Class Reunions - Have you ever attended any of yours? So far, I’ve missed every one. The reasons have varied over the years. I was in Indiana, Texas, Florida, Connecticut, California, Asia or wherever, making a living and doing whatever else that prevented me from returning to my roots - good excuses, all.
I’m not even sure Shawnee High School's Class of '74 held any reunions for the first few years after graduation. I was in college. I probably wouldn’t have gone even if I had received a formal invitation. You see, when I was in school, I was kind of a lone wolf and outsider.
My self image might differ from how others in my class saw me, but I was no star. I wasn't a jock - too uncoordinated to do much of anything. I wasn't even remotely popular - and, for the most part, I was okay with that. I think I may have been an enigma to anyone who might have accidentally noticed me. I was a member of several clubs, but only because it was an escape from the boredom of study hall. I was on the school newspaper staff, eventually becoming co-editor during my senior year, which might have been the crowning achievement of the four years I spent at Shawnee. I always liked writing.
Some may recall that I was also in a rock band. You might guess which instrument I played - bass guitar. It fit my personality, except I also did most of the vocals, so I wasn't always in the background when we performed. In fact, I felt comfortable on stage, as long as I was playing my guitar. It gave me something else to focus on. I sincerely doubt I would have been able to sing otherwise.
Over the years since I was 18, I’ve connected with some of the people from my graduating class. There have been some interesting email exchanges and text messages. I’ve learned that some of the people I never knew all that well are nice, decent people. I probably missed out on opportunities to have made some great, lifelong friends. But what did I know? I thought they were stuck up. They may have thought the same about me, though I can't imagine why.
A year ago, I had the chance to squeeze in a visit to my old stomping grounds. It was kind of a planned whim, if there is such a thing. My publicist arranged for promotional events and some other things around the Midwest, so I flew up to Ohio and spent a week living out of a suitcase and spending most of the daylight hours driving from point to point in a car. We had some memorable moments, like the afternoon on Mackinac Island. We also addressed a high school class about the publishing business - seeing fresh faces brimming with the potential of anything's possible. We spent about an hour at Purdue University in a meeting with some administrators from the Lamb School of Communication the College of Liberal Arts. I was an undergrad there from 1974 to 1978. The University and its environs have changed at lot. Some things for the better, but overall it was kind of daunting as many memories vaporized in wake of new impressions.
The thing I was looking forward to most about my trip was something that we nearly had to cancel due to time constraints. Even though I insisted on going and we forced the issue, because of our schedule, we were in a rush and didn’t get a chance to see everything I wanted.
Oh well. Maybe next time I’m in the area...
Something happened inside of me while I was visiting South Charleston and Springfield, though. Feelings rooted in the past, and not necessarily good ones, bubbled to the surface. I’d anticipated waves of nostalgia, and there was a good bit of that, too, but I also felt the same anxieties I suffered when I was a teen, things left unresolved. It was visceral but not overwhelming to the point of nausea. I dealt with it much the same way I did 40 or 50 years ago. I pushed it back into the compartment where it's been locked away throughout my adult life.
It may not come as a surprise that most writers are like me - a born introvert. I spent my formative years lurking in the background, overlooked and mostly ignored. Some of it was because I lived on a farm and the nearest kids my age lived miles away. So, I used my imagination at lot, which is not a bad thing for someone who grew up to be an author.
I'm still shy, especially in new situations and when meeting new people. I don’t think that’s something one ever outgrows, but you learn to compensate when necessary. My insecurities and awkwardness in social situations made coping in the business world a challenge, especially since I worked in retail and sales. But I’m a survivor and proved to be good at it - always able to do whatever is necessary.
Still, visiting home resurrected emotions tied to the years of abuse, being bullied and having my cries for help virtually ignored by school administrators who seemed more inclined to defend the other kid in situations where I was the one who was attacked first.
My parents were supportive. But there were times that their response to my coming home with a black eye or a fat lip – calling the school to complain about their gross lack of concern in addressing a potentially dangerous situation – only made things worse for me the ensuing day. I didn’t stand my ground and fight back, which only made things worse. I retreated further into the shadows, relieved to be overlooked if not completely ignored.
For all the years since I left Ohio, I've decided that the pent-up anxiety has been keeping me away from where I grew up and the people I knew way back when. The experiences I had last summer, seeing how little some things have changed and the astonishment with how time has eroded other things, were tainted by flashbacks of the not-so-good old days. Even now, it prevents me from offsetting the bad with the good. I was a good student, active enough, had some friends (mostly nerds or other outcasts), but I endured it until I could find an escape route. I left and, with the exception of returning home for brief weekend visits, trips to see close relatives who were on their deathbeds, and eventually assisting my parents in their move South upon their retirement, I have avoided going back.
In the past week or so I’ve noticed a few people from my graduating class talking online about an informal get-together for the 45th year reunion, a gathering at a classmate’s house. Several of the people who still live around Springfield are going to attend, but as has always been the case, I won’t be there. This time, my excuse is that I’m in Nevada. Yes, I could make the time, but I’ll also say that I hate riding on the bus with wings, packed for hours into a space smaller than the average linen closet. It’s a fair excuse. I'm mildly claustrophobic. The experience of travel is not as exciting as it was back when I was young. And as excuses go, that's good enough for me.
Beyond that, I have truly moved on and no longer have much of anything in common with anyone I knew back then, except that we still share this same smallish planet, and all it's problems. Honestly, I don’t know what I would say to anyone I knew in 1974 but have not communicated with since. If I ever attend one of these class reunions, I might recede into the shadows, just like I did at every social event 45-50 years ago where I only observed, just like any good introvert should.