes, BMW's and homes that if they were auctioned-off would feed a hundred homeless families for months.
Change? Never. Not for the "elite" whom I suffered their persecutions for 12 long years in my own personal "high school purgatory." Not them.
They and their kind will always find someone to cast-out so their secure little worlds built of wealth and conceit will never be troubled.
More by this Author
Yes, "we" talk funny in the South. Need proof? Just read this hub.
Now I wish I had been a "teacher's pet." Do you?
Riding with Dr. Thompson was not boring, but now it's over.