| Following is an excerpt of an e-mail conversation Archibael and I were having today. Archibael is gearing up to go to his 10 year highschool reunion. Legal Disclaimer: Reprinted with permission, names have been changed to protect the innocent. Laura: How was your weekend? Archibael: I spent the weekend waiting for my pager to beep, and otherwise watching videos of all my high school performances (Archibael was in *theater*) to refamiliarize myself with all of the Dramatis Personae. It was a wild trip down memory lane, over 30 hours worth in all (I fast forwarded through much of it), and I've determined that the old grey matter just ain't what she used to be-- there were several skits/songs I performed in that I had no recollection of until I saw them, and there was even one where I went, "Wow, who is that dancing with (female classmate)? He looks like kind of a goof... wonder if I'll get to see a close-up..." Upon which the next words out of my mouth were: "Oh my god, what the fuck am I doing in a Santa costume in a tap-dance skit?!?" I still don't recall it, even with my memory sufficiently jogged by watching it over and over, and it is little consolation to me that Bonge (Archibael's best friend) remembered it as soon as I mentioned it to him. Disturbing is the only word I can come up with to describe it. Laura: BWAAHAHAHAHAHAAA!!! Oh, please, *PLEASE* can I have your permission to reprint that? See? I really *did* ask him first! Archibael: Only if you remove the "*" from "f*ck". Which, you will observe, I did in fact do. That wasn't even the worst. That was merely the most shocking. Laura: Okey dokey. Why, what was the worst? (God, this is good stuff - can I borrow those tapes, perchance?) Archibael: I have certain standards of anti-censorship to uphold, after all. I dunno, it was just the prevailing patterns that were weird. Every choir concert was guaranteed to contain: (Certain female classmate) singing something from Pat Benatar or Laura Brannigan (Certain male classmate) singing to his girlfriend (X) as she sat on stage listening on a stool or something (Certain other male classmate) singing something by Toto (Another female classmate) and (A different female classmate) copying Paula Abdul's or Janet Jackson's choreography verbatim and presenting it in sleazy black outfits (Yet another male classmate) showing off his high tenor by a duet with one of the local divas ... and me, dressed up like a total geek, in a skit where I would inevitably seek out the hot chick singing and be refused (said refusal often accompanied by physical violence of some sort), after which said chick would leave the stage with a hunk of her choice I'm not kidding. That last one happened five or six times. Sometimes twice in one night. It was bizarre. A sociology major could write a thesis with these tapes-- something about society's rejection of the outcast as popular entertainment. It makes me wonder what the actual perception of me *was*, as opposed to what I *thought* it was. I was well-liked by these people, had lots of friends and parties and such... and got thrown in the ring to play the stereotypical dork-jester at every opportunity. What does that mean? Does it mean *anything*? Also, I knew I was a goofy-looking dancer (all gangly-looking and such), but I didn't realize I looked like such a spaz just *walking* around on stage. Or standing still. Egads. How did I win so many awards?!? I should have been shot instead; it would have been merciful. (No. Never. Remember your hatred for watching people embarrass themselves?) Laura: Is this stuff quotable, too? Names changed to protect the guilty, and all that? Ever conscious of the legal stuff. I don't think it means anything at all, other than the fact that you probably enjoyed playing a court-jester-class-clown sort of role. But, this does serve to convince me that watching video of one's teenage escapades is just Bad. Archibael: This is all public domain stuff. It will likely end up in my memoirs, so consider it a sneak preview. (Bonge) should be known as "Bonge", for consistency's sake, or as "Doctor Chain" if you wish to be cruel.. Which I didn't... I disagree. It is entirely useful for class-reunion preparation, and very humbling, to boot. I highly recommend it. Except the part with me wearing the Rudolph nose and the antlers. I can't recommend that to anyone. Laura: Guffaw! Christmas pageant? Archibael: Yes. I was Rudolph and, in keeping with the aforementioned theme, all of the other reindeer laughed and called me names. Laura: You do seem to pick the roles of the downtrodden, don't you? Archibael: I didn't pick this crap. I was requested. Another comes to mind-- I play the evil, moustache-twirling villain, tie up a chick, and get summarily beaten to a pulp by her rescuers. All in a lovely musical number. It's quite charming. Laura: Good Gawd. Have you seen a therapist? This is a disturbing trend. Archibael: I'm not sure I'm the one that needed the theRapist. Alternate capitalizations his. Although my defense mechanism seems to have been to block it all out, to the point of amnesia. Perhaps after I've had time to think about it, they'll need to place me in a nice pink room wearing a Shirt With Really Long Sleeves. Some additional conversation about the trustworthiness of aforementioned "Bonge" and the likelihood that he would fill the gaps of Archibael's memory with *accurate* facts, then... Archibael: Please insert another item to the list of things that happened at every concert: (Yet another female classmate) would endeavor to sing a sweet tune of one sort or another, and be driven, weeping, from the stage by (mostly female) audience members shrieking "Bitch!" (and less-complementary things). After which I can tell you that our Choir director once stopped a show to lecture the audience on appropriate behavior. Yeesh. And I thought my stint in The Sound of Music was bad. Some additional conversation about who he thinks he'll see at the reunion, then... Archibael: ...But who knows? People change, right? Right? Laura: Not in my experience. At least, not drastically. There *is* some growing up that occurs between high school at your thirties, but honestly, how different do *you* feel, in your head? Archibael: ...Last week? Not different at all. However, after watching the tapes? There's a *world* of difference. Laura: Maybe a world of difference in outward appearance, but do you "sound" the same inside your head? I probably act a bit different - slower, maybe, less flamboyant or exuberant, certainly quieter - but I feel the same inside my head as I felt when I was sixteen. At least, I *think* so. Archibael: Like I said, I *thought* so last week. But I don't know anymore. Less trusting, less open (if you can believe that), less unsure. Laura: In other words, grown up. Archibael: Perhaps. I've always felt like a kid, in some ways, but I think that might be vanishing. Which is sad, since I kinda liked being a kid at heart. Laura: I was just contemplating that earlier today. I feel just as insecure about other people's perception of me now as I did then. I wasn't part of the "in" crowd at school, and I'm not a part of the "in" crowd at work. I don't get invited to the parties, or lunches, or hallway giggle-fests. Few people drop by to say "hi". As in high school, many know me, but few are my friends. I'm an enigma. I'm also full of horsesh*t. Archibael: Yep. That's probably why you and I click-- I had/have a very similar experience. Well, that goes without saying. Laura: Okay, you didn't have to agree with me *quite* so readily. Archibael: :) Off like a prom dress. Catch you later! ***************************** I am quite ambivalent about going to any reunion function my highschool may put on. I graduated a year early, with kids I barely knew. I was, as mentioned above, known by a lot of people, but *friends* with very few, so there's really nobody I'd care to "catch up" with. I doubt anybody knows how to inform me of any impending celebrations, and I don't think I'm motivated enough to contact my highschool and mention I live in Arizona now. The whole thought is surrounded by a generalized feeling of "Ih." I just *know* that if I did attend one of those functions, I'd just end up being depressed. Not necessarily because I'm getting older, or think I should have done more with my life -- I have no beef with ageing (your age is all in your head, *I* think), and I think I've come quite a long way since I was seventeen, and am proud of my accomplishments. No, the depression lies in what I know I'll see in the lives of *other* people. I guarantee 80% will still either live with their parents or a mile away from them, 85% will not have gone to college, 60% of them will work at gas stations/strip malls/fishing boats, 50% of the girls will have had babies by the time they were nineteen, and 50% of the boys will have the same beat up John Deere cap planted firmly on their heads as what existed in my senior year of school. They'll all want to talk about their hubcap collections/marijuana crops/muscle cars. And they'll all look at me like I'm a three-headed, puke-green, leather-skinned alien because I *moved away from Maine*. "Arizona? Where the hell's *that*?" Now, mind you, the entire population of Maine is not wholly ignorant. Just my senior class. This is the class that couldn't raise enough money for Prom (which I didn't go to), and so had to hold it in the high-school gym. This is the class that generated three pregnant girls in a graduating class of scarcely 100. This is the class from which a half-dozen kids I can think of off the top of my head dropped out. This is the class who's members threw chairs out of the principal's office window, and yelled obscenities at the Algebra teacher, and caused all the kitchen equipment in the cafeteria to need to be replaced. Can you say "quality education"? Feh. I spent my entire time just trying to pay attention amidst the chaos, avoid the pockets of trouble, stay completely *out* of the courtyards, and take my lunch in the corner of the library. The "good old days" my ass. Just being in the atmosphere of Michael and Marie's schools makes me everlastingly grateful that that stage of my life is well and firmly behind me. All the posing, all the tension, all the fretting to be "popular", all the morbid anxiety over embarrassment. No. Thank. You. I am in firm control of who I am, and I don't have to waste time with that kind of bologna. It would all come rushing back, in all it's pathetic glory, as soon as I step foot in the crepe-paper-bedecked highschool gym. All the old cliques and giggly popularity games. The "my-house-is-bigger-than-your-house" bull, accompanied by "Oh, you *don't* have kids? Gee, I have *three*. You really haven't experienced life until you've become a mother..." Fortunately, given the population we're discussing here, there will be no games of portfolio comparison "Diversified? Whuts that?". No trouncing out of law degrees or medical degrees. Just a bunch of people, trying as hard as they can to convince themselves while trying to convince others that their life isn't shallow, meaningless, boring, and hopeless. Of course, I'm making pretty sweeping statements, here. There are a few people that come to mind that had the presence of mind, ambition, intelligence, and wherewithal to make something of their lives. The vast majority, however, are so stuck in a trench-like rut of everlasting squalor that they don't even realize there's a big, bright world out there. I do get very homesick - for my family, for my grandmother's home, for the open spaces and treestreestrees, for the change of seasons, county fairs, and fresh produce. I DO NOT, however, look fondly upon my years at G-NG Highschool. Over, done with, gone, and good riddance. Phew, that ended up being quite a rant, didn't it? Can you say "suppressed and unacknowledged anger"? I knew you could. |