Near the end of the last century, I was a student matriculating in the hallowed halls of Long Beach High School. The school colors were maroon and white, our mascot was a "Bearcat", and the "make your own" taco salad in the cafeteria was the absolute shiznit. The principal, Mr. Jones, would walk the halls and halt countless acts of teenage shenanigans with nothing more than a stern look and a raised eyebrow.
A pair of highlights each day were the 2 10-minute breaks that broke up the tedium of class. When the bell rang for each break, the previously empty landscape of the campus was swarmed with students. We lived for those few moments free from the confines of the four cinder block walls of the classroom. You'd be surprised at the social agendas that could get set in those scant few moments: who was cruising with who down Jeff Davis, which Waffle House to hit after the game on Friday, what new movie to catch down at the Silver Screen Theatre in Biloxi. You could be productive and cram for one of Mr. Ladner's nightmare exams or just chill with a Coke from the vending machine in the main lobby. Or - this will blow the mind of anyone born this side of the Millenium - you could grab a smoke in the designated smoking area behind one of the buildings.
Since cell phones were still a good quarter century away, we all made use of the communal pay phone, also in the main lobby. The entire student body having to make do with the lone device wasn't considered a hardship - we didn't know any better. To us, the simple fact that you could reach out to anyone in possession of a similar antique for a single dime was a pretty cool deal for us. The most epic call I remember being made on that phone was a couple of upperclassmen ringing the offices of Life magazine. The publication had done an article featuring the cruising scene on Jeff Davis and these guys were calling to see if they'd made the issue - they did.
We had our cliques. Jocks were at the top of the social order. Choir members were anathema to the band geeks. The "preppy" rednecks didn't usually associate with the "country" rednecks, and everyone stayed clear of the "hippy" rednecks.
The parking lot was a sea of trucks and muscle cars, and on any given day looked like a present-day auto show. These days, those same cars are highly desirable, vintage collectibles, but back then, they were family sedans and everyday grocery-getters.
The cool factor of the school being less than a mile from the beach was tempered by the misfortune of being across the road from a water treatment plant. The facility made its presence known after heavy rains and unfavorable winds. Band members and football players tried to blot from their minds what they were stirring up underfoot as they trod up and down the length of the practice field. "It's just mud. It's just mud..."
For the student body, certain things were sacrosanct. Impromptu drag races happened on the road behind the school, Mr. Burger would have a pillow mysteriously fall on him from the ceiling (if you know, you know), and the yearbook was always a combination of maroon and white with our school mascot on the cover.
Until it wasn't. During my senior year, members of the intrepid yearbook staff decided to dump this tradition. The yearbook is officially named The Seagull so why would you put a bearcat on the cover? And what the hell is a bearcat anyway? With that, the staff artist rendered the seagull that graced the yearbook that year.
The most drastic departure from tradition was nixing the traditional school colors of maroon and white and instead cloaking the yearbook in blue and silver, the colors of the senior class. Somehow the staff managed to keep this under wraps for the whole year in a clandestine operation that would make senior CIA officials proud.
When unveiled on Senior Day, the 1987 Seagull caused gasps of disbelief from the bulk of the student body. But these were eclipsed by the thunderous roar of the senior class. Twenty-five years later, it's still true.
"We're the best from earth to heaven! Senior Class of '87!"
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