Student Outlook -- Matt Meredith

Newport Harbor just had its annual Winter Formal dance and, as always,

it was a colossal success. Tall or short, freshman or senior, cheerleader

or non-cheerleader, every guy was decked out in his bow tie and

cummerbund just as every girl was sporting her new, one-time-wear $600

dress. Knott’s Berry Farm, the site of the dance, provided drinks,

dancing and good times for all. But for many of the high school’s

students, Winter Formal didn’t start until about 1 a.m.

As is the case year after year, a large percentage of high school

students look at formal dances as a precursor to the infamous “after

party.” When the tuxes and high heels are shed, weary students crowd into

small houses to drink until sunrise. Vagrants and valedictorians alike

stand hand in hand in this pseudo-adult party setting to laugh, drink and

be merry.

By senior year, the “after party” becomes a staple of high school

life. People talk more about post-formal plans during the dance than they

talk about the dance itself.

First period on the following Monday is teeming with eager

storytellers, boasting of tequila shots and 17-hour naps followed by

gruesome hangovers. Rarely does anyone speak of any trouble experienced

with law enforcement. Even more rarely does anyone speak of the dangers

of illegal alcohol use among minors. By second period, many students who

did not engage in this ritual are left wondering, “Where was my Jack

Daniel’s on formal night?”

Here is real peer pressure. This isn’t that after-school special,

“Come on Timmy, everybody does it” nonsense -- this is the real thing.

Teens look around, hear their respectable friends telling great

stories of all the fun they had and start to think that maybe drinking

isn’t so bad -- if it’s just for special occasions. After all, no one had

a bad night, no one got caught and no one was killed -- that night. Next

formal, these kids go to the parties and boast of their escapades, and

the never-ending cycle continues.

This is the kind of peer pressure that DARE didn’t prepare us for.

Drug Abuse Resistance Education officers told us impressionable

fourth-graders that we would always know the right answer. When someone

asked us to do drugs, the challenge wasn’t deciding whether or not to do

those drugs, it was deciding how to say no. “Just say you’re not into

that kind of thing,” they told us. “Just say you don’t feel like it,”

they told us. “Just say no.”

Not one DARE officer ever told me how to nervously smile, helplessly

shrug and make up some lame excuse as to why I have to leave all of my

friends because we just arrived at a party with beer.

DARE officers also told us impressionable fourth-graders that we were

members of the so-called silent majority. This meant that although none

of us had the courage to speak out, we were strong in number. This was

supposed to give us solace. When we would be sitting alone at home on a

Saturday night, we would know about all the other kids sitting alone at

home.

No DARE officer ever told me that the “verbal minority” would consist

of 90% of the people I speak to.

We can throw all the tricks out the window. As great as it looks on

TV, no spiky-haired dude in a Violent Femmes jacket is ever going to walk

up to you and say, “Hey, bro, want a beer? You’ll be cool if you drink

it,” just so you can smugly shake your head and saunter off with your 20

friends in tie-dyed shirts.

In truth, the resistance to do drugs comes completely from within.

Whether this inner confidence comes from good parenting, a naturally

higher level of maturity or an unexplained inherent moral scruple is a

mystery. So what is the answer? Is there any one thing that DARE, our

friends or our families can teach us that will prevent these casual

drinking escapades? Probably not.

But high school is a time of learning, after all, so maybe with the

constant support of these people, we can all come to the realization of

what this kind of drug use actually is: at best a desperate and somewhat

pathetic form of escapism, and at worst a self-issued death sentence.

* MATT MEREDITH is a senior at Newport Harbor High School where he is

an editor at the Beacon. His columns will appear on an occasional basis

in the Community Forum section.