Sex Ed. and Paper Routes

Do you remember being 13 years old? Farts were the funniest comedic act known to man. An extra quarter in your pocket meant the difference between playing one more game of Pacman, and not playing one more game of Pacman. Having your buddies and being cool was the most important thing on earth. Football and pro-wrasslin' are in, poetry, art, and anything deemed even slightly effeminate are out.

Now, picture this age, and being the unfortunate son in a family that frequents the most touchy-feely, liberal church in town, the Unitarian Universalist church. Picture this church offering a sexual education class for middle-school aged kids. Finally, picture your parents forcing you to attend this weekly class, backed with the threat of no HBO for the next week if you happened to miss it. Such is the hell that my life was during the winter of 1982.

Every week I was forced to sit through this class with some of the dorkiest kids in the metropolitan area of Manchester, NH. We would sit in a circle on the floor and discuss penises in a class led by a guy who resembled the pre-conservative version of Sonny Bono, and a woman who probably knew Gloria Steinham on a first name basis. One week, we had to sit opposite of another class member and close our eyes and stroke the face of this person. To what end we did this, I'm not sure. It was awkward and I found myself daydreaming of getting the toughest kids I knew in my school, arming them with tire irons, locking the doors to this room and beating everyone in the class to a bloody pulp. My hair would stand on end at these thoughts. Unfortunately, there's a Walter Mitty in all of us, and these fantasies never came to fruition.

After these classes, my parents would routinely corner me with questions like "what did you discuss today?" I'd usually respond with something like "nothing", or "not much", typical of the conversation level a pre-teen has with their parents, no less with the subject matter in question. Unfortunately, it wouldn't usually end there. The old man might prod me by giving me the LBJ lapel grab and in a Clint Eastwood, no-nonsense tone, repeat "WHAT DID YOU TALK ABOUT TODAY?" I wasn't giving in. There was no way I was going to volunteer a discussion about the scrotum with my parents. So I kept it at a vague level, at the likes of "oh, just relationships". The whole affair was very disturbing, and probably enough to mess up my sexual well-being to this day.

As much as I'd like to point my finger at my parents in this story and charge them with being true demons, I can't say they were the lowest of the low in this story.... well, I guess maybe I can. However, my brothers deserve some recognition as well.

My older brother was sitting pretty throughout all of this. He was in his mid teens, and got by with throwing on his Black Sabbath t-shirt, and spending church time making out with cute girls and getting high in his youth group. Forcing him to go to church on Sunday was somewhat similar to handing him a beer and saying "you need to drink this, and you're going to like it!".

My younger brother had it differently. He hated going to church nearly as much as I did. He had a "get out of jail free" card, however. For he was blessed with having a paper route during this period. January in New Hampshire tended to be cause for longer time required to complete this route, what with the snow and below zero temperatures. That little bastard was able to make a three hour ordeal out of what was normally a half hour process. He also timed it so that he'd finish off at a spot where he could view from a safe distance our family car traveling to church. There, in all of its glory was the old Volvo station wagon, the folks in the front seat, dressed to the nines and amped to hear an uplifting sermon, my older brother in a psychedilic daze wearing a Black Sabbath Mob Rules t-shirt, and me at his side, sporting the angriest scowl a 13 year old is capable of.

Upon seeing the passage of the car, my brother knew he was home free. He'd shuttle it on back to the house, turn on the "Top Cat" cartoons, and enjoy a long leisurely, sugary breakfast, knowing full well that I was enduring the worst hell imagineable.

In retrospect, I admire my brother's angle. Had I been smart, I would have set myself up with a route of my own, had a little cash in pocket to play more Pacman, and would have escaped a particularly damaging episode in my young life. However, in some weird way, I like to imagine that I am stronger because of it. And the touchy-feely liberals still hold a place in my heart.