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I don’t know very many people who would say that they love Lexington. It’s simply not a phrase I hear often. In this enlightened modern era, love has been analyzed to the inch—until it has become the cheesy, meaningless word that “I looove your new shoes! Where did you get them?” demonstrates so well. But as I have no intention of being facetious (time enough for that later), I mean “love” honestly. It is the rare occasion that I venture out of Lexington. I daresay I patter into Burlington every now and then to partake of the glory that is the Burlington Mall. Or, to see a movie. But for the most part, I remain in this doddering, rather traditional, slightly backward town. And though I hear much pettishness, they don’t seem unnatural to my ear. I often disagree with the dissatisfaction of others: “No, no, no… I HATE the GAP. I’m glad it went out of business.” [Disclaimer: “Hate” would be yet another trivialized word. I do not wish the GAP to die; I have no genuine enmity against it.] But with alarming frequency, my quarrels with this town are as peevishly hollow as the rest… There aren’t any fast food restaurants, any glittering, cosmopolitan boutiques. Lexington, has trees and houses. Very expensive houses. The one next to mine is a hulking cheap-plastic million-dollar chateau that nearly disgorges its flimsy construction onto the street. It’s much too large for its plot; it looks like the hippo from Fantasia dancing on pink ballet slippers. Yet, why exactly can’t four people inhabit a house built for fifteen? I’ll grant you that it’s a waste of resources, but the very same people who vociferate Clinton’s amorous liaisons as “private life” will criticize the overlarge, under-peopled houses of Lexington. What you do with your money is not my business. Everyone in this town drives far too fast (with the exception of Allison Burson). Since I tend to walk home from school, I resent entirely these drivers. One would think that you could reach your destination without fumigating a poor itinerant pedestrian with road dust. But, at least, I can walk without fear of being molested… or worse. And the school, my god! I crumble into massive power-slumber on the weekends. I blame my education. I have a skewed understanding of what “achievement” is, as do most LHS students I know. I am not at all impressed by a 4.00 GPA. What is that, but frippery? Surrounded by tireless virtuosos: music, art, drama, math, science, debate, sports, clubs, SATs, APs, colleges, social life, friends, family, teachers, money… I wail piteously and cling to my dusty tomes of forgotten authors and pretend that nothing else matters. WHY is it all so very complicated? I blame my education. I take five honors courses, but I couldn’t do otherwise, I whisper weakly. So what if my one level one course is equally (if not more) gratifying as the others; I couldn’t do otherwise. Again, I blame my education. This, of course, is the whiny, shallow rant of a privileged, competent student from middle suburbia who really should be grateful for the excellent education that she is receiving. I know it. I hope you do, too. Plenty of times, I’ve heard the complaint that Lexington is boring—devoid of fun and excitement. Well, I’ll be damned, but thank goodness for that. I have enough trouble keeping my head on straight simply going to this school. Thank you, Lexington, for being a quiet, uneventful, peaceful sort of place. So you clutch tightly to reins of free living, though you allow all sorts of monetary excess. Peace of mind = minimal stress = all things great and wonderful. I can live with that. Have you ever really looked outside? Outside of Lexington, I mean. You don’t even have to have lived elsewhere… just walk into the heart of Waltham one of these days. It’s filthy. As a matter of fact, that holds true for the vast majority of suburbs. They’re mangy, rushed, slapdash. Lexington is clean. It’s a slow place, but it’s clean. Crime is minimal; trees are everywhere; there isn’t refuse to be found. So what if it’s more than a little pretentious… It’s still a nice place to live. Even other quaint, orderly towns like Bedford have indecent strip malls and low-class commercial complexes. Lexington has none, or at least, very little, of those. Once I stem off my raging discontentment (after all, I am so very, very oppressed), it occurs to me that Lexington is a blessing. A haven, even. It’s secure, fosters the sprawl of my young, easily impressionable mind, and provides an ample supply of breathable oxygen. You needn’t love Lexington with a violent passion. But at least grasp what this immoderately over-wordy article is about: You’ve got it made. It’s a little surreal, because the clean-cut, perfectionist Lexington represents nothing of real America, but rather what America dreams of being. The real America has troubles. It’s riddled with slums, demographic dichotomies, and the false vacant hole that is its culture and internal politics. The real America needs to worry about unemployment and the quality of its public education. Face it; we should stop berating Lexington for its simulated snobbery and for the heavy academic burden it places on our lives. The fact remains; this ideal fancy is something that we are damned lucky to be living in. *William Wordsworth, “To the Cuckoo”. |
« Last modified: March 18, 2002 » |