About 15 years ago, I was talking to a friend who I thought was just a little older than me. She mentioned she had just attended her 50th High School Reunion. I hope my facial expression didn’t give away my thoughts: Holy cow! She’s 68 years old. I had no idea she was that old. And 50 years. Yikes.
Well, guess who doesn’t think 68 is so old anymore? That’s right, a proud member of the Marian Central Catholic High School Class of 1975, and recent attendee of her own 50th High School reunion.
When the “save the date” email arrived, I’ll admit to mixed feelings. I have many great memories from high school, thanks to wonderful friends and the fun times we shared. And yet, seeing that announcement immediately brought back other, not-so-great memories. Not being one of the cool kids. Feeling awkward and out of place. Getting picked last in gym class. Never getting asked to Prom. (That last one scarred me so deeply that, as a cub reporter a few years later, I refused an assignment to interview high school girls getting ready for their own Prom.)
To be honest, I wasn’t sure if I really wanted to go. The only other reunion I’d attended was our 10th. And let’s face it, as much as you think you’re an adult at 28 years old, you’re still very much a kid. I went to that reunion with my handsome husband, photos of our seven-month-old baby, in great shape and looking better than I did in high school. I’d fulfilled my career dream of being a professional writer.
And yet, despite the passing of a decade, it still felt an awful lot like high school. Even the fun and frivolity of a great night of memories wasn’t enough to fully erase the lingering angst many of us (and probably all of us, to some extent) felt. I wasn’t able to attend the 20th reunion and frankly don’t recall hearing about any others that took place.
So, I did some polling. “Would you go to your high school reunion?” I asked a representative cross-section of my friends and co-workers. The prevailing answer?
“Oh, hell no!”
Lively discussion then ensued about their own high school years, and why they didn’t want to relive them. “Was I in the popular group?” one friend said with a laugh. “My best friend and I ate lunch in the bathroom every day. No, we weren’t in the popular group.”
Herd mentality briefly took over, and I found myself dwelling more on my bad memories than the good ones. I wondered aloud if the price of admission to the event would be better spent on a session with a psychiatrist in an attempt to learn why–despite my happy and fulfilled life today–the mere mention of high school immediately made me feel “less than.”
And then I did something smart. I opened up my yearbook. I leafed through the senior section and took a look at those black and white photos. Two things were immediately apparent.
First, no one went on a fancy, expensive photo shoot for senior pictures in 1975. It was the standard school photographer mug shot, warts (literally) and all.
And second, I’d been remembering high school all wrong. Looking at those shiny (and I mean shiny–photoshop wasn’t invented yet) faces, a flood of good memories swept away the bad ones. I was still in touch with my very closest friends, but there were so many others, too. We’d eaten lunch together (not once in the bathroom), had sleepovers, worked on projects, gone to football games, passed notes, confided about crushes.
On the activity pages I saw my colleagues from Yearbook, Choir, Newspaper and Drama Club. There I was with one of my best friends onstage during the annual Variety Show. I’d been the stage manager for our production of The Music Man and played the third female lead in Arsenic and Old Lace! (There are only three female roles in that show, but let me have this one little thing, please.)
I recalled the fun we had in the “yearbook room,” a tiny, top floor room that had a window overlooking the gym. Funny how all of our yearbook meetings took place when the senior boys had P.E. And speaking of P.E., I remembered my pro tip for others chosen last in gym class: volunteer to be a team captain when the gym teacher asks. Then, pick all of your friends. You might not win any games, but at least nobody feels left out.
I finally came to my senses and realized that there were an awful lot of people that I would really love to see…and hoped the feeling would be mutual. I knew that if I went and regretted it, oh well; no biggie. But if I skipped it and regretted it, I’d have lost something forever. Trust me, I didn’t regret it.
Any ridiculous apprehensions I’d had vanished the moment I arrived. A member of the reunion committee greeted me enthusiastically and we hugged. In 1975, we were a cheerleader and a nerd. In 2025, we are two people grateful to still be here to celebrate the brief time we shared in our youth. I walked in, leaving my high school angst at the door. I haven’t seen it since.
The room overflowed with joy and laughter. Despite being at an age where memory can be an issue, no one was having any trouble that night. Names of teachers, places, and events filled the air while a fantastic montage of pictures looped on the room’s TVs. We all wore a name tag featuring our senior picture and our names in nice big print. They were rather vital at first, but it usually
took just one glance to see the glimmer of our long-ago classmates in the faces of today.
It was interesting to see how many people had never moved away from their hometown. Others had traveled the world and settled far away, or, like me, had moved away but were still in the greater Chicagoland area. Little did one friend and I know that we’d been practically in each other’s back yards since the late 1980s. I wonder how many times we passed each other in the grocery store, completely oblivious.
A well-preserved school uniform was on display, and a side room had a table filled with memorabilia. Yearbooks, photo albums, programs from prior reunions, even a letterman sweater evoked even more memories. Some weird space/time continuum was clearly in effect, making four years and fifty years somehow magically become as one. Too bad the only things I came away with from Physics class were crushes on cute boys, or I might be able to explain it.
Our Senior Class President was invited to say a few words. He still displayed the poise and charm that got him elected. It was poignant when he read the names of the members of our class no longer with us, who were also memorialized in a lovely display. Of the 115 graduates, 11 have died, fully 10 percent. I wonder if that statistic is the norm.
A much happier statistic is the four married couples from the Class of ’75. Three of them were in attendance, and I believe the fourth is still going strong as well. I think that means almost seven percent of our class married each other, but since I also spent most of math class looking at boys, feel free to run the numbers yourself.
Since I hadn’t seen most of these people in at least 40 years, I did my best to talk to everyone and had some wonderful conversations. I truly took no offense when one person was honest and said, “I’m sorry, but I just have no memory of you.” That’s fair after 50 years. Besides, it was so monumentally offset by one of the first people I talked to, half of one of our alumni couples. He glanced at my nametag, looked up and smiled broadly. “We saw your name on the list and were so happy you were coming!” Believe me, not nearly as happy as I was to be there.
It’s now a month after the reunion. (Yes, I know this is a little tardy. But if you knew me in high school you know I never started a term paper until the night before it was due. Clearly, that’s still how I roll.). I have some new (well, new old–or is it old new?) Facebook friends. I’d love to connect with more, there or elsewhere. Several of us have already gotten together for lunch, with a repeat scheduled for after the holidays (you’re welcome to join us!). I somehow feel a compelling need to make up for lost time.
I’m no psychiatrist, and I don’t even play one on TV. But whether you were a bathroom lunch-eater or Captain of the football team, if you are still carrying insecurities or other baggage from high school, take my advice: go to your 50th Reunion. You’ll find yourself surrounded by a bunch of people who have lived their lives, are comfortable in their own skin, and are thrilled to share the unique experiences they remember from high school with you. It may just be the most emotionally cleansing thing you’ve experienced in decades. It truly was for me.
Leave a Reply