Before cellphones, there were folded notes. We passed these along during class, under our seats, sometimes attached to a pen so it had more weight to toss, or even kicked along the floor. This was our secret language. The language of the MTV generation of girls. We proudly wore our IZOD Lacoste shirts, our Calvin Klein jeans and stuck that giant flat comb in our back pockets, while we passed along another note in the hallway, on the way back and forth to our locker. There was an etiquette to our notes. They had to be folded so that the latest message was at the very top of the 2-3 inch square made from a single sheet of notebook paper, torn from our Trapper Keeper notebook binder.
And, of course, color mattered. We held onto our BIC 4-color pens like they were gold. They were the emoji’s of our time. Gossip in red, plans in green, regular chit-chat in blue and black. They chronicled every event from what we were wearing to homecoming, to who asked who to prom. They ripped on our “dorky” teachers and confirmed the “bomars and burnouts” of our classes. We talked about what happened in the cafeteria and our lunch which was “grody to the max.” We spent countless notes on the cool guys we liked and, “gag me,” the not so cool guys we were sure to avoid. And of course, we made plans on when we were going to “veg,” at the mall, sleepovers, and who’s Mom was the crazy of the week. It was “totally tubular, man.”
Protecting these notes was an essential part of the etiquette. “Like totally.” Once and only once did my wadded up note get ripped out of my hands by a mean underclassmen boy, who terrorized me for weeks with all the gossip that was a full-days’ worth of juicy stuff between me and my two “BFFs”. I mean, “fer sure,” he should have taken a “chill pill.” What a “spaz.” And, the thrill of not getting caught by a teacher, as notes passed back through other girls who didn’t peek because they knew it wasn’t their business, and curious boys wondering what was all the fuss. I kept those notes — like a diary of the day between me and my group — for a day or two, and then they got tossed so mom and dad’s wandering eyes couldn’t catch the lives of the secret language of girls. “Like, no duh!”
Racing home, my TV was my first stop, cuz “I want my MTV!” Then spent the next hour, poised and ready to hit record on my “boom box” from the radio, so I could make another mix tape to pop into my Sony Walkman. Or to give to my BFF — this was the ultimate gift of love — a handwritten song list tucked into a cassette tape, usually with a theme like “Breakup Tape” or “My Favs.” Then off to the mall, or outside somewhere, until 10 p.m., until that reminder commercial came on TV to remind our parents that they had kids and they should call us inside.
We are the last generation of feral kids. We are Gen X women.