Since we had promised a few decades earlier (during our rousing “vote-for-me-to-be-your-class-officer” speeches) to “be there” for our fellow classmates when the time came to plan our reunions—these officers-turned-attorneys and executives were now hopping on weekly conference calls to make all the arrangements: A special seating section at the Homecoming football game. A tour of the old high school. A Saturday night party on the floor of the famed “Spinning Wheels” skating rink where we had danced the Hokey Pokey on wheels at the end of the night. A web page to sell tickets. And a Facebook Group where we’d begin inviting our graduating class of 550 (we were the only high school in town) to engage, share stories and photos, and shake the trees to get as many people as possible to join us.
The page took on a life of its own. Friends reconnected. Memories spilled out. Posts showed up of the hand-me-down cars we drove on the local “strip.” Scans of elementary school class photos confirmed that many of us had known each other for most of our lives. And had lots of memories together.
As the page administrator, I had the privilege of helping to provide the space and place for conversations, interactions, and connections. The bonus—I was the recipient of a great well of gratitude.
There was so much love on that page. We were witness to what friends have named “beautiful,” “healing,” “sweet,” “hysterical,” and “fun” encounters—in ways we never would have asked or expected. As former freshman opened up about their vulnerabilities, a patching of long-carried wounds began to heal. Tender places were mending. Fractures from the high school hallways were being restored.
There were open hearts. No sense of who the Rockers, Jocks, Nerds, Popular Kids were. Well, OK, we remembered, but it really had no bearing on the conversation today.
We recalled funny stories and friends no longer with us. We shared—probably in most cases for the first time—how a fellow classmate encouraged us, made us laugh, held our hand during a dark season. In these years of our life, we seemed more comfortable in our own skin. Willing to point out where we were vulnerable then…and where we still may be now.
We were there during so many firsts. Our first presentation on the cafeteria stage. Our first win. Our first loss. Our first kiss. Our first heartache. And now, years later we were caring for each other. Offering to go pick someone up and bring them to the reunion so that they wouldn’t miss it because they felt afraid. All were greeted with warmth and kindness. Even those who didn’t make the journey back home because of too much disappointment and heartache.
I think I posted no less than 5 photos of myself from my high school days–with friends, at Prom and Homecoming, on a bench. It didn’t matter the setting or circumstance, I was wearing fake tortoise-shell, plastic hair combs—one on each side of my head, just above my ears. Every. Single. Photo.
Apparently I was very fond of them. I started pointing out my affinity, a bit mockingly maybe and in a slightly self-deprecating way—but kept it lighthearted and in on the banter. I hoped to provide reassurance to others who had the courage to reveal their anxiety about showing up alone after their divorce. Or weighing more than they would like. Or with less hair. Or with more discouragement that their life had turned in a direction they weren’t expecting.
When the reunion weekend finally arrived, we had a blast! Watching the pep rally before the big game, I saw black kids, white kids, brown kids, band kids, football jocks, cheerleaders, photographers, and hipsters all participating and as nominees for homecoming court! It was like our crazy mix of classmates from years before—all kinds of backgrounds, all kinds of stories, all coming together. Except that we never had a “Duchess” & “Dude” category for underclassmen like they do now : /
Through the months of ongoing Facebook conversation, I met new friends along the way, too. I may have remembered their faces but we hadn’t talked much, if at all, back in high school. But we were becoming friends now.
Like the woman in the blue dress. I really don’t remember talking with her the whole of our time in high school. Yet on this page we laughed. She reached out with kindness and affirmation to others. She welcomed everyone to the table.
When she pulled me aside at Spinning Wheels as our evening wound down, I was so happy to really “meet” her in person for the first time, hug her, and thank her for her generosity to the people. Then she did an incredible thing. She shared with me her own recent journey of grief in the wake of her mother’s death to cancer just a few years before. She still felt the freshness of the loss and was making her way through. She mentioned my hair comb posts and that she had a gift for me if it didn’t seem too awkward.
In my hands she placed a glittery pair of the most beautiful crystal hair combs—her mom’s. She said her daughters had tried to wear them, but they didn’t stay put. And in her hair, the combs didn’t show up the way she remembered they did in her mom’s, whose dark strands (with streaks of silver) were the color of mine. She wanted me to have them, if I would wear them.
There, on the wooden floor of a repurposed skating rink, I felt like the Prom Queen I never was in school, with an even sweeter “crown.” The love and affirmation made its way to me. Those pangs of not feeling fully fit in surfaced and disappeared.
The words we sung to the Alma Mater at all those football games were not about the building or the walls. They were about us:
Hail Alma Mater
Hats off to you
Ever you’ll find us
Loyal and true
Firm and undaunted
Ever we’ll be
Hail to the ONES we love
Here’s a toast to thee!