The Way Back
About a month ago, I went to my 30th college reunion.
The 15th was the first college reunion I'd ever gone to. That year, 1998, I checked with friends, but no one was able to to make it. Yet something I couldn't put my finger on kept compelling me. So at the last minute, without really knowing why, I rented a car and drove up for the day. I spent a lot of time wandering around campus by myself, revisiting the person I used to be—visiting the duck pond; my freshman dorm; the dining center where I trekked daily to retrieve my mail (an important ritual) and hung out with my friends over meals; the buildings where my German classes, my deepest engagement with language, took place.
At that 15th reunion, I had a long, memorable conversation over dinner with a guy I had only vaguely known in college; he was also gay (out of the closet back then, unlike me, but not particularly happily), and we shared experiences about that: wondering glances across seminar tables, envy and sometimes fear of the outrageously fearless.
All in all, I had a great time at the 15th and was glad I went. I learned to listen to that inner voice, sometimes more extroverted than I am, that wants me to go to places I'm uncertain about.
The next reunion, the 20th, I made sure well in advance that my friends would be there, so that one was all about being together, reconnecting in a familiar setting. The 25th was similar.
This year, only two of my friends, out of about six or so, were able to make it, so the reunion felt a little less "fun." But it had its moments. For instance, finding the tree, a sweetgum, dedicated to our friend Mark, who died of AIDS 17 years ago, and showing it to J., who went to high school with Mark as well as college but hadn't seen the tree before. I told J. about the last time I saw Mark, when he was very sick and living at his parents' house; after his mother came onto the deck where we were sitting, Mark said simply, "She's a saint."
When I told J. that story, he teared up; I felt bad, but then I realized it was okay. He and Mark shared a long history together, but they weren't in close touch at the time of Mark's death; J., who was living in California or Texas when Mark died, couldn't make it to the funeral. Maybe I was able to give him a small moment of Mark that he hadn't been privy to.
I also was moved to speak about Mark at a Quaker-meeting-style memorial my class had for fellow '83ers who had died. (This was a first; I guess we're officially in that demographic now!) I said that Mark and our friend K.—through whom I met Mark my freshman year—were my "way into" Haverford. I was miserable my first couple of months of college, and it was their openness, humor, and determination to draw me out that gave me permission to take my place there. I also recalled the last time I saw Mark, on his parents' deck, physically so altered by his illness, and said it was a lesson, as clichéd as it might be, that we are not our physical selves.
The main thing that stood out about my 30th reunion was a nighttime solo walk around campus that I took after saying goodnight to my friends J. and C., who were going on to an event I wasn't interested in. Walking around—seeing all the unfamiliar buildings, the confident and ridiculously young students helping out over reunion weekend—I realized: Haverford is doing just fine without me.
And I'm doing fine without it.
It wasn't at all a dismissive feeling. Just an acknowledgment that I don't need to keep burrowing back. The path is already there, worn into the ground. And it leads in the other direction as well, back toward home.
The 15th was the first college reunion I'd ever gone to. That year, 1998, I checked with friends, but no one was able to to make it. Yet something I couldn't put my finger on kept compelling me. So at the last minute, without really knowing why, I rented a car and drove up for the day. I spent a lot of time wandering around campus by myself, revisiting the person I used to be—visiting the duck pond; my freshman dorm; the dining center where I trekked daily to retrieve my mail (an important ritual) and hung out with my friends over meals; the buildings where my German classes, my deepest engagement with language, took place.
At that 15th reunion, I had a long, memorable conversation over dinner with a guy I had only vaguely known in college; he was also gay (out of the closet back then, unlike me, but not particularly happily), and we shared experiences about that: wondering glances across seminar tables, envy and sometimes fear of the outrageously fearless.
All in all, I had a great time at the 15th and was glad I went. I learned to listen to that inner voice, sometimes more extroverted than I am, that wants me to go to places I'm uncertain about.
The next reunion, the 20th, I made sure well in advance that my friends would be there, so that one was all about being together, reconnecting in a familiar setting. The 25th was similar.
This year, only two of my friends, out of about six or so, were able to make it, so the reunion felt a little less "fun." But it had its moments. For instance, finding the tree, a sweetgum, dedicated to our friend Mark, who died of AIDS 17 years ago, and showing it to J., who went to high school with Mark as well as college but hadn't seen the tree before. I told J. about the last time I saw Mark, when he was very sick and living at his parents' house; after his mother came onto the deck where we were sitting, Mark said simply, "She's a saint."
When I told J. that story, he teared up; I felt bad, but then I realized it was okay. He and Mark shared a long history together, but they weren't in close touch at the time of Mark's death; J., who was living in California or Texas when Mark died, couldn't make it to the funeral. Maybe I was able to give him a small moment of Mark that he hadn't been privy to.
I also was moved to speak about Mark at a Quaker-meeting-style memorial my class had for fellow '83ers who had died. (This was a first; I guess we're officially in that demographic now!) I said that Mark and our friend K.—through whom I met Mark my freshman year—were my "way into" Haverford. I was miserable my first couple of months of college, and it was their openness, humor, and determination to draw me out that gave me permission to take my place there. I also recalled the last time I saw Mark, on his parents' deck, physically so altered by his illness, and said it was a lesson, as clichéd as it might be, that we are not our physical selves.
The main thing that stood out about my 30th reunion was a nighttime solo walk around campus that I took after saying goodnight to my friends J. and C., who were going on to an event I wasn't interested in. Walking around—seeing all the unfamiliar buildings, the confident and ridiculously young students helping out over reunion weekend—I realized: Haverford is doing just fine without me. And I'm doing fine without it.
It wasn't at all a dismissive feeling. Just an acknowledgment that I don't need to keep burrowing back. The path is already there, worn into the ground. And it leads in the other direction as well, back toward home.
posted by Billy at 11:50 PM
1 Comments:
Lovely.
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