Most Bitter
Apr. 3rd, 2008 08:02 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
penfield“I am as bad as the worst, but, thank God, I am as good as the best.”
- Walt Whitman
In a previous journal entry, I made reference to my high school’s Senior Class “superlatives” as denoted in the annual yearbook and selected via peer vote. I’m sure this still is a common ritual all over the country, even if it is now at least a little antiquated.
More than ever before, high school students are capable of harnessing multimedia to self-determine their public image outside of the formal social construct. For them, the notion of a social collective is itself flexible. So the notion of framing a literal popularity contest as civic duty is understandably tough to swallow for even your least cynical teenager.
That said, labeling other people never really goes out of style, even if they’re in on the joke. And everybody wants to be “most” or “best” something, right?
At my high school, there were 32 such superlatives, ranging from the typical to the bizarre, with the award going to one guy and one girl in each category. (Bear in mind: in my yearbook, the runners-up were listed as well.) They were:
Class Clowns: (previously discussed)
Best Car: I understand that certain crappy cars can have a lot of character, but this award always seemed like the “Most Money” award.
Class Couple: The only superlative in which we were to vote on a “ticket.” In 1995, the winners were the Homecoming King and Queen. The runners-up had broken up by the time the book had gone to press.
Class Babblers: Kind of a dumb category; I’m still not sure what it means. I probably voted for a few of my teachers.
Most Musical: Our school had a reputation (within certain circles, anyway) for having a good music program, so this was a significant if still geeky award.
Class Moochers: The photo accompanying this category shows the two winners playing tug-o-war with a dollar bill, which approximately fits the commonly held conception of “mooch.” But my trusty dictionary reveals the primary definition of “mooch” is “to wander aimlessly.” Had my peers known the word more accurately, this category would have been much more widely contested.
Best Hair: Finally, an interesting category. In 1995 the winners were a girl with long, stick-straight brown hair down to her waist and a guy possessing a mushroom cloud of tight blond curls. Even with my thick mane of dark brown locks, I never had a chance.
Most Likely to Succeed: Here’s one of your old stand-bys, a classic within the pantheon of superlatives. Coveted by outcast nerds and preppy achievers alike, the title confers to its owner the a promise of wealth and happiness. And yet, there is a strange passiveness about it. What “most likely to succeed” ostensibly means is “most intelligent,” but by couching this phrase in euphemism it ham-handedly attempts to predict the future. In so doing, it not only leaves a hint of doubt -- hedging its bet with the word “likely,” -- it also leaves the reader to his or her own interpretation of (a) what constitutes “success” and (b) the requisite skills to achieve it. M.L.S. is the long-stemmed rose of superlatives: proud and beautiful, but thorny and fleeting.
Best Eyes: This is where it starts to get more than a little subjective. The male winner in my senior year was a guy born with heterochromia. It was really the only thing anyone knew about him, which was sort of sad. I don’t remember much about the female winner; I can only speculate that her eyes were at least useful for keeping her brain from leaking out.
Class Leaders: Redundant, insofar as the elected class president and student class council already appear elsewhere in the yearbook.
Teachers’ Pets: Superlatives are supposed to represent one’s acknowledged qualities, aren’t they? Does it even count if you disagree with it? Should it even be in the lineup if it is, essentially, a giant insult? (Related question: is it better to be infamous or ignored entirely?) I only ask because I know the female recipient of this “honor” was none-too-pleased to be presented with it; I’m shocked that she even showed up for the photo.
Most Optimistic: I didn’t know anyone in high school who was optimistic. Everyone was complaining, crying or worrying about something. And if they weren’t, they weren’t looking closely enough at their complexion.
Most Changed Since Freshman Year: The winners of this category usually fit into one of two categories: The Ugly Duckling Who Blossomed (and was adopted in to the upper echelon of the social strata) and the Person Who Got Really Into Drugs (and gained/lost 50 pounds).
Most Soft-Spoken: A bit paradoxical, no? If we know someone’s there, are they really soft-spoken? And if there were anyone more soft-spoken than that person, would we notice them?
Most Memorable: Outrageously, infuriatingly subjective. Obviously, the people we remember most are our friends. Somewhat less, we remember the people we hated. Everyone else is about as memorable as last Thursday's lunch.
Class Flirts: Now this is a good category. Specific, sort of complimentary and vividly evocative. Not that the female winner or runner up ever flirted with me, but I still have to admit that they both managed to seem “easy” without being slutty.
Best Legs: Typically, but not necessarily, redundant with “Most Athletic,” Since athletes are the ones most often running around with their legs exposed. Even if I had been predisposed to showing off my beautiful calves, you could only really wear shorts maybe six weeks out of the year in Rochester, NY. Even the accompanying photo shows the winners both wearing jeans.
Most Friendly: See “Most Memorable.” Not that friendly people are necessarily memorable people, but the most friendly people do tend to be our friends. Otherwise, it’s a fairly innocuous category, if a bit high-minded for a collection of insecure, back-stabbing, inexplicably angry adolescents.
Most Puzzling: This is either a backhanded compliment or another euphemism for “Class Freak.” Another attempt to reach out to the underclass, perhaps? The recipients of this title do tend to be extremely artsy types and/or emotionally fragile.
Most Pessimistic: With all due respect to the 1995 selections, there is no way they were more deserving of this award than the dozens of meek, dorked-out virgins in our class who had to wonder if they were ever going to see a girl naked. (Remember, this was before sophisticated Web browsing.)
Best Dressed: Take one part “Most Money” and one part “Most Artistic,” and you have “Best Dressed.”
Class Cuties: If they want to know who is the most attractive, they should just make the award “Most Attractive” (or -- sigh -- “Class Hotties”). But instead the pollsters used a connotatively loaded word like “cuties,” which seems to zero in on students with a certain porcelain “kewpie doll” look. “Hotties” would have made it a much more useful category, although I suppose that’s what all the yearbook pictures are for.
Best Laugh: The best laugh is the kind that comes immediately after my jokes. The rest are sort of annoying, especially any laugh that is so loud and piercing as to render it distinctive.
Most Artistic: Sad to say, fine art was the red-headed stepchild at a school where music and athletics dominated the attention. “Artistic” is really a vague enough term that it could mean pretty much anything if you wanted it to, but this was usually a bone tossed to the kids who hung out in the art room after school trying to replicate MC Escher drawings.
Most Stressed: The only difference between “Most Stressed” and “Most Pessimistic” is that “Most Stressed” comes with physical manifestations like nervous twitching, cold sweats and chips of locker paint in one’s forehead. This honor typically went to students who would normally be candidates for “Most Likely to Succeed” but who were obviously going to have a nervous breakdown before they could graduate college.
Most Athletic: It’s sort of sad, now that I am a professional-sports junkie, that I can unironically consider and debate someone else’s athleticism. But back in high school I just absent-mindedly voted for the guy and girl who most frequently appeared in the local newspaper’s sports section and moved on to the next category.
Best Smile: The precursor to a future career in local television broadcasting, this award is also sort of dependent on (a) the circle of friends you dated or joked and hung around with and (b) how much a given person had to smile about. This title could theoretically be re-named “Best Life.”
Most Outspoken: In a modestly progressive suburban enclave like my hometown, any impetus for being truly “outspoken” is virtually nonexistent, and whatever opportunity there actually is for being so was rigidly structured and organized. I don’t remember anyone in my class agitating for political issues or social diversity or equal opportunity or anything, which is probably why the award went to two people who were simply obnoxious.
Most School Spirit: These are the people who paint their faces and show up at sporting events, so it seems natural that in 1995 the award went to a cheerleader and the football team’s second-string halfback. I’d love to know if they showed up at other school events like the spring musical or Community Arts Day.
Most Dramatic: Another token award, this one to the most visible representative of the music department’s hyperactive cousin, the drama department. In cases where there’s no standout star of the various drama productions, as in 1995, the award generally goes to the guy who maintains a charming and friendly offstage persona, rather than the guy who sulks and makes wisecracks in the corner.
Most Likely to Fall Asleep in Class: An amusing category, and generally wide-open. It could go to the guy who spent the previous late night partying, or the girl who spent the previous late night studying, or anyone in Mr. Powers AP History class.
Most Gentlemanly/Ladylike: Theoretically, this award would go to the boy and girl who embodied class, elegance, and good manners. Sort of a weird category for teenagers, but okay. Here’s the problem: the ballot said “Most Gentlemanly/Ladylike,” but the winners were printed in the yearbook under the title “Most Macho/Feminine.” Now, you could draw a pretty easy parallel between “Ladylike” and “Feminine,” but the difference between “Gentlemanly” and “Macho” is significant, not the least of which is the presence of sleeves.
I mention this specifically because I appeared as the runner-up in this category (as did my girlfriend), which was the first and last time I ever appeared within 50 yards of the word “macho.”
I was also runner-up in the category of “Most Dramatic,” coupled with a classmate whose total dramatic experience was painting backdrops in eighth grade.
So the superlative experience was a personal disappointment. I realize these prizes are even more meaningless and irrelevant now than they were 12 years ago, but that doesn’t stop me from wanting the words “best” or “most” on my private, internal resume.
It is my understanding that some high schools give individual superlatives to each member of the graduating class. It’s a nice idea. But it would have been impractical to do so with my graduating class of 475 students, and probably would have led to desperately stretched categories like “Best Nostrils,” “Least Litigious” or “Most Likely to Contract Genital Warts” (See “Best Smile.”)
- Walt Whitman
In a previous journal entry, I made reference to my high school’s Senior Class “superlatives” as denoted in the annual yearbook and selected via peer vote. I’m sure this still is a common ritual all over the country, even if it is now at least a little antiquated.
More than ever before, high school students are capable of harnessing multimedia to self-determine their public image outside of the formal social construct. For them, the notion of a social collective is itself flexible. So the notion of framing a literal popularity contest as civic duty is understandably tough to swallow for even your least cynical teenager.
That said, labeling other people never really goes out of style, even if they’re in on the joke. And everybody wants to be “most” or “best” something, right?
At my high school, there were 32 such superlatives, ranging from the typical to the bizarre, with the award going to one guy and one girl in each category. (Bear in mind: in my yearbook, the runners-up were listed as well.) They were:
Class Clowns: (previously discussed)
Best Car: I understand that certain crappy cars can have a lot of character, but this award always seemed like the “Most Money” award.
Class Couple: The only superlative in which we were to vote on a “ticket.” In 1995, the winners were the Homecoming King and Queen. The runners-up had broken up by the time the book had gone to press.
Class Babblers: Kind of a dumb category; I’m still not sure what it means. I probably voted for a few of my teachers.
Most Musical: Our school had a reputation (within certain circles, anyway) for having a good music program, so this was a significant if still geeky award.
Class Moochers: The photo accompanying this category shows the two winners playing tug-o-war with a dollar bill, which approximately fits the commonly held conception of “mooch.” But my trusty dictionary reveals the primary definition of “mooch” is “to wander aimlessly.” Had my peers known the word more accurately, this category would have been much more widely contested.
Best Hair: Finally, an interesting category. In 1995 the winners were a girl with long, stick-straight brown hair down to her waist and a guy possessing a mushroom cloud of tight blond curls. Even with my thick mane of dark brown locks, I never had a chance.
Most Likely to Succeed: Here’s one of your old stand-bys, a classic within the pantheon of superlatives. Coveted by outcast nerds and preppy achievers alike, the title confers to its owner the a promise of wealth and happiness. And yet, there is a strange passiveness about it. What “most likely to succeed” ostensibly means is “most intelligent,” but by couching this phrase in euphemism it ham-handedly attempts to predict the future. In so doing, it not only leaves a hint of doubt -- hedging its bet with the word “likely,” -- it also leaves the reader to his or her own interpretation of (a) what constitutes “success” and (b) the requisite skills to achieve it. M.L.S. is the long-stemmed rose of superlatives: proud and beautiful, but thorny and fleeting.
Best Eyes: This is where it starts to get more than a little subjective. The male winner in my senior year was a guy born with heterochromia. It was really the only thing anyone knew about him, which was sort of sad. I don’t remember much about the female winner; I can only speculate that her eyes were at least useful for keeping her brain from leaking out.
Class Leaders: Redundant, insofar as the elected class president and student class council already appear elsewhere in the yearbook.
Teachers’ Pets: Superlatives are supposed to represent one’s acknowledged qualities, aren’t they? Does it even count if you disagree with it? Should it even be in the lineup if it is, essentially, a giant insult? (Related question: is it better to be infamous or ignored entirely?) I only ask because I know the female recipient of this “honor” was none-too-pleased to be presented with it; I’m shocked that she even showed up for the photo.
Most Optimistic: I didn’t know anyone in high school who was optimistic. Everyone was complaining, crying or worrying about something. And if they weren’t, they weren’t looking closely enough at their complexion.
Most Changed Since Freshman Year: The winners of this category usually fit into one of two categories: The Ugly Duckling Who Blossomed (and was adopted in to the upper echelon of the social strata) and the Person Who Got Really Into Drugs (and gained/lost 50 pounds).
Most Soft-Spoken: A bit paradoxical, no? If we know someone’s there, are they really soft-spoken? And if there were anyone more soft-spoken than that person, would we notice them?
Most Memorable: Outrageously, infuriatingly subjective. Obviously, the people we remember most are our friends. Somewhat less, we remember the people we hated. Everyone else is about as memorable as last Thursday's lunch.
Class Flirts: Now this is a good category. Specific, sort of complimentary and vividly evocative. Not that the female winner or runner up ever flirted with me, but I still have to admit that they both managed to seem “easy” without being slutty.
Best Legs: Typically, but not necessarily, redundant with “Most Athletic,” Since athletes are the ones most often running around with their legs exposed. Even if I had been predisposed to showing off my beautiful calves, you could only really wear shorts maybe six weeks out of the year in Rochester, NY. Even the accompanying photo shows the winners both wearing jeans.
Most Friendly: See “Most Memorable.” Not that friendly people are necessarily memorable people, but the most friendly people do tend to be our friends. Otherwise, it’s a fairly innocuous category, if a bit high-minded for a collection of insecure, back-stabbing, inexplicably angry adolescents.
Most Puzzling: This is either a backhanded compliment or another euphemism for “Class Freak.” Another attempt to reach out to the underclass, perhaps? The recipients of this title do tend to be extremely artsy types and/or emotionally fragile.
Most Pessimistic: With all due respect to the 1995 selections, there is no way they were more deserving of this award than the dozens of meek, dorked-out virgins in our class who had to wonder if they were ever going to see a girl naked. (Remember, this was before sophisticated Web browsing.)
Best Dressed: Take one part “Most Money” and one part “Most Artistic,” and you have “Best Dressed.”
Class Cuties: If they want to know who is the most attractive, they should just make the award “Most Attractive” (or -- sigh -- “Class Hotties”). But instead the pollsters used a connotatively loaded word like “cuties,” which seems to zero in on students with a certain porcelain “kewpie doll” look. “Hotties” would have made it a much more useful category, although I suppose that’s what all the yearbook pictures are for.
Best Laugh: The best laugh is the kind that comes immediately after my jokes. The rest are sort of annoying, especially any laugh that is so loud and piercing as to render it distinctive.
Most Artistic: Sad to say, fine art was the red-headed stepchild at a school where music and athletics dominated the attention. “Artistic” is really a vague enough term that it could mean pretty much anything if you wanted it to, but this was usually a bone tossed to the kids who hung out in the art room after school trying to replicate MC Escher drawings.
Most Stressed: The only difference between “Most Stressed” and “Most Pessimistic” is that “Most Stressed” comes with physical manifestations like nervous twitching, cold sweats and chips of locker paint in one’s forehead. This honor typically went to students who would normally be candidates for “Most Likely to Succeed” but who were obviously going to have a nervous breakdown before they could graduate college.
Most Athletic: It’s sort of sad, now that I am a professional-sports junkie, that I can unironically consider and debate someone else’s athleticism. But back in high school I just absent-mindedly voted for the guy and girl who most frequently appeared in the local newspaper’s sports section and moved on to the next category.
Best Smile: The precursor to a future career in local television broadcasting, this award is also sort of dependent on (a) the circle of friends you dated or joked and hung around with and (b) how much a given person had to smile about. This title could theoretically be re-named “Best Life.”
Most Outspoken: In a modestly progressive suburban enclave like my hometown, any impetus for being truly “outspoken” is virtually nonexistent, and whatever opportunity there actually is for being so was rigidly structured and organized. I don’t remember anyone in my class agitating for political issues or social diversity or equal opportunity or anything, which is probably why the award went to two people who were simply obnoxious.
Most School Spirit: These are the people who paint their faces and show up at sporting events, so it seems natural that in 1995 the award went to a cheerleader and the football team’s second-string halfback. I’d love to know if they showed up at other school events like the spring musical or Community Arts Day.
Most Dramatic: Another token award, this one to the most visible representative of the music department’s hyperactive cousin, the drama department. In cases where there’s no standout star of the various drama productions, as in 1995, the award generally goes to the guy who maintains a charming and friendly offstage persona, rather than the guy who sulks and makes wisecracks in the corner.
Most Likely to Fall Asleep in Class: An amusing category, and generally wide-open. It could go to the guy who spent the previous late night partying, or the girl who spent the previous late night studying, or anyone in Mr. Powers AP History class.
Most Gentlemanly/Ladylike: Theoretically, this award would go to the boy and girl who embodied class, elegance, and good manners. Sort of a weird category for teenagers, but okay. Here’s the problem: the ballot said “Most Gentlemanly/Ladylike,” but the winners were printed in the yearbook under the title “Most Macho/Feminine.” Now, you could draw a pretty easy parallel between “Ladylike” and “Feminine,” but the difference between “Gentlemanly” and “Macho” is significant, not the least of which is the presence of sleeves.
I mention this specifically because I appeared as the runner-up in this category (as did my girlfriend), which was the first and last time I ever appeared within 50 yards of the word “macho.”
I was also runner-up in the category of “Most Dramatic,” coupled with a classmate whose total dramatic experience was painting backdrops in eighth grade.
So the superlative experience was a personal disappointment. I realize these prizes are even more meaningless and irrelevant now than they were 12 years ago, but that doesn’t stop me from wanting the words “best” or “most” on my private, internal resume.
It is my understanding that some high schools give individual superlatives to each member of the graduating class. It’s a nice idea. But it would have been impractical to do so with my graduating class of 475 students, and probably would have led to desperately stretched categories like “Best Nostrils,” “Least Litigious” or “Most Likely to Contract Genital Warts” (See “Best Smile.”)
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
Well played
Date: 2008-04-04 01:19 am (UTC)Re: Well played
Date: 2008-04-04 01:32 pm (UTC)1999?
Date: 2008-04-04 09:31 am (UTC)Re: 1999?
Date: 2008-04-04 01:24 pm (UTC)Corrected.
no subject
Date: 2008-04-04 02:59 pm (UTC)Never mind the fact that I didn't take any AP sciences.
no subject
Date: 2008-04-04 04:04 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2008-04-04 04:18 pm (UTC)The weird thing is, I barely studied, just pulled off straight As. The only thing I ever studied at all was like cramming for history or biology tests, subjects in which I usually found myself with little to no retention.
We didn't have a Most Likely to Succeed, but I think I would've gotten that, she said, arrogantly. And yeah, it would've been a slap in the face, kind of like when I told a friend I hadn't seen in years that I didn't plan on getting any education past my bachelor's, and he said, obviously hurt, "But... you were the one we all thought for certain was going to get a Ph.D.!"