Reunion

My 30th high school reunion is in two months. How the hell did I get so old? The invitation got me leafing through six yearbooks, three from junior high and three from high school. I resumed ownership of the annuals several years ago when my mother sold her house. But I hadn't really looked at them in decades.

I did consider going to the reunion but the logistics of childcare, airfare, car rental, were so daunting. I attended the 20th reunion, when my mom still lived nearby, so it was an excuse to visit her, too. Factoring in a hotel reservation this time . . . I had to ditch the idea.

I guess there are classmates who would not miss it for the world and others who would prefer to poke themselves with sharp sticks than go, but I am ambivalent. The 20th reunion resolved all that: the women looked better, the men looked fatter and balder. The most popular white girl, whose terrorizing only made me worship her more, was a drunken mess. The mean black girls all looked fabulous and had no recollection of me, much less of threatening me and demanding my lunch money. In fairness, the nice black girls also looked fabulous.

This whole wave of nostalgia for a miserable time in my life made me question my grip on reality. I still keep up two friends via email: we three went to elementary school, then junior high and high school together. (They are not going to the 30th reunion, either.) I asked one of them if the whole nightmare had been my own adolescent imagination.

Me: My recollection of that time, particularly in junior high, was that we were menaced all the time. I never used a school bathroom in six years, or carried a purse! Was it paranoia?

Yes, we were chronically menaced. No, it wasn't paranoia. It was a very real and necessary fear. We never used the bathrooms, which if you recall, reeked of reefer. We heard terrible stories of girls getting "jumped" in the bathrooms, usually for money or something. Purses were stolen regularly, so we didn't much use them. Remember Susan having hers ripped from her arm from under the bleachers? She still has the scar from where the handle of her purse dug into her skin. It was heinous. I think we were at a wrestling match or something. Remember earrings ripped from girls' ears? Blood pouring. I get weak just recalling it.

Could we not write a book about those years? I think it would be novel perspective--white girls' experiences at a predominantly black school in the 70s. It was unique, you have to admit. Think of the incredible character we now possess. Weren't our parents mortified by the stories we told? I suspect we left a lot out.

Me: Sometimes I wonder if we were nuts. Y'know, I think the 70s were a horrible time for crime in general and now it's not such an issue. I think I did tell my parents about junior high, but they didn't really care or were too preoccupied. My dad would always say he knew very nice "colored" men at the University of Chicago, and I would be reminded that he did not have a clue. However, my mom insisted they move to a different district after my brother's 7th grade year. Hmmmmm.

I think crime is still pretty bad in spots. It seems to be drug-driven now. Back then it was hate-driven. We were white, so we were hated (by some). To help matters, if you recall, "Roots" was aired night after night while we were at school. I swear things escalated during that week and weeks to follow. Pins in the ass as we walked down the hall. Shoving. Head slamming. General taunting and name calling.

Me: At the 20th reunion, Susan nudged me and pointed at Brenda. "Oooooh she was mean." We both remembered B walking over to Susan and putting her a half-nelson and throwing her onto the ground. No provocation. I thought of that yesterday when a really thuggish-looking black guy with a do-rag held the door for me, saying, "Excuse me." It was a conditioned response to want to leap out of his way.

On the other hand, I feel like I got a superior education. I don't think I was shortchanged at all. People ask where I learned to read music, how I know world history, how I can run a sewing machine and when I had a chance to read Shakespeare . . . I learned that all before college.

I have to agree with this. When I break into Chaucer's "Canterbury Tales" using Middle English, people stare in amazement. I'm pretty sure nothing else I've ever uttered has given cause for people to consider me "educated." It tickles me more than anything.

So I am not going to the reunion. My friends both say there isn't anyone in particular they want to see. Maybe that is the interesting thing: it's not the friends with whom I have fallen out of touch, it's the people I have long forgotten or whom I never knew. What are they doing? What are they like?

No matter. I'll get the next invitation in ten short years.