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DawsonOpinion
WEDNESDAY, OCTOBER 23, 2019
This is a page of opinion — ours, yours and
others. Signed columns and cartoons are the
opinions of the writers and artists, and they
may not reflect our views.
The HoCo no
Just the thought of
Homecoming gave me the
heebie jeebies when I was
a teen.
The whole rigamarole
seemed like a lot of fuss to
go through for a dance
after a football game.
Even though I was not a
huge fan of school dances,
Homecoming in the ‘80’s
were a lot more casual
than they are now.
We’d dress up a little but
nothing fancy.
No, the dress—if a dress
was worn— was more like
something you’d wear to
church.
One year when my
friends dragged me to it, I
actually wore a peach
pants ensemble Mama had
bought me, knowing to her
chagrin how much I hate
dresses.
Another year, the only
way I was coaxed into
going was when my
friend, Tanya, told me I
could wear her brand-new
black pencil skirt. “You
haven’t worn it yet, Tan,” I
said. “You sure?”
I had been coveting that
skirt since she got it.
“If you go, I will let you
wear it,” she said.
“I don’t know...” I
began. “I’m gonna need
your silver teardrop ear
rings to go with it.”
“Good lord!” she
exclaimed. “Alright,
alright. Geesh. I am com
ing to get you and bring
you the skirt.”
“And the earrings,” I
reminded her.
I fussed the whole time,
which made Tanya ques
tion why she put herself
through this if all I was
going to do was complain
all night.
“Because,” I said. “You
know I fuss. I am like a lit
tle old woman. I’m set in
my ways. I would have
rather stayed home than
come back to school on a
Friday night.”
The dance was held in
the cafeteria that doubled
as our auditorium. We
pushed lunch tables to the
side to create a dance floor,
with kids hned up against
the tables, scared to be the
first to dance. The football
players were usually the
last to arrive, having to
shower and change into
khakis and a sweater in the
locker room.
We may have had a
punch bowl and some
chips in the back near the
library annex where our
math teacher, Mrs.
Phillips, usually chaper
oned.
“It’s so boring,” I would
say to Tanya. “I don’t
dance. I don’t get asked to
dance. You just have to
take me to Del Taco after
wards so I can console
myself with a steak and
cheese burrito. Can we not
just skip straight to the
burrito?”
My friend sighed. And
like any smart person
would do, she eventually
gave up on trying to force
me to have school spirit.
She also learned to not
loan me a skirt again
because it took her nearly
two years to get hers back.
But my, how times have
changed.
“I need $15 and a tuxe
do,” my child declared one
evening.
“For what?” I aked.
“For HoCo,” he said.
“What the heck is
HoCo?”
“The Homecoming
dance,” he answered.
Usually when something
gets some hip new nick
name, it comes with a hip
new price.
“What the fudge!” I said.
“It’s Homecoming - not
prom!”
He shrugged. “I don’t
make the mles, ma’am. I
am only telling you what
I’ve been told.”
I never paid for a ticket
to Homecoming; if you
SUDIE CROUCH
Columnist
went to school there and
were still hanging around
after the game, you could
go to the dance.
“Do you want to go to
it?” I asked.
“Eh,” he said, shrugging.
“Not really, but all of my
friends are going.”
The good ol’ “ah my
friends are going” pres
sure.
He didn’t want to go, but
he didn’t want to miss out
either.
“Well, let’s see,” I said,
hoping he would realize he
really didn’t want to go
before he had to buy a
ticket.
“You gonna get me a
tux?” he asked.
“You don’t need a tux,” I
said. “It’s not that fancy.”
As the weeks went by,
different schools had their
“HoCo.” My Facebook
feed was flooded with kids
in formal wear - stuff that
we only wore to proms
and debutante balls. Some
were in tuxedos; others
were in dress pants with
bowties.
Clothes are something
he always needs, I justified
to myself. So, we went
shopping for HoCo, just in
case.
One week, he wasn’t
going.
The next he was.
Then he didn’t mention
it ah week.
One day he came in and
announced he had bought
his ticket.
“Did Daddy give you the
money?” I asked. The
cheapskate in me still
didn’t hke the idea of pay
ing for a ticket to a
Homecoming dance.
“No!” he exclaimed. “I
used my own money - my
hard-earned money
Nennie gave me.”
The child that hated to
pay taxes and shipping
fees had used his own
money to buy a dance tick
et?
He immediately regret
ted his decision.
I emailed the teacher to
see if he could get a
refund, but the tickets were
non-refundable and non-
transferrable.
The day of the dance, he
was not the least bit excit
ed.
“Do you want to go?” I
asked.
He frowned.
“Just because you paid
for a ticket does not mean
you have to go,” I reas
sured him. “At least it
wasn’t big bucks hke to a
concert or the Superbowl.”
“Yeah, but those you
could resell and get your
money back,” he said.
Tme.
“What if I gave you the
money back?” I asked.
“What do you mean?”
“What if I gave you the
$15 back - would you
rather stay home?”
“Yeah! I was only going
for 20 minutes and leave!”
“Why 20 minutes?” I
asked.
“I was going to get my
money’s worth,” he said
sincerely. “Besides, they
do this dance every year,
right?”
“Right.”
“Good,” he said.
“Maybe I will want to go
next year.”
Maybe by then, he will.
But this year was just a
great big no.
Sudie Crouch is an award win
ning humor columnist and author
of the recently e-published
novel, "The Dahlman Files: A
Tony Dahlman Paranormal
Mystery.".
"If they really want to scare people, why don't
they put up a billboard about the national debt? 1 '
"To make room for next
year's Christmas stuff."
