Last weekend, while my oldest was at camp, Tim and I left our youngest with grandma and took off back to my hometown to go to my 30-year high school reunion. It was my first time back to the building since the nineteen-nineties.
Our first activity, was to tour the old high school building. From the side of the road, it looked the same with a big “Lancer Pride” painted in blue on the side of the white cement wall. The tour was given by the assistant principal—a man who also was the girls volleyball coach and had the energy of a guy who would much rather be in the gym rather than the office. It was the same for us, it turned out.
The first stop on the tour was the school office and the discomfort of adults being in a space associated with punishment as teenagers was palpable. The next stop was the French classroom where we shared the memories of pestering our poor Madam who trotted around on four-inch heels, drenched in parfum. The story I told about my hilarious desk mate was repeated by the other students for the entertainment of my husband. For 17 years, Tim has heard those stories and now he had the backing of my fellow classmates—even though the details in their versions varied.
We toured the other classrooms where several core memories were unlocked by the different locations. The corner in the chemistry lab where I had discussed taking my drivers test with my lab partner. The bench outside where my best friend and I quizzed each other for the SAT. The chairs in the auditorium where we took the SAT. The domed gym where we ran endless laps on rainy Oregon school days. The cafetera with it’s cool linoleum floors that hosted our daily lunches and junior prom.
There were some changes inside the school. They took out several locker bays for “security reasons.” There was an additional entryway built after the Thurston shooting and posters in the hallways warning of the dangers of fentanyl—harsh reminders that high school today carries different obstacles than when we were kids.
The reception afterwards was a flurry of faces and names I hadn’t seen or heard from in decades, beyond social media. Conversing with a whole person from childhood in real life is not the same as viewing a tiny snapshots scrolling by on a cellphone screen. I heard a dozen mini-memoirs in the three hours we were together. I don’t know what the 10 and 20 year reunions were like, but at this point people are more interested in various experiences and families than boasting of career accomplishments—for the women anyways. The husbands all got grouped together by my pushy friend, but even they seemed like they had a good time.
The girl who bullied me back in middle school was there, but we didn’t hang out. She had her group of friends and I had mine. Honestly, I had let all that go years ago. I hold no animosity towards her because she was just a kid then too and my life is so much bigger than the four walls of high school.
Several of my good friends from those days were not at the reunion. High school wasn’t the easiest for kids who weren’t into cheerleading or sports or leadership. I spent a lot of my time with the choir and drama kids and kids who spent their free time in liminal spaces.
While I enjoyed my trip down memory lane, I don’t live there anymore. I live in another town with my family and the life we are building for ourselves. While the four years of high school leave their mark, it is what happens afterwards defines their significance.
