Lessons from my 50th High School Reunion

To go or not to go to my 50^threunion at the Trinity School? I had never gone to any of my previous high school reunions, so why start at my 50^th? Fifty years is SUCH a long time, most of an adult life! There’s no denying the passage of time—or the aging process. I was on the fence and responded “maybe.”  Then I waited to see who RSVP’d yes.

As it turned out, two friends planned to go. I had not seen one of them since graduation, and the other I had lost touch with 35 years ago. How could I resist? If not now, when? Who knows whether my high school friends will still be around in, say, 5 or 10 more years? I checked myself out in the mirror: bags and deep crow’s feet under my eyes along with a number of un-botoxed wrinkles around my lips. My hair is still long and my weight is more or less the same. Not too bad. At least I’m recognizable, but would I be able to recognize my classmates?

A fellow alum and friend of mine who lives in my neighborhood texted to see if I was attending. If so, would I like her to pick me up? Finally, I said yes. Curiosity had gotten the better of me and I decided it would be fun to meet up with former classmates. At this point in our lives, nobody had anything to prove. Many alums would probably be retired, so competitive conversations about career success would have already been shared at earlier reunions—one of my main reasons for not going five, ten or twenty years ago. I was also angry that my son had been rejected from Trinity’s kindergarten, unlike my classmates children, but I was over it.

Before entering the cocktail party, my friend and I—along with a few other female alumni from the first coed graduating class—were interviewed by student editors at the Trinity Times. They wanted to know what Trinity was like for the first young women.

How surprised I was to learn that my neighborhood friend absolutely LOVED Trinity. She credited an English teacher—who inexplicably disliked me—with teaching her how to write, even giving her extra help after school at his house. She also thought all the boys were “polite gentlemen”.  My friend told the editors that she wished she could turn back the clock and attend Trinity all over again!

Not me! I warned the Trinity Times that my experience was a lot more negative and they might not want to print it. But the editors encouraged me to tell my story. From my perspective, we girls were treated as second-class citizens and/or a curiosity. Some teachers were patronizing and/or abusive and openly scoffed at the idea that girls were as bright as the boys. The truth was we girls entered in the 10^thgrade, and none of us had experienced the super-competitive, rigorous academic culture of Trinity, but the boys had been there since kindergarten.

The culture of Trinity included high expectations on the part of Trinity teachers. In the early ‘70s at my old school (which 4 of my Trinity classmates had attended), classes were loosey-goosey. Students did not even have to show up for class as long as we completed the work. Sometimes teachers didn’t show up either. Education was minimal, which was the reason many of us were transferring out. Of course, we also wanted a co-ed school, and Trinity had a female-friendly ratio with only 20 girls in a class of 80! But I don’t think any of us bargained for being thrown into the deep end of the pool after drifting with floaties at the shallow end.

Because my interviewers seemed truly interested, I told my ego shattering stories. For example,  I had always been proud of my writing and considered it an academic strength. But the head of Trinity’s English department took an instant dislike to me (for reasons I’ll never understand). This was the same English teacher my friend raved about! When I tried the experiment of turning in a paper written by my brilliant boyfriend, who was one of this teacher’s favorite students, I still received a D! I never took another class with that teacher, nor did he allow me to take AP English. Another teacher suggested I take the AP English test anyway, and I placed out of freshman English without the benefit of an AP course. A hard-won victory.

Another time I felt discriminated against was when the Trinity principal, who was also my college advisor, told me that the colleges on my wish list were too difficult for me. He called me an “overachiever” and advised me to “relax” in his office lounge chair and “stretch out my long lovely legs”. (!?!)  Instead of congratulating me after I got accepted to Vassar early decision, he said: “Well, you got in. Let’s see if you can stay in.” BTW, four years later I graduated Vassar with honors, and my parents wrote to the principal in Florida where he had retired to make sure he knew.

What a relief it was finally to tell my story of patronizing discouragement and sexually harassing comments and see support for me in the eyes of the current Trinity editors (all female). I didn’t have to worry or care what anyone thought or even whether Trinity’s newspaper would choose to print any of it. In 1973, no one would have believed my stories and I was too afraid and ashamed to open up. Now if I reported that anyone spoke to me in such a disparaging and inappropriate manner, they would probably be fired. A cathartic and freeing experience.

Suddenly it was fun to speak my mind and a glass of wine helped. When I bumped into an old friend—whom I barely recognized—I couldn’t resist telling him how I felt about him in high school. At the time, he had deep blue eyes, thick, silky looking black hair and pimple-free skin.

Now he wore glasses and his hair was coarse and mostly gray.

“You know I had a big crush on you in high school when we performed together in Under Milkwood, but you weren’t interested in me.”

“Yes, I remember when we performed together.” He paused, trying to be diplomatic. “You were too tall for me.”

“Well, for what it’s worth I married a shorter man and we’ve been together for 36 years.”

We both smiled.

I almost didn’t recognize a closer friend with whom I had stayed in contact through college and my early working years. In high school he was husky with long, frizzy light brown hair. Fifty years later, he was super thin, wearing a suit with a bolero tie and his gray hair in a pony tail.. Over dinner he told me he’d lost 100 pounds after having two heart attacks and quadruple bypass surgery.

“Do you remember I sold your one-bedroom apartment on West 96^thStreet?”  It was my first real-estate sale. And a real learning experience, trying to sell a dark apartment facing an air shaft with an old kitchenette. You were so patient and kind, even when the first deal fell through.”

We had fun reminiscing… eating buttered English muffins and competing to see who could finish the Jumble first, etc.  We clearly still liked and enjoyed each other’s company. A brilliant, super funny Harvard graduate who somehow managed not to become an elitist snob.

Some of the men I never spoke to in high school recognized me immediately and were unexpectedly complimentary. One man gave me a big hug and said he’d been following my autism journey with Samantha. He told his friends that I’d been a truly outstanding mother. Who knew? Although time had been kinder to me than some other alums, I actually liked these men a lot better than I did when they were boys in high school. Back then, I was more superficial and so were they.

Learning a little about people I barely knew in high school made me want to learn more. I’m no longer afraid of what they think of me or what I might think of them. Not only was my curiosity satisfied about how my classmates had lived for the past the 50 years, I’m now tempted to go to future reunions. At our age, it’s imperative to share fun and laughter and enjoy heartwarming experiences. I will go to the next one if I can.

No need to judge the past or worry about the future. My time is now.