High School Reunion Blues

The photo is one of my favorite high school classroom. Funny thing, our teachers never seemed to show up...

Last night was my 35th high school reunion. Due to my recent trip West for my son’s wedding and the overwhelming demands at work right now, I was unable to attend. This saddens me, especially in the day of instant communication which allowed me to receive a text message from friends I haven’t seen in a quarter of a century as they gathered at the reunion. This afternoon, thanks to Facebook, my grief lessened as I looked at all the posted pictures and asked, “Who are those old folks?” I didn’t need a visual reminder that we’re only a decade away from qualifying for senior housing.

It’s been a long time since I joined the 700 or so other students from my high school on the football field that warm humid night of June 6, 1975. Honestly, I don’t remember a lot about the evening except that it went on and on and seemed to take forever for everyone to receive their diploma. I kept worrying I’d get the wrong diploma or wouldn’t graduate for some technical glitch like not showing up for class (which wasn’t really a technical glitch). It all worked out. I was handed the right diploma and for a few years had it framed and proudly displayed, but after graduating from college it just didn’t seem that important any more. And after several more degrees, I can now proudly say they’re all safely boxed away, somewhere. Yet, as the talk of the reunion intensified on Facebook, I began to think more and more about my high school years. Looking back brings both smiles and sadness.

Those of us in the Class of ’75 saw the world change in our twelve years of school. We had barely gotten out of the first “Dick and Jane” book when President Kennedy was shot and were struggling with geometry when another president, Nixon, resigned. There were the Gemini rockets and later the Saturns, the ones that took men to the moon. We watched David Brinkley, a hometown boy, on the evening news as he reported on battles in Vietnam and Civil Rights protests across the nation, including those in our own city. We experienced the turmoil of cross-town busing and the horrors of race riots. We listened to the Beatles as they swept the airways only to learn of their breakup before we entered high school. We were mesmerized with the horns on “Chicago’s “25 or 6 to 4,” sought out the supposedly hidden meanings to Led Zepplin’s “Stairway to Heaven,” and were saddened as we song along with the Stone’s on their ballad, “Angie.” As we turned 18, those of us who were boys became men and had the papers to prove it as we were the last to carry a draft card. But the drafts were a thing of the past and as the cards didn’t have photos, they could be easily lent to a friend who wasn’t yet 18, the legal drinking age at the time. And then, as we were busy ordering our gowns and those silly mortar caps for graduation, we watched the fall of Saigon and witnessed the end of an American era.

A lot happened in those twelve years of schooling. They certainly weren’t the best time of my life, but for good and bad, I wouldn’t be who am I today without them. I’m glad the those old folks in those pictures had a good time last night and now, I’ll just have to avoid mirrors in order to maintain my delusion.