I recently attended my 60th high school reunion, a gathering of seventy-eight year olds, some of whom I’ve known since kindergarten.
I’ve attended every reunion, roughly every ten years; in this way, although briefly and in snatches, I’ve accumulated a series of mental snapshots of aging, and all that accompanies it. And although my classmates are scattered across America, these gatherings are also a chance, also briefly, to enjoy the rekindling of affection.
It’s remarkable that despite the passage of time and once-a-decade short moments together, affection endures. The girls I knew – once cackling, spirited, energetic and boisterous kids – are old women now, gray, halting, in some cases fragile, and yet in many ways unchanged. The high-spirited, the effervescent cheerleader types, are still perky. The quieter and shyer are still quiet, but I can sense acquired wisdom and insight behind their eyes.
The boys – the reckless, daring, wild ones they were – have become thin, bent, bald and wizened, but the brash among them remain brash, the nerdy are nerdy still. I can close my eyes and see them as they were, and in a blink they are transformed.
We’ve all made it this far, reason enough to feel affection. Beyond that, though, there are girls for whom I had a crush, ones I pined about in moody loneliness and great desire unrequited. And there are others, the jocks and solid straight-A students who stimulated my shame at not measuring up because I spent time doodling and drawing instead of studying and doing homework. No blame; each of us had to navigate a course through school in whatever ways we could.
Twenty-five percent of us didn’t survive to seventy eight, and the list is growing. For those of us still here, it’s with the knowledge that this is our last reunion. It’s one thing to gather together now, but something altogether different at eighty-eight. So it goes. A slideshow of the dead silenced the room; some died young and others more recently. Before too long we’ll all be added to the list.
At long last I warmly hugged some women I longed to hug when we were thirteen, but didn’t or couldn’t. Finally. It feels oddly satisfying to close those lingering loops of affection.
An openness seems to have emerged with old age, perhaps because keeping secrets any longer feels too burdensome. Whatever the cause, it’s sobering to hear the tales of childhood sexual abuse, neglect, and household horror of which I was completely unaware. Given the affection I feel for those I’ve known for so long, it brought me to tears, but then again, I’ve turned into a big crybaby.
Asked why it is some people did not attend, I suggested “shame.” For many, high school was suffused with the pathology of shame, and its sticky residue can last a lifetime. There are those who felt they did not measure up, who could not cope with the pressure, be popular, excel in sports, or even feel like they were visible. Add to that the horrors of the home – the rapes, the alcoholism, the suicides – and it’s understandable that some people are reluctant to reengage and stimulate any or all of those feelings of the past.
In my case, gratefully, I felt healed, loved, and loving in return.
