February 22, 2020 – This is week one of welding class. I’m not sure I’ll make it because there will be times I might have to miss the start of class, which isn’t allowed, so hopefully I can stay in it. Plus, it’s going to be much more expensive than I anticipated. It needs books, and the books are not cheap. I have them on order though. And it needs stuff, welding supplies and an entire outfit, complete with boots, gloves, and a leather coat. Is it possible that I can do anything without needing a new outfit? Seriously? Who knew? But in today’s iteration of a phone call with my brother, there were at least three things we discussed that need to be welded. My response was that I could do it, in a couple of weeks anyway. So perhaps the sunk cost for the class, the books and the new outfit might just pay for itself.

The class was exhausting, a ridiculously long 6 ½ hours, and we didn’t even start welding yet. The welding department is extensive; there are little booths assigned for each student. I’m booth number 3 for beginning welding. And all classes, for all levels, are at one time. That means many of these people know each other, and the instructor certainly knows everyone. I sat close the front; that’s what I do in school. The instructor used me for examples, and she seemed to talk at least half of the time directly to me. In all of her examples I played the unprepared character; in the example I remember, I had lost the blue prints for some meeting of the welders, and so I got fired. I really hope I prove her (yes, the instructor is female) wrong on that first impression. Then again, I’m really quite used to that.

That was everyone’s first impression of me in law school too. I had my fringe jacket on, like the one the character in Ferris Bueller’s Day Off wears, yes it was the late ‘80s then. I was buying some snack out of a vending machine; I couldn’t afford the cafeteria food, so little crackers or peanuts from those vending machines were often my lunch. All of the guys who thought they were something were gathered by the vending machines, and for whatever reason, this one particular guy just started going off on how they would really do well and how there was no way I was going to make it. Apparently, how I was dressed had something to do with it, a girl in a fringe jacket cannot possibly make it. I also remember they spent about ten minutes after insulting my outfit telling me that my eyes are hazel; I called my eye color brown. For the life of me, I can’t remember how this was relevant to their conversation about how I wouldn’t make it, but of course, I must be so dumb I can’t even label the color of my own eyes. I know though; my eyes are not green, not at all, and hazel has green. Yes, they are light, more like a yellow, but they have no green. So, technically, that makes them brown on the traditional color chart of brown, blue, green or hazel. But I have found it is a waste of time to argue the point of what people think of me. It’s rarely possible to change someone’s opinion. And I’ve always seemed to make people have these instant reactions about me.

 Oh, and I did make it. Law school has one test for each of four out of the five first-year classes, given at the end of the year. It’s hell. I even have a David Lee Roth story about that time frame; I went to a solo concert of his right before one of those tests, had to you know, alone, and still did just fine. Overall, I was the second-to-the-top grade in my class-section on two of subjects, and the others, just a normal A. Those grades literally made my law career what it was in its early years — prestigious firms, a starting job at a high level firm in whatever city I wanted. Although honestly, I would get the same dumb-girl first impression even then, but that’s another story. Oh but that guy who started the conversation by the vending machines about how I wouldn’t make it, well let’s just say I got a very different reaction the next year.

The next year, I asked him for notes for a class I had missed when traveling for a job interview. He said no, which is what students in law school are like, no way would he help the competition. A few weeks later, he walked up to me. We were in that same vending machine area. Oh and the same jacket too; I was still wearing that all the time. I mean why not? He asked if he could borrow my notes. He said he was sure I was going to say no, even referencing how competitive the place was and how he had said no to me. But I handed him my notes to photocopy. I’ve often wondered what he thought of what I said to him in response to his statement about how he was sure I was going to say no. I said to him, and not in a mean way, I don’t have to worry about you, or anybody else, as competition. Then I told him I liked my jacket just fine. I don’t know how many times that guy tried to apologize, many, many, and I accepted them, but I always knew what he really thought.

I’ve spent the better part of my life always having to prove myself. I really don’t know why. And I really don’t think I do much to deserve the things people say, or the thoughts I see on their faces on initial first impressions. I assure you I will never lose the blue prints at a job site. Then again, I’m really hoping the job sites will be my own. That’s the point of all of this, for me to build my own things. That said, there’s the flip-side, the good side of this lessened first impression I always seem to make. And I’m not even sure how to put this into words, so I’ll just give this as an example.

The welding instructor asked the students to take down the phone numbers of three students in the class, just in case we need something — notes, to give a message to the teacher, whatever. There was a young girl on the isle across from me; we looked at each other acknowledging we would get each other’s numbers. So we stood up and exchanged numbers with each other. Then, before I could sit down, people were coming up to me wanting my number. I had the requisite three in about a minute. So I sat in my chair. Still though more people came. For each one, I put down my name and number on their notes, and took theirs. My page completely filled up. One of them said this was like high school, getting signatures on the yearbook. That was my thought too. And for that tiny moment, it honestly was. I’m the age of some of these kids’ mothers, not so much older than some, but regardless of the very great amount of time that has passed since I was in high school, it was as if, for that moment, I was back in high school, in the same way I was there and then. One of them said it, that word, popular. You’re popular, he said.

I once was. It was the best part of my young life. I suppose, in some circumstances, I can still have that moment. But I think it is that, where everyone still wants my signature on their yearbook, in whatever life-form that may take, that makes people misjudge me, underestimate me, think I’m going to fail out of law school, or lose blue prints, and be the welder who gets fired. Sometimes people want to take everything I hold dear and then change stories to something that never happened because I can always be the center of it. It’s what I do, be in the center. They love me. They hate me.

I do want this chapter in my life though, the one where I have my little farm with its metal fences, my houses I so want to build that I’ve been designing in my head for years. I really hope I’m taken seriously. But then again, it’s good to be the one everyone wants the yearbook signature of. I wonder how one reconciles any of that? How old am I, and I still don’t know. But what I think is it can be reconciled. All of that can live together. I just have to always be above it all, not let the bad get to me, do the best I can, and thank the good forces of the world that have given me the gifts I have that have always let me, for lack of a better word, have an audience with people, to be the one who people want yearbook signatures of. It’s why I can wear fringe jackets, sparkly headbands, and why I really might just buy the really cute white welding gloves I found at the welding store’s online shop. Because, seriously, outfits are important.

Oh and while I’m at it. I need to feel strong, because this is going to be hard, so I need some songs, songs for me. For what people hate about me. For what they love about me. Wish me luck, if you’re one who still likes me. And I will sign every yearbook, and get everyone’s signature right back, because I truly do love that part of life. I always have. I hope that’s not wrong.

And I know, it’s always so tentative. It’s a gift that can be taken away at any moment, leaving me only with the hard, the bad, the constant underestimation of others. I dedicate the 15 second mark of this one below to the dark times, to people of the dark times, to the people who have poisonous thoughts of me. Please don’t follow me, dark times. Please, let this chapter of my life … work! Now to find a welding crown, or those cute white gloves, until someone is smart enough to sell a welding crown.