I remember moving to Vestavia Hills, south of Birmingham. I was 11 and starting the 6th grade. It was an area with affluence, an area that was growing, an over the mountain community. I remember starting this new school, being different. I was an outsider, having constantly changed schools from year to year it seemed. It was my sixth school, starting my sixth year. I never had problems adapting before, but this was the beginning of change.
As with each generation, there is always a symbol of status. A symbol of possession that sets you apart from all others. In 1967, in the sixth grade at Vestavia elementary, the status symbol of the time was your collection of Parker Pens, the unique pen with the arrow design on the clasp. The expensive pen, not a Bic, not the cheap and affordable one. It had to be a Parker. The other kids had nothing but Parker Pens. I remember not having one. Most of the kids had a few. Some kids, those who deemed themselves as special, would show up with their school boxes full of them. Those kids had money and status.
I felt out of place because of a pen. Small things in life that can worry a child. Small things that make it hard to be accepted. When you take time to look at life, you start to notice how many people still live to collect items, items that mean nothing when you stand back to look at it.
Posted at 07:55 pm by
AnotherMan
