Reminiscence: My 30th Class Reunion

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1

Once, after I had lived away from home for several years, I visited my parents in early June. While I was at home, my Dad and I went to a bank or the post office; a young woman came up to me and spoke to me as though we were old friends. As we chatted, I realized she was a girl whom I had known in high school – and liked – but who had never been a close friend. “Betty” asked, “Are you in town for our tenth Reunion tomorrow?”

Frankly, I would have timed my visit to avoid coinciding with the Reunion if I had paid any attention at all to the materials I must have been sent. I said sadly that, Alas no, I was only in town for a day or two and would be leaving in the morning. As we left I apologized to my father for lying, since he knew that in fact I would be there for several more days, and as I explained to him that I had not wanted to hurt “Betty’s” feelings, I began to realize just how much I really (I mean, really) did not want to see my high school colleagues again. The idea gave me an unpleasant feeling in the pit of my stomach.

Was I embarrassed for some reason, or did I think I was somehow better than they? No, I think instead that perhaps they were part of “the old me” I had been in stressful times (socially speaking), and I didn’t want to think of myself that way again. Come to think of it, the new identity I thought I had fabricated by then must have still seemed vulnerable if I feared the old identity would overtake me again just by associating with a lot of my old acquaintances.

2

Anyway, it was quite surprising to find, twenty years later, that when I received information about our 30th Reunion I kind of wanted to go. I had rediscovered only one old high school friend living near me in that time, but when he told me that he was going, I said I would too.

Just before I got on the plane, my wife said: “Oh, ‘Byron,’ don’t wear your glasses. If you wear your glasses, no one will recognize you.”

I pointed out that if I didn’t wear my glasses, I wouldn’t recognize any of them!

So I wore my glasses that first night to the pre-Reunion party. No one said anything about my glasses. Most of them said the same thing:
“Well ‘Byron,’ you still have all your hair!”

3

Our high school by this point in time had been replaced by a much larger and more modern building in a much different location; it was surrounded by parking lots. The old buildings in town still stood, however, though they had now become a community college. The next morning the Reunion planners had put together a little reception at the old school. A few of the old teachers came, including my favorite English teacher, Dr. “Ross.” I did enjoy seeing him again, looking remarkably unchanged although he had by then been retired for a number of years. I felt so comfortable chatting with him I told him my most memorable experience in another teacher’s English class at an earlier grade level.

Mrs. “Grable” had assigned for homework one day a short story about a barber in a European city who used to love his work; he would sing while cutting hair, and he played the violin from time to time for the amusement of all. Then the city had been bombed, and the barber had been trapped underground, in utter darkness, with a substantial crowd who had taken shelter together. He sang to them and told funny stories about various townspeople, keeping their spirits up until they were finally rescued.

As light began to dispel the blackness, they were horrified to discover that this barber who had kept them all from despair had himself been buried, his hands and arms completely crushed under the rubble!

This exciting story had been told as “Three Times I saw Giuseppe” (or whatever the barber’s name was). Mrs. “Grable’s” assignment was to write a story of our own telling of the fourth time “I” saw Giuseppe.

The next day, as we turned in our papers, some students told of their narratives of Giuseppe’s having become a successful music teacher, or the next mayor, or something else wonderful. Then the next day after that, Mrs. “Grable,” visibly upset, told us she was going to read us one of our papers; afterward, we were to tell her if the paper should receive an A or an F. I just knew this was my paper, and I was right.

In my little story, Giuseppe had been fitted with prosthetic hands but had lost his mind, and all day, every day, he would move from side to side behind an empty old chair, singing loudly the same songs over and over while pretending to cut someone’s hair since he could not manage the shears themselves anymore.

I concluded that he had lost his mind because “he had nothing left to live for!”

Of course, the other kids loved it. “A, they said; it should get an A!” But I suspected they all knew, as I did, that it would get an F (my first ever). But why?

Mrs. “Grable” handed back the papers as class ended. On mine, next to the F, there was only one comment: “Why can’t you conform to the English Department’s way of doing things?” I rewrote the last page of my paper that night, revising the last sentence to: “He realized he had nothing left for which to live.” She raised the grade to a D.

I had told that story to others before. Most people laughed. Dr. “Ross” didn’t say anything negative; in fact, he said nothing at all.

4

That morning too I had a good chat with a guy with whom I had gone all the way through elementary school, junior high, and high school (the ghost of Mrs. “Grable” should be happy). “Al” and I had been real buddies in elementary school, but had drifted apart in junior high and high school. He had become a major sports star, both in football and in basketball (in which we had won the state championship one year). I had been involved in other things. But it was really good to reconnect with him; he had become a doctor, like his dad, and lived in the nearby city where he had attended med school.

But the most fun came after that morning reception with the teachers. Several of us who had been in the drama club together gravitated toward one another and spent hours laughing and talking. It was a little odd that one man, whom we had hardly known, hung around with us and participated in our chatter. A little odd perhaps, but great, as it turned out.

5

The big banquet that second night was all it should have been, I suppose, but it seemed anti-climactic. Anyway, the whole experience was good.

I didn’t go back to the 40th Reunion. I don’t remember why or even if I wanted to at all. I think I will go to the 50th. After all, I still have all my hair.


NOTE added in June 2010:

The 50th reunion was also great, enhanced this time by the attendance of my wife. If the theme for me of the 30th was "Why 'Byron,' you still have all your hair," the theme of the 50th for me was "Why 'Byron,' you look just like your Dad"!

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