Really, I am OK now.
High school memories are awkward for most people; whether it was how you looked, what you dressed like, or, if you're like me, conversations and actions, something you look back on makes the back of your neck get shorter and your shoulders tense up. The power of hindsight is no gift either, and reflecting on things we did and said only serves to besmirch our present self-image.
What can we do about it though? Obviously we can learn from our misgivings and misdeeds. But what about the people whose memories are forever infected with our behavior? Our place in their memory remains forever unchanged, a lingering idiot cloud surrounding our name and face. In recent years, the advent of the Internet has enabled so many of us to recreate ourselves out there. And, virtually or not, some of us have succeeded in doing just that. This is evidenced by those persistent and insulting emails I receive on a regular basis from classmates.com, telling me that so many of the very same people whose memories I would love to rewrite are looking actively for me to do just that, and all I have to do is become a “Gold member” to access them and begin to retell my story.
Recently, I was confronted with a chance to do some editing on arguably the most uncomfortable and damaging situation of my high school career. Most of the embarrassing moments in high school, at least for me, tend to deal with the opposite sex and my relentless search for the perfect counterpart. I was of the mindset that marriage to your high school sweetheart was of the essence, and those that did not catch that lightning in a bottle that was unbridled high school love, were really going to miss their chance at Mrs. Right. There is no history for me that would point me that way; my own parents had done just that and their marriage was a supreme failure in terms of staying together and achieving marital bliss. Thinking back, my whole childhood neighborhood was awash with the ruins of star-crossed Jack and Diane’s: the Goral’s, the Kowalski’s, the Veltri’s—all divorced after a short run.
My first serious high school girlfriend, let’s call her “Sara,” was the essence of sweet. She was constantly smiling, forever sarcastic, and unabashedly as into me as I was her. Sara lived close to an hour away, but our parents must have inherently realized the seriousness of our relationship, because spending time together was never a problem on the weekends. We were inseparable, and capable of making all of my friends throw-up whenever we were around. Needless to say, all high school relationships end, most in horrific fashion. Ours was no different. Underlying our relationship was the spector of the next level. We were always in search of it, regardless of what it was, including physicality. Situations arose which I will not get into, but after that, we were never the same. As she was telling me that she needed some space and we should spend time apart, I said some dreadful things. I was not disparaging to her, nor was I insulting; however, the way in which I reduced myself to groveling and begging and promising to morph into so many things only serves to make me nauseous today.
Flash forward to the week after Christmas 2005. My son and I had just enjoyed our first diner meal together, a tradition that I hope does not get lost on him, and were paying our bill at the counter of the Hibernia Diner. He was fidgety and eager to get on the ground and walk, and I was eager to stop him and get to the car. The door to the diner opens and in walks a man who I immediately recognize as someone from my past, but I cannot place him exactly. Within the next split second, as I had just recalled who he was, all doubt was erased when Sara’s mother walked in, and directly behind her, was Sara. Several hundred-thousand emotions besieged me at once. Fear, nostalgia, pride because of who I was holding, but most inclusively was embarrassment for the way I had behaved in high school. But here it was, the chance to re-write what the lasting memory of me that she had, which I believe to be me drunk at a graduation party re-telling her how much I still loved her. It was an opportunity that I knew most people don’t get.
We talked, all of us, including her husband, who interestingly enough, was a classmate of ours, yes, her high school sweetheart. Her parents, most notably her dad, probably had little or no use for me, but they were polite and genuinely interested in what I was doing, and of course, how Parker came to be. He was busy, as usual, an having a conversation in the doorway of a diner is difficult enough. We chatted about what they were doing and how they had ended up there, what I was doing and how busy I now was (Parker was by this time, tugging at Sara’s father and demanding “Up!Up!”). These conversations never go well for me because I never know if I am happy with my career as it is right now, and I think that comes across when I speak of it to others. They were genuinely happy to see me, and I them, and we politely said our goodbye’s without the insincerity of exchanging contact information.
I really just wanted to say that I wasn't that person they remembered, and that I had remembered how to properly treat people. I wanted to tell them that I was OK. My desire wasn't to change who they remembered me as, but more to provide a satisfactory end to it, to show a metamorphosis of sorts. If I can change, and you can change, then we can all change--I began to feel like Ivan Drago or something.
As Parker and I were riding home, my mind kept replaying the conversation, as if to check to see if I was impressive enough to erase the buffoonery that I had exhibited in high school. The rarity of the situation was making me cognizant of what was at stake, and I had worked it up so much in mind that I was again doubting myself by the time I reached home.
Jennifer and I spoke about it when she returned home. Succinctly, she stated it best: “How can you doubt yourself when you have such a beautiful child? If anything you have done in the past is so offensive, its obvious that it does not matter to who you are now.”
And that pretty much settled it.
What can we do about it though? Obviously we can learn from our misgivings and misdeeds. But what about the people whose memories are forever infected with our behavior? Our place in their memory remains forever unchanged, a lingering idiot cloud surrounding our name and face. In recent years, the advent of the Internet has enabled so many of us to recreate ourselves out there. And, virtually or not, some of us have succeeded in doing just that. This is evidenced by those persistent and insulting emails I receive on a regular basis from classmates.com, telling me that so many of the very same people whose memories I would love to rewrite are looking actively for me to do just that, and all I have to do is become a “Gold member” to access them and begin to retell my story.
Recently, I was confronted with a chance to do some editing on arguably the most uncomfortable and damaging situation of my high school career. Most of the embarrassing moments in high school, at least for me, tend to deal with the opposite sex and my relentless search for the perfect counterpart. I was of the mindset that marriage to your high school sweetheart was of the essence, and those that did not catch that lightning in a bottle that was unbridled high school love, were really going to miss their chance at Mrs. Right. There is no history for me that would point me that way; my own parents had done just that and their marriage was a supreme failure in terms of staying together and achieving marital bliss. Thinking back, my whole childhood neighborhood was awash with the ruins of star-crossed Jack and Diane’s: the Goral’s, the Kowalski’s, the Veltri’s—all divorced after a short run.
My first serious high school girlfriend, let’s call her “Sara,” was the essence of sweet. She was constantly smiling, forever sarcastic, and unabashedly as into me as I was her. Sara lived close to an hour away, but our parents must have inherently realized the seriousness of our relationship, because spending time together was never a problem on the weekends. We were inseparable, and capable of making all of my friends throw-up whenever we were around. Needless to say, all high school relationships end, most in horrific fashion. Ours was no different. Underlying our relationship was the spector of the next level. We were always in search of it, regardless of what it was, including physicality. Situations arose which I will not get into, but after that, we were never the same. As she was telling me that she needed some space and we should spend time apart, I said some dreadful things. I was not disparaging to her, nor was I insulting; however, the way in which I reduced myself to groveling and begging and promising to morph into so many things only serves to make me nauseous today.
Flash forward to the week after Christmas 2005. My son and I had just enjoyed our first diner meal together, a tradition that I hope does not get lost on him, and were paying our bill at the counter of the Hibernia Diner. He was fidgety and eager to get on the ground and walk, and I was eager to stop him and get to the car. The door to the diner opens and in walks a man who I immediately recognize as someone from my past, but I cannot place him exactly. Within the next split second, as I had just recalled who he was, all doubt was erased when Sara’s mother walked in, and directly behind her, was Sara. Several hundred-thousand emotions besieged me at once. Fear, nostalgia, pride because of who I was holding, but most inclusively was embarrassment for the way I had behaved in high school. But here it was, the chance to re-write what the lasting memory of me that she had, which I believe to be me drunk at a graduation party re-telling her how much I still loved her. It was an opportunity that I knew most people don’t get.
We talked, all of us, including her husband, who interestingly enough, was a classmate of ours, yes, her high school sweetheart. Her parents, most notably her dad, probably had little or no use for me, but they were polite and genuinely interested in what I was doing, and of course, how Parker came to be. He was busy, as usual, an having a conversation in the doorway of a diner is difficult enough. We chatted about what they were doing and how they had ended up there, what I was doing and how busy I now was (Parker was by this time, tugging at Sara’s father and demanding “Up!Up!”). These conversations never go well for me because I never know if I am happy with my career as it is right now, and I think that comes across when I speak of it to others. They were genuinely happy to see me, and I them, and we politely said our goodbye’s without the insincerity of exchanging contact information.
I really just wanted to say that I wasn't that person they remembered, and that I had remembered how to properly treat people. I wanted to tell them that I was OK. My desire wasn't to change who they remembered me as, but more to provide a satisfactory end to it, to show a metamorphosis of sorts. If I can change, and you can change, then we can all change--I began to feel like Ivan Drago or something.
As Parker and I were riding home, my mind kept replaying the conversation, as if to check to see if I was impressive enough to erase the buffoonery that I had exhibited in high school. The rarity of the situation was making me cognizant of what was at stake, and I had worked it up so much in mind that I was again doubting myself by the time I reached home.
Jennifer and I spoke about it when she returned home. Succinctly, she stated it best: “How can you doubt yourself when you have such a beautiful child? If anything you have done in the past is so offensive, its obvious that it does not matter to who you are now.”
And that pretty much settled it.
posted by Unknown @ 11:09 AM
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