Violence shouldn't ruin teens' best years

One year at the venerable North Florida Fair in Tallahassee, the fellas and I made a pact: Each of us would ask a girl for her phone number.

In an age of Facebook and cellphones and texting, this may not seem like a big deal. But in 1980, girls didn't give out their numbers to just any knucklehead. So it took some courage to ask for "their digits."

Of the four of us, three succeeded. The fourth, a nice guy who shall remain nameless, waited all night to pull the trigger and just couldn't muster the moxie. When he finally did, the girl shook her head and walked off.

Embarrassed, he ran in the other direction past the corn dog stand and jumped into a pile of hay.

We laughed long and hard that night.

But he didn't get angry because she said no.

Rec center and school dances often drew our attention. Back then, girls stood and waited for guys to ask them to dance, and the fellas always kept track of the yeas and nays. Going 6-for-8 or 10-for-14 constituted a good night. Once, my friend asked 15 girls to dance and not one said no. I think it's a record.

But one night, every girl I asked said no. Each rejection weakened my confidence, and you needed confidence to convince a girl to step out on the floor. Body language and demeanor always proved to be huge factors, but on this particular night I had neither. I guess my biorhythms were off.

I went home dejected, looked in the mirror and — because it couldn't have been me — blamed my failure on the polyester, big-collared shirt I wore to the dance. So I threw it in the trash, even though the shirt belonged to my brother.

But I never got mad at the girls.

In 1981, my father bought a Chrysler Newport. My mother saw it as a gas guzzler — she worried because gas had ballooned to $1.25 a gallon — but I loved that car because it had a bench seat. My girlfriend would slide over and put her head on my shoulder and I styled around driving with one hand.

We went to the movies and concerts, and I always treated her to Wendy's — instead of McDonald's — because she was special.

I never tried to control her, or demean her.

I fondly recall all the memories from my teen dating years. I cherish the highs and laugh at the lows with no hint of bitterness. They helped shape the man I've become.

And then I wonder: How in the world did February end up being National Teen Dating Violence Month?

Officials at the Spring of Tampa Bay, Hillsborough County's only certified domestic violence emergency shelter, have seen an increase in teenagers dealing with abusive and potentially dangerous dating partners.

Somehow, romance's most innocent years have been tainted by the stain of domestic violence. Jealousy now permeates young love, cellphones are tracking devices, verbal assaults are more common and physical attacks no longer surprise. It's real and it's serious.

The Spring launched the "I Own Me" campaign to educate teens about the warning signs of teen dating abuse and the need for healthy boundaries in relationships. On its Facebook page, you can find powerful messages.

To those, I simply add this: Don't ruin what should be halcyon days. You get only one chance to create memories that can last a lifetime. Fill them with joy and innocence instead of pain and hurt.

That's all I'm saying.