and Words
Dearly beloved
We are gathered here today
To get through this thing called “life”
Electric word, life
It means forever and that’s a mighty long time
But I’m here to tell you
There’s something else
The afterworld
A world of never ending happiness
You can always see the sun, day or night
Lyric excerpts from Musixmatch.
After all the talk on the last post on the eve of my 40-year high school reunion, it seems a bit uncouth to omit the bookend to that post. That said, I post new entries on this blog every two weeks, and today is the natural cadence. This frequency also gives me more time to reflect on the reunion; this will hopefully make the post more interesting. Therefore, I’m writing the sequel. I’ll respect people’s privacy and omit names; you know who you are.
However, I don’t want to give the impression that I’ve been conspicuously absent from all their lives. I keep in touch with a handful of people, especially on social media. I’ve even seen a few of them face to face over the years, outside of reunions. While some continue to live in the area, I moved to Washington state decades ago. When I return to the area, family takes precedence.
If “Purple Rain” (or perhaps “Purple Reign” 😉) set the tone, Prince’s “Let’s Go Crazy” perfectly captures the moment. This event was indeed a party. I met a couple of friends just the day before, and yet another about a month ago. I’ll carefully omit names, since this site is public, but rest assured, I remember and appreciate you all.
My wife and I ordered a ride to the event and waited patiently for a few minutes as the car arrived. Bella, our driver, carefully drove inland from our beachside hotel to the venue. She carefully navigated both the moderate rain and the setting sun, which dipped just below the visor. She drove through familiar roads I haven’t driven in many years. It’s both familiar and oddly out of place.
We arrived at the Billiard Club in Davie, about ½ hour after the official start of 6pm; a former alumnus runs the club. I don’t normally patronize billiard halls; in fact, I can’t think of where I might find one in my home state of Washington. This one is configured perfectly. A grid of pool tables occupies the roughly L-shaped space. A bar sits prominently in the center, with seats surrounding it. The setting is mostly dark, with lights over each table. Honestly, I felt transported into the movie ‘The Color of Money’.
Music from our era played subtly over the speakers. It played loudly enough to hear and recognize, but softly enough to allow us to chat. In fact, they played several songs that I have blogged about. A clever friend brought our senior yearbook, so we occasionally came back to that pool table to thumb through its pages for decades-old pictures of our former selves.
For a brief moment, I resisted the compulsion to write “Inigo Montoya” on my “My Name Is” label.
As I made my way through the sea of faces, some more familiar than others. I navigated back and forth between the people in the room (and names on their name tags) and the available yearbook.
A former classmate smiles and engages in conversation. She tells me her mom taught one of my classes and wanted to say “hello”. It took me a moment to realize precisely who her mom was, but it came back quickly. Yes, I remember that class and that teacher; she helped me find the love of my life. As we continued our conversation, I told that story. I can’t adequately express my fondness for her mom. I asked her not just to return the greeting, but to give her mom a big hug for me. I absolutely remember her.
An old peep built a career in law enforcement. Honestly, I barely remember him, but he served in many jurisdictions in Florida. Some names sound familiar, simply different neighborhoods as I grew up; others I know only by name. As I listen to him enumerate each department, I ponder about how subtly different each location would be and how they have all changed over the decades. As I reflect on that decades-long career, I am in awe and mentally thank him for his service.
Eventually, I wander to the bar, where an old classmate sits comfortably. I recognize the face and name, though we didn’t speak much in high school. She greets me warmly and with a smile. We catch up for a few minutes. She became an educator, specifically a special education teacher. Her eyes lit up when she talked about her students. She seems like precisely the kind of teacher that would change the trajectory of her students’ lives.
I became a computer geek; I’m specifically an SDET. The oversimplification? I write software to break software. These days I mostly write utilities to automate certain tasks. As people talk to me about the tech industry, one classmate boasts that his daughter just graduated and entered the workforce. She uncharacteristically picked Datadog over Google. I could see the pride in his eyes as he spoke of his daughter.
While a computer programmer may sound impressive, I’m surrounded by a nurse, a police officer, and a teacher. I work with machines; they work with people. I’m humbled by what they do.
Naturally, there were also the people whom I didn’t get to see. Most of my gaming friends didn’t attend; we might’ve spent time chatting about all the adventures on which we embarked, even if they were merely characters in our minds, as we imagine them in a good fantasy novel. They were the first version of my own clan.
I spent most years at South competing in mathematics and computer programming. We were actually pretty good, especially at the latter. I’m saddened I didn’t get a chance to reminisce with them about our heyday, thinking through math and computer problems under pressure. One of us threatened to bring an Apple IIe to the reunion to program, and yes, I would’ve participated. Most landed in the field as programmers; it would’ve been interesting to hear their experiences today.
Some classmates saw past the awkward Chinese boy and treated me like everyone else. I wouldn’t even say they were colorblind; if anything, they just had a deeper understanding of who I was, or indeed who we all were. They chose kindness when it would’ve been easy to torment. Their grace humbles me, and I regret I didn’t get a chance to give them a big hug. I would’ve loved to tell you in person, “You were kind to me, and it meant everything”.
To the young women who captured my heart so many years before, but whom I never approached romantically. I would’ve been tickled to exchange stories on who we were and who we have become. I would’ve finally admitted that you made my heart race, if only to communicate “Hey, you were pretty terrific.”
If there was a wildcard to this reunion that I hadn’t anticipated, what would it have been? Bringing my wife with me. Specifically, how others’ perception of my older self aligns with who I am now. If anything, my friend’s description of how they remember me in high school surprised her. “Frank was quiet in high school.” I chuckle a little bit, since that description surprises me.
Honestly, we were all trying to survive high school. Yes, a collection of classmates amused themselves by tormenting me, but in many ways my problems weren’t necessarily bigger than anyone else’s. I imagine many friends were caught up in their own version of “Mean Girls” or “The Karate Kid”. Perhaps we stayed quiet to avoid detection.
Knowing that we were all enduring our own private hell profoundly saddens me. In the way that I hoped someone might come to my rescue, I might’ve come to theirs. Today, we have big words like allyship. Today, students will stage a walkout in protest. While I understand that what I experienced, both the good and the bad, shaped who I’ve become, watching today’s youth profess their solidarity fills me with hope.