It's Been A While

Last year an acquaintance of mine reminded me that our 50th high school reunion would be this year, and suggested that we go. I met Bill in grade school, although not sure which grade. Suffice it to say that I have known him longer than anyone else in my life, excepting my own parents. Bill and I were in cub scouts together, my mom being the den mother. We were the best of friends until 6th grade when my parents moved us from Fayette Street to the suburbs. 

As fate would have it, just two years later we were both enrolled at LaSalle College High School, eventually graduating as bicentennial graduates in 1976. To be honest, we did not renew the friendship we had in grade school, not finding ourselves in even one class together. We had gone our own ways, as they say, both developing new friendships. And, once high school ended, we did not stay in touch. In fact, I am a bit fuzzy on when we began contacting each other again. Perhaps when my father passed, as I remember him sending me condolences. 

Since then, just over 13 years, while not getting together in person, Bill and I shared Christmas greetings, emails, and the occasional comment from him on one of my posts. As it turned out, we did not agree on many of the topics of the day, but we were able to discuss them with civility.

So, again, after his suggestion that we go to the reunion, and actually be in each other's presence for the first time in 45 plus years, I agreed, although tentatively.

My high school experience was not a highlight of my life. By junior year my teenage rebellion was beginning to emerge, blooming fully by senior year. The teachers at LaSalle did not encourage my talents, often seeming to desire to squash them, particularly when it came to creative writing. I had friends at school, but less so outside of the school grounds. Upon reflection, of course, it was mostly my fault that I did not thrive there, but at the time, all I could think of was ending my career there. Graduation day was, and is not memorable as I recall nothing about it.

Which is why I was tentative to attend the reunion. Plus, my experience at the one I did attend, the fifth year, ended with a physical threat by a classmate over a perceived slight that had occurred while in school, a slight that I didn't even recall as it was something he said someone told him, not something that occurred face to face.

This doesn't mean that I haven't thought about the guys I met there, hadn't occasionally googled a name when a name popped into my head. In fact, even as recently as a few years ago, I have dreamed about high school, sometimes struggling with a locker combo, or forgetting my schedule. Ok, yea, mostly uncomfortable dreams. Clearly an indication that I had some latent issues to resolve, even all these years later.

But, Bill was consistent in reminding me about the upcoming reunion, and, after receiving the schedule, events spread out over three days, I decided to attend pieces of the reunion on two of the days. Tuesday featured a tour of the school (completely different) and a mass, then a social afterwards, then last night a dinner at a country club in the area of the school.

Back then, 1972-1976, class sizes in public and parochial high schools where I lived were three, four hundred, some even bigger. At LaSalle we had less than 200. Some might say the cream of the crop, although I am sure those loyal to St Joe's Prep might disagree.

I happened to be a scholarship kid, that partial financial assistance being the only reason my parents could consider sending me there. As it turned out, being a big fish in the small pond of my elementary school did not prepare me for actual work to keep up with the smartest kids I would ever go to school with. It wasn't that I couldn't match their intellectual prowess, or come close, it was more that I didn't know how to do the work, and by junior and senior year, didn't want to do it.

A perfect example was a Psychology class, senior year I believe. Now, I did very well in these type of classes, perhaps could have been an effective psychologist or psychiatrist had I possessed the proper motivation and ambition. For this particular class, the syllabus was very clear in that the majority of the grade would come from the various tests, the midterm, the final, and 10% for an end of year paper. 

As the end of the year approached, I had a solid A average and determined that I could get a B even without the 10% for the paper. I don't recall the exact conversations I had with the teacher, but it was made clear to me that the paper must be done. I refused, and received a D for the class, even though the math for a B was on my side. While I can assume that this was supposed to be a lesson in work ethic, in trying to do your best, in seeing things through, perhaps even in doing things you don't want to do because that's what adults do, I perceived it as a power play by a teacher who couldn't stand the thought that someone would calculate that a B was good enough after doing A work all year. And I perceived it as just another example of those in power, changing the rules, just because they could.

I know, immaturity, right?

Another bit more insidious reason for not attending, was that I might have to face the fact that I was just not "present" all that much in those four years, even invisible in some respects. Which meant that I might not be recognized or remembered if I were to show up now and who needs that kind of confidence smasher.

Believe it or not, Facebook helped me a little bit at this point. I had begun to search for the names of those who might remember me once I started leaning towards attending, wondering if I would have anything in common with them now. As it turned out, I reconnected, albeit loosely with a few, and armed with the knowledge that Bill and I could catch up, at the least, I was actually looking forward, well, was less filled with trepidation, as the day approached.

I was hoping I would not feel like an interloper, as opposed to a classmate, that I would get at least, the same amount of "Hey Joe, it's been a while, but I remember you", as blank stares of total non recognition.

Perhaps at this point you are thinking that it must have been a positive experience, or else I wouldn't be writing about it. Perhaps then, you don't know me as well as you think, if you believe I wouldn't tell a story of disappointment, considering my expressions of hopelessness with the state of affairs in America today.

But, yes, as it turned out I had a wonderful experience, perhaps even a bit uplifting. Don't get me wrong, I still think we are up to our necks in sh**, as a country, and a few nights of feel good reminiscing will do little to change the trajectory.

Whether some of the greetings I received were just men who preferred to pretend to remember me (which in itself is a good sign of fellowship) as opposed to actually remembering me in a class or from a good conversation, doesn't really matter. For just those two nights anyway, a group of 50 or 60 men from a variety of upbringings who had lived a myriad of experiences in the last half a century (yikes), were able to come together and have a fu**ing good time. No fighting or arguing or remembering past slights. Just a bunch of guys glad to be on this side of the ground, able to remember, at least for a night or two, their young lives when anything was possible, when the world was their oyster, as they say. Even the fact that I hate oysters did not matter!

And, full disclosure, I had longer conversations in those two days with many of the guys than I had in four years in high school, a sentiment which I heard repeated a bunch of times by other attendees. 

As I was driving home, I imagined that it would have been good if I had been able to put into words what I was feeling. If I had been able to say to everyone that despite our differences, and I am sure that the gamut of political and social perspective was present in those rooms, we shared a common experience, and that even though that common experience was for only four years (4 out of 68 being less than 6%) of our lives, it was powerful enough to create the tremendous environment of good will that we experienced.

The power of common experience.

In these days of extreme partisanship, in these times when what separates and divides us seems to drive every single conversation, it would certainly be helpful if we could concentrate on what we have in common as opposed to what drives wedges. 

The power of common experience could be just the force that counters the tribalism that pervades our communities, our state, our country, our world. After all, we all share the label Earthlings.