Zombie Memories

Morning Sun, Edward Hopper

I’ve mentioned my 50th high school class reunion coming up, haven’t I? I dunno if it already happened or what.

 An acquaintance on Facebook has been making caricatures and other memorial graphics for classmates using AI. He’s been posting them in his feed which, apparently, a lot of our class follow. Apart from my big-ass issues with AI generated art, which is a rant for another day, this is really thoughtful of Jim. He seems like a truly nice, genuine, gregarious guy. Putting aside my own experiences and feelings, I can imagine that, for him and, possibly, a lot of other people with whom we went to school, this final reunion’s a big fucking deal.

Automat, Edward Hopper

I don’t feel like I’m a part of my graduating class. The only friend I have from way back then is in a different year. The few friends who are actually from my class, I met on Facebook decades after graduation. Seeing Jim’s Facebook feed and getting the occasional reunion email update feels a little voyeuristic – like I’m reading a stranger’s mail.

I've also been experiencing an odd resurgence of rage over the mean girls who tormented me throughout high school. Please don’t say ‘Oh get over yourself — that was 50+ years ago.’ Goddammit, I KNOW THAT. Do you honestly think I want to be carrying around anger and sadness over what some gang of absolute low watt twinkies said and did 50 years ago? Do I think about those girls (old grandmothers now) daily? Weekly? Once a year on Rosh Hashanah or Bodhi Day? Ahhhh, no. The reunion served as a trigger to unearth these zombie emotions which I obvs need to put to a final death. How do you kill zombies? Cut off their heads?

Early Sunday Morning, Edward Hopper

I’ve NOT been thrilled AT ALL to have memories of my high school years and these total twatzillas back in my head. Life at home — with my ultra violent, narcissistic brother, wild older sister, and my uncaring mother, freshly diagnosed with NF2 — was hard enough. I desperately needed and wanted school to be a respite, a haven from home. The mean girls, with their stalking, bullying, prank phone calls, and smear campaigns ensured that this wouldn’t be. As did a half dozen teachers. A few male teachers actually made humiliating comments about the size of my ta tas in front of other students. Once, in front of the entire orchestra class. This was a small town in the early/mid ‘70s — imagine how that would go over today. Visualize lead balloons and law suits.

Shit was so bad back then, I felt so alone, that I joined a Methodist church group, naively believing church kids would be warm, kind, and welcoming. Ya know, I’d find friends there. Ah…NO. These kids were every bit as judgmental as the mean girls and the creepy, hypercritical teachers. Kind and welcoming? Only in a plastic covered couch kind of a way.  

Giorgio de Chirico

One girl, who went on to become a Methodist minister (!!!) was relaxed and smooth with everyone else. With me, she instantly became formally polite and pointedly distant — like I was a plague carrier, a demonic being OR just too, too low class to be within her presence. It was weird. Oddly enough, decades later, she sent me a Facebook friend request. It quickly became clear that she’d either forgotten who I was or sent it by accident. How do I know? In response to a direct, friendly, non-intrusive question, she again pulled this same frozen, polite but get-the-fuck-away-from-me tone (which she doesn’t take with anyone else). Weird. Last time I checked, I do NOT have the plague. NF2 yes. Plague, no. Also? Not a demon.

Ya know, I know I was an awkward kid and maybe a little too fluorescent for my classmates. Sadly, I didn’t have the confidence or self-esteem to laugh at the mean girls. I was vulnerable — an easy target. I was a solid four years away from being able to confidently deliver killer Jasmine Crockett style slams. “Bleach blonde, bad-built, butch body?” Man, that would’ve slayed! Oh, to time travel and deliver flaming kill shots. 

Point of the story — obvs I’m the opposite of nostalgic about those years. I’m surprised that, 50 years later, I’ve been having these big feelings about a reunion I’m not going to.

Aside from the resurrected rage, I’m envious of people who have happy memories of childhood hometowns. My family moved so much (due to Daddy’s academic pursuits and chasing a tenure track teaching gig) that I can’t lay claim to a childhood hometown. 

Nighthawks, Edward Hopper

My favorite place was Townsend, Massachusetts. We lived there for a year when Daddy taught at Fitchburg State College. My fantasy is that we stayed there. I graduated high school, went on to UMass Amherst, then moved to Cambridge with my chums.

In real life, I DID move to Cambridge with pals. It was just later and via a much more circuitous route.

High school wasn’t nonstop hell BUT close enough. I’m happy that Jim’s experience was different and he's getting to see all of his old friends. It's good that not all of us have zombie memories.