The class that I would have graduated with had I not changed schools and moved in the eighth grade, is planning a twenty year reunion. Jill put up a super nifty website with photos and discussion boards and chats and I’ve become completely addicted to it. (Seriously, why don’t I just have my computer surgically attached to me?) I’m lucky that I’m in touch with several of my friends from that class, Jill being one, and since the website went up, I’ve reconnected with others.
I’ve been genuinely excited to see welcome these names into my life again, find out what people look like now, see their children, who they married (or didn’t marry), learn what careers they chose.
Because our school was K-12, some of my classmates went to school together for thirteen years. I’m enjoying reading about their high school activities, but because I didn’t go through high school with this class, everyone except for those I’m still in touch with, exists in my head as a child – including a part of myself, I guess.
I was in the first grade thirty-one years ago, or something crazy like that, but I can still transport myself there instantly. I remember the clothes I wore and the energy in our classroom and the things we learned. I remember the Letter People and the way the carpet felt on my legs when I sat cross-legged at story time. I remember my first grade poems, written on thin newsprint, and the way the boys played Star Trek at recess.
I consider my first grade teacher to be a great contributor to the core of my character, and I am grateful to her and her bravery.
Fourth grade was when we started with the timed multiplication tests. My fourth grade teacher also shaped me, but I’m still working on the gratitude there.
It was also around that time that we made lye soap and grew crystals, activities that I loved, and practiced cursive handwriting, one of my very favorite subjects.
One of our teachers in the fifth grade had a penthouse in her room, a pink tree house with cushions where two students could take turns sitting, and she turned the single bathroom in her room into a “brain drain” with a black light and posters. I’m sure that shaped me too, come to think of it.
I loved our library and can still remember where each section was. I could go back in time right now and walk right up to the biographies. I can still smell the pages of Louisa May Alcott and George Washington Carver, feel their covers. I could find Superstitious? Here’s Why! or the fat pink paperback about transcendental meditation, or the bigger pinker paperback about warm fuzzies and cold pricklies.
I can still feel the sensation of walking down the hallway dragging my hand on the wall, which was cool and slick and dotted with holes like Swiss cheese.
I can remember the films we watched in the guidance counselor’s office, the conversations we had on the playground and the big fat chocolate oatmeal cookies they served in the cafeteria.
My memories of elementary school click into place, knocking one another down like dominoes, a moment of laughter leading to a moment of shame, pain bumping into pleasure, regret tipping into joy. Memories can be treacherous, and so much of what I remember about being a child, and a member of that community, is tied up with stress and sadness but, as it is with all things, the goodness rises to the top.
On one of the discussion boards today, a friend I haven’t seen or talked to since the seventh grade posted about our band director. She mentioned that his photo was part of the “then and now” slide show, so I zipped on over to see it.
For decades, I’ve held an image of him in my mind. He was a strong man with a distinctive voice and one of my most cherished teachers. I’ve thought of him often, always remembering him fixed in time, exactly as he was when I was a child. It was startling at first to see him changed, but on second look, I saw that he hadn’t changed at all.
As I look at the pictures of my former classmates and teachers, I wonder if I would recognize them or them me if we met on the street, and yet I feel deeply bonded to them – not because elementary school was beautiful or pleasant, but because it was real and important.
Those first years of stepping out into the world, learning to be people, we did as a group. For good or bad, we came in together to see what life had to offer. I’m sure we all have scars from those days, wounds we’d rather not touch and triumphs that still fill us with pride.
I snagged this photo off the site.
Pictured are Ellen (who sent me this on my birthday), Michelle (with whom I’ve just reconnected) and yours truly rockin’ the Jimmy Carter t-shirt.
When I first saw this picture, my old familiar pattern of self-criticism raised its ugly, tired head. I chastised child-me for choosing such an inappropriate pose. But then, I sent the picture to Tracy and he said, “Super cute.”
I realized it could be that way. I could like child-me, if I wanted to. Because I’m safe. All is well.
It occurs to me that reunions, like all reflection, serve a great purpose in that way. They acknowledge survival, which is not to make childhood sound like a war zone, but sometimes it feels like one.
When we’re young, our emotions are huge and we have no life experience to balance them out. When we laugh as children, we laugh with our whole being, propelled in laughter like Charlie and Grandpa Joe floating toward the fan, and when we cry, we cry like the world is ending.
Memories of childhood are bound by all that newness and emotion, and I think that’s one reason why the people of our childhood are so important to us—we were new together.
And there’s also the simple fact that our people are our people. Our families of origin, the families we seek out, our classmates, our friends, our lovers, our spouses, our children, our co-workers, our letter carriers, the voices on the radio, the cashier who has rung up our million bags of coffee. We are all braided together because in truth, in the end, we all go back to the same source.
