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SLACKS
B R £ M E N . G'E: O R G I A
AMERICA'S
GREATEST
SLACKS
ject of her attention during
many spare moments. All the
girls had long fingernails—
and so did Leslie.
“Oh* - "Excuse me! I’m so
sorry!” Embarrassment caused
a pinkish, red blush to flood
her face, as Leslie most awk
wardly bumped into Bobby
Mills, a rugged handsome
‘.‘boy” friend from junior high.
After passing him, she scold
ed as well as reprieved herself
for the major catastrophe. Fin
ally reaching “Marilu’s” table,
she took a vacant chair, ignor
ing. the variety of glances that
met her. Questioning, astonish
ment, and approval were seen
on the faces of her old friends
as welLas^ome new kids who
belonged to t.h i s “popular”
group.
Putting on her Popular air,.
Leslie attempted to really
make a good impression.
“Greetings' group! . Dig this
swift lunch!” Her slang, a sym
bol of her conformity, was ab
sorbed in the rest of the chat
ter of many busy mouths.
Leslie could always feel the
change in herself when she was
around these kids, yet she re
garded it as a natural experi-
1 ence of human emotions. She
threw off the funny, guilty
feeling she had every time she
stepped off of. her own level of
individuality, and onto the
lower strata of assimilation, as
a part of achieving' the “ulti-
fnate”—popularity, of. course.
At first this jumping in and out
of her two personalities was
difficult and most uncomfor
table, for the unreal, “non-
Leslie” personality took get
ting used to as one has to get
used to a shoe that hurts be
cause it is too tight.
Gold winds whipped Leslie’s
face. Goose bumps covered her
coal-concealed arms as winter
made her debut. Gracefully
lifting her skirted winds, the
age old season slowly, at first,
then with great abruptness,
pushed aside her companion
and forerunner, autumn—and
stoic the sfcow:
Visions and images, rather
impressions and feelings, were
ever present in Leslie’s mind,
as she found contentment in
the thought of Home. She-
spoke to Marilu 6f her feelings
as the two, seemingly “stereo-
type” girds made their v/ay
home after school. .
“Don”t you love to gq home?
I mean; don’t you kind’a fee$
good inside when you think
about your family and how
they really love you, and all?”
“Leslie—uh—I think maybe
you’re a little off your rocker;
you know, out of you( tree.
Who wants to go home? You
can’t have any fun there—with
no boys around, or things to do.
All home means to me is work!
Who wants to go home?”
That ended it. Leslie—the
real Leslie—had once again _
been rejected and refused for
innocent honesty. As quick as .
the snap of fingers, out came
the other Leslie, this one a bit
more successful.
“Yeah. 1 guess you’re right.
Home is just a place to stay for
a while—to get food and
clothes from. There’s not much
to do there either so I guess it’s
better just not to get attached.
After all. pretty soon we’ll
grow up and leave.”
Ipside, the real Leslie cried
as her lips carefully formed the
hated lies.
The cold air. though stiff and
fresh, the increasingly clouded
skies, and the growing dark
ness. gave Leslie more than
enough reason to be glad to
finally be home..This was the
inner Leslie’s home. Here she
was accepted and accepting,
loved and loving; here she was
uninhibited and real. The
warmth of home and family,
the other side of her life,
brought Leslie enormous satis^~
faction. At Home, Leslie lost
herself in others—in love, she
forgot Leslie and was ultimate
ly content, despite trivial argu
ments and disagreements, typi
cal of family life. Here Leslie
fulfilled the evening rituals of
setting the table, helping with
dinner, eating, doing the
dishes. studying “goofin
around", getting ready for bed
and finally going to bed, as the
usual hour approached.
Secure in the warm, comfor
table bed. Leslie lay—and sud- w
denly became aware of the rain
coming down from the skies,
outside her window. She felt a
security in the pouring rains
for reasons she herself could
not determine. The sound of in
numerable drops pounding in
to the earth, sounded odd to
her. A smile appeared in her ^
head “It’s like mill'^ns—°f -
hands .c.l..a n ni-n tn It ■ Enema
they’re praising the glory and
majesty of the Lor—Oh Heck!
The majesty of what? There’s
no proof that He’s there. But
He must be; something has to.
be. Why am I so different?
Why can’t I applaud too, like
all my friends do; Like I irsed
to. I wonder how come, when
I was younger, even last year,
I would accept everything,
without even thinking if it was
true or not. Then I would ac
cept and was accepted. I sup
pose that maybe I am a little
more mature than they—like
Daddy says. And how LUCKY
Ijrh supposed to be able to “see
things objectively”. Think how
silly and ridiculous they act
and how they will feel when
The Southern Israelite
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