Carnation Day

Back when I went to high school in the barbaric eighties, our school had a Valentine’s Day tradition. For weeks leading up to the big day, students could purchase carnations through the student council to give to other students. For a buck, you could buy a white, pink or red carnation and write out an accompanying note, which would then be passed out to it’s intended on the morning of the big day, during homeroom-- in front of everyone--, by a member of the student council.

White was for friendship; usually sent between friends. Pink meant, “I like you a real lot,” and was a favorite amongst the anonymous set. It was pretty exciting to see a pink carnation delivered because everyone knew that pink meant someone had a crush and that was a big deal; unless everyone knew who the girl or guy was going out with in which case it was a big fat yawn. But, red. Woah. Red meant love and that was something else entirely. Friendship and like-a-lot I could wrap my head around but love was far beyond my comprehension. And its bedfellow, lust, was worlds away. I gathered it was some vague intention perpetrated between the really pretty junior and senior girls with thick eyelashes and shiny hair, and the burley, athletic guys with said same.

As a freshman girl, the notion that I might receive a pink carnation was exciting; a red one was unfathomable. My girlfriends and I logged hours on the phone the days leading up to the 14th, hypothesizing about who might have a crush on who and why. The morning of Valentine’s Day I was on pins and needles. I had purchased three white carnations for my girlfriends and they had promised to buy one back for me, so I knew I was assured at least that much. But nothing prepared me for the feeling of anxiety that washed over me when the two student council reps walked into our classroom holding an armful of carnations, some of them pink and red. There were only 24 students in our homeroom; who could be getting them all?

Not me, that much I knew. But tell that to the rising tide of hope and desire that was making my ears hot. I sat in the second row, watching and waiting as the flowers were passed out; envy reigned supreme. I smiled as I read the inside jokes that accompanied the white carnations from my girlfriends. Then I watched with big eyes and pounding heart as a pink carnation was held out towards me. I took it and whispered thank-you then flushed. Too self-conscious to look at anyone, I unfolded the slip of paper and read the unfamiliar scrawl. It read, “I really like your personality. From, Anonymous.” Ohmygod. Ohmygod.

I spent the rest of the day in a trance. As the popular older girls glided by me between classes laden with armloads of pink and red carnations, I nodded; simpatico.