Summary

A 40-something woman reflects on her teenage years in the 90s, reminiscing about the carefree days of smoking clove cigarettes, the evolution of her personal values, and the complexities of love and growth.

Abstract

The author, on the cusp of turning 42 in the midst of a global pandemic, recalls her youth in the 1990s with a mix of nostalgia and insight into how her experiences have shaped her current self. She recounts the sensory memories of smoking clove cigarettes, the innocence and recklessness of teenage adventures, and the formative moments that led to her understanding of love and responsibility. The narrative weaves through her past, touching on the transformative power of music, the impact of a conservative work environment, and the poignant memories of first loves and friendships. The essay concludes with the author acknowledging her growth, having quit smoking and embracing empathy, while still cherishing the bittersweet memories of her younger years.

Opinions

The author views her past smoking habit as a symbol of youthful rebellion and identity exploration, despite acknowledging the health risks.
She expresses a sense of guilt over past misdeeds, such as a hit-and-run incident, but also recognizes her personal growth and change.
The author holds a nostalgic view of the 90s, characterized by specific scents, music, and the sense of possibility that pervaded her teenage years.
She critiques the sexist dress code expectations in her former workplace and implies that such attitudes are outdated and inappropriate.
The author values the depth of human connection, as seen in her reflections on love and the poignancy of first loves, despite their complexity and occasional heartbreak.
She seems to appreciate the simple pleasures and rituals of the past, such as developing film from a camera, which contrasts with the instant gratification of modern technology.
The author suggests that life's experiences, both positive and negative, contribute to one's character and ongoing personal development.

On Love and Being a Clove-Smoking Teen of the 90s*

*smoking is bad for your health

The scent of a clove cigarette wafts up my nostrils. I’m perched on my bed, in this 5th month of a global pandemic: coronavirus.

It’s 2020. I turn 42 next Thursday.

The floral scent of orange and cinnamon permeates the air. From nowhere. From living memories. I glance at the window, curtains drawn shut at 3 in the afternoon. Olfactory nerves still working. Gratitude that I probably don’t have COVID-19. Yet.

The scent is from the 90s. Carefree high school days. Cruising on Highway 9, I-35, up and down Lindsay Street. I dinged into an elderly couple’s bumper in my station wagon and drove on. A hit and run at the urging of my friend. Overlapping guilt and innocence.

Now, I watch Dead to Me in my bedroom on my iPhone, thankful it was just a bumper, a stunned elderly couple, not a person walking in the night. Not too much harm done.

Now, I’m the woman who leaves notes on the windshield when my child accidentally dings your paint with her door.

The Sunshine Store didn’t ID for cigarettes. I paid for swisher sweets and cloves and felt like a 17-year-old badass. Shaved head, shy prowess; a cat on the prowl, aloof, lonely, wandering, wondering.

Life ahead and opening.

I turn 42 next Thursday. Life, still ahead and opening. I quit smoking in 2006, on my 28th birthday.

In the 90s, I’d walk with my friends, all girls, around campus corner, past The Lovelight (poetry readings every Thursday), La Baguette (authentic French Café food), and Sugar’s (a strip club where a boyfriend would later take me). We’d walk and walk, underage, so no bars for us.

A haggard woman smoked a cigarette; we knew she was a prostitute. We saw her soliciting a haggard drunk man. Heartbreak is an old haggard woman. I felt sad and scared. How unfair that life could take anyone down that path.

Dervish and tumbleweeds. 17-year-olds. I didn’t drink. I didn’t smoke weed. I wore red lipstick & smoked swisher sweets and cloves, feeling intriguing. A whole new world, cracking open geodes, was opening up in front of me.

Purple crystals hidden inside grey, a listless rock. Listless teenagers. Setting hammers to growing up. Cracking open.

Sometimes, at home, I’d smoke Camels and wander down our dead-end street. My mom didn’t know I was smoking. The deserted hotel wasn’t deserted. We didn’t know then what we know now — there was a drug ring, probably prostitution.

In 2020, the hotel is remodeled. People book there regularly, unaware of its history.

I wandered by a window, tried to peek in at the commotion, and an old bed was quickly thrown up against the window. Scared, heart fluttering in the knowledge that something was wrong, I slipped away. Made myself into a ghost.

Walked away. Fear pervasive. Curiosity inviting. Life ahead. Inhaled the smoke, the worry, exhaled the sadness, lack of control.

Sometimes dance parties would erupt at The Lovelight. We’d sway and bump, enchanted and awkward, breaking for air and a puff of those orangey-clove scented cigarettes. It was the 90s.

I went to college, to a fishbowl job as a temp at the university. Our boss told women to wear high heels and hose. In response, I played Psycho Killer by the Talking Heads — scared the old geezer as much as I could. Took smoke breaks to get away, inhale the scent of cloves and oranges.

Deena was older, probably my age now. Mike was in his 30s, maybe. We all liked each other. When the boss was away, we’d play. I danced on file cabinets. Somewhere there’s a picture of Mike with a lampshade on his head perched on a file cabinet. We took pictures with cameras in the 90s. Went to the drugstore to have the film developed.

At the holidays, Mike stuffed airplane whiskey in miniature holiday stockings. Irish creme whiskey.

I filed a report against the boss who told the women to wear heels and hose and sat at his desk leering at us.

The temp office gave me a new assignment. I missed my coworkers.

Love. I desperately wanted romantic love. I had braces & felt ugly. I was 18, then 19, then 20.

At 20, I found my first love, but that’s another story. French music, driving through the fog, airforce longing, letters, and belonging. And, a quick retraction from a bar proposal. First loves are strange.

Gabe impromptu-proposed while Brandi, You’re a Fine Girl was playing on the jukebox. I can hardly hear that song anymore. Playing it now, tears well up. Hearts can break even when staying in love was not meant to be.

Or, maybe, my first love was when I was 4, with my next-door neighbor, or 7, with my first-grade crush. But, I think it was when I was 20. Difficult to digest. It’s a love not fully processed.

Around Christmas, as a child, I’d poke cloves into the thick skins of oranges. In childhood, growing a thick skin.

Next Thursday, I turn 42. I quit smoking 14 years ago. The remembered scent of clove cigarettes takes me twisting and turning, yearning, back in time, to the 90s.

Thank you for reading! Here’s a complete list of my memoir stories.

Aimée Brown Gramblin is the founder of Age of Empathy. She became a memoirist in her younger years and is writing them out now in middle age. A regular contributor to The Memoirist, Aimée is a late-blooming pop-culture enthusiast; she’s a contributor to FanFare and The Riff. With a minor in art history, she occasionally publishes art-centric nonfiction.

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