When I was growing up, I lived on the street where the floats lined up before the start of the parade. I always got up early to go check them all out, trying to guess which class would win for best float. I loved it every year, so of course that also meant that I took it for granted. In the 60s and 70s, my hometown was a mill town with several industries. It wasn't huge but it was considered a city in rural New Hampshire. There were paper and flock companies, a foundry, all places that were big employers. We had a lively downtown, main street culture. Then it changed. Factories began closing, and businesses left town. By the late 80s, what had been a thriving community fell on its knees. I had moved out of state for college but each time I went back, I saw rapid changes.
But back to reunions. When I talk about our this, people are usually amazed, to put it mildly. Actually, what I usually see is a mixture of disbelief and dread. First, there is disbelief that any school or town is so *obsessed* with this tradition and then the deeper, gut-level reaction comes. I see a kind of twitchy, anxious look on their faces, which means they are imagining how it would feel to go back and voluntarily spend time with the kids they went to school with.
And I am the first person to say: I get it.
If you are thinking that because my hometown had charming -- and yes, they ARE charming -- annual rituals that this somehow protected us from the crap that being a teenager anywhere, any time brings, then you are dead wrong. BELIEVE me when I tell you that for me, for lots of us, the teenaged, high school years were a special kind of hell. Was I bullied? Absolutely. Was I an "in kid", part of a clique? No. Everyone has their own version of this but mine was along the lines of: awkward, overweight, unmotivated teen who liked to write stories and sing but that was about it. So my grades weren't stellar and for reasons I won't belabor, I wasn't being pushed to try harder. And I didn't.
The first reunion for my class was the five-year in 1983. I didn't go. Though I had managed to get myself into a state school and graduate, I didn't feel like I could go back because I hadn't done anything. In 1988, it was our ten-year mark. That year, I had just gotten a graduate degree in creative writing and I had lost a lot of weight. So that year, I went. I went but it was ONLY because I thought that what I had done had made me "good enough" to go. Think about this for a minute.
I went to the gathering, having had a stiff Scotch before I even left the house, but I didn't stay for very long. At one point, they gave out awards, like: who had come the greatest distance to get there, who had the most kids, etc. I found myself being given the award for being the "most educated" in our class that night, but only because my master's degree was an MFA, a three-year degree, and the others there with a Masters had earned an MA, a two-year degree. It was the perfect irony.
And after that, I just...couldn't get myself to go back. Our 20th, 25th, 30th, 35th... The reunions came and went and though I knew each time, an eager group was building floats and getting together at night, I couldn't do it. Even after Facebook appeared, which showed it to me, I still felt like since. I wasn't a jock, an honors student, a cool kid -- I wasn't *anything* -- I didn't belong.
In 2017, the parade theme for 2018 was announced: Broadway. It seemed like a great theme and knowing already that our class has a amazing amount of talent and creativity, I guessed that this would absolutely fire them up. I also decided one year ago that I was going to go; I called and made a room reservation right then. Because 2017 also had brought me my own personal challenges, I had already been rethinking how I saw myself in relationship to everyone. Revisiting my feelings about high school became a natural part of the process.
So, cut to the chase: Alumni Day 2018. Did I go? I did. Was it good? EVEN BETTER than I was hoping.
I got up on Friday and as I was driving into the truck yard where the group was gathering to finish up our float, for one second I thought: WHAT the hell am I doing? These people don't know me. What if no one talks to me? Yes, I was anxious. But I parked. Immediately, I was given a hug by someone who said she'd know me anywhere. From there, it only got better. Yes, there were butterflies all night. Classmates who routinely came to reunions said that this year was the first year where they had a hard time recognizing each other. So we introduced each other. What have you been doing? Where do you live? Do you have kids?
The next morning, our float full of about forty of us sailed through the town. We threw candy and waved, and when it was over, we dismantled it. A group of about a dozen of us went out to lunch and sat out on a patio by the river, making connections about who was where, who wasn't with us, who'd had surgery recently. Guys shared stories about their heart episodes. We discussed the appeal of living in a one-level house to be ready for "later". We shared stories comfortably, making connections and trying to remember who knew what when. Later that night, we had our official class party. It was easy, fun. We wore nametags, to be able to jump into the conversations.
I shared the suite I'd reserved with a classmate who I hadn't seen since graduation, though we'd reconnected on Facebook. It was the perfect opportunity to spend time with her. We both felt like at our age, the *crap* of our youth...just didn't matter anymore. We didn't discount it, and both remembered clearly how hard it was at times. But now, with perspective, there is also, a letting go. If I hadn't gone, I wouldn't have known this truth.
A couple of other observations struck me. First, the fact that my hometown does this at all is amazing. I had no idea how rare it is. To have an alumni association to dedicated is incredible. The town is on the upswing now and doing better but with miles to go before it's truly "thriving". That it has this tradition which allows for a timeless, and to me, kind of transcendent joy year after year, is remarkable. I use the word transcendent deliberately. Among my classmates who I talked to over the weekend were people who worked in jobs that ranged from doctors, lawyers, CPAs, nurses, teachers, landscapers ,to shift workers in the local gun factory, retirees, and store clerks. We talked about how we *were* and how happy we were to be together doing this crazy float-building thing. To transcend is to rise above. Whatever BS we felt when we were 16, we rose above. It doesn't matter anymore. Perhaps it never did, but now, we know it.
And if you are wondering how that float of ours turned out? Well, it just so happens that we took first prize and carried that trophy with us the entire length of the parade.
And what to do for an encore? My soft advice to you is this: Go. Go to the reunion. I say it softly because I know it's hard. Push your heart to get out there and challenge your fearful assumptions. There may be community waiting for you, conversations to have, and new/old friends to make. But you won't know until you try.
The Beatles said it best: All You Need is Love.
Indeed.