Had I been on the prom committee I would have protested the choice of The Way We Were as the theme for our graduating class. Of course back then I wouldn't think of serving on a committee, any committee, and barely went to the prom. But I did get an A or two in high school, one of which was in Creative Writing. And while it’s up for debate whether or not I practice what I preach, I believe that words matter – even in sappy prom songs. I would have suggested Jimmy Buffett’s Why Don’t We Get Drunk, but in reading the room I’d have quickly pivoted to a song that captured a high schooler’s actual truth like Janis Ian’s At Seventeen, or Linda Ronstadt’s When Will I Be Loved, or even War’s Why Can’t We Be Friends. After all, we were just a bunch of narcissistic teenagers who, had we been looking anywhere other than in a mirror, would have been looking forward, not backwards. We were still becoming, so there was not yet a way we were. It simply didn’t make sense.
Half a century (repeat with me – half a CENTURY) later I had finally made the cut. I was a highly-coveted member of Springfield Township High School's 50th reunion committee and took my position very seriously. While others were busy buying pumpkins and deliberating over soft pretzel nuggets and Philly Cheesesteak eggrolls, I was still trying to unpack that prom song to the tune of the myriad responses we received from former friends and lovers.
“Totally in. I might be dead by the next one.” (Triple bypass survivor).
“I appreciate you!” (Mother of a millennial who still lives at home).
“Will Dave ____ be there? (Was it Dave Hissey / Wagner / Asher / Durchsprung / Ferrino/ Troyer? I’ll never tell for the sake of their past and present marriages.)
“Can’t wait to see everyone. It will be a blast!”
Those were some of the almost word-for-word (close enough for a creative writer) emails we got while gauging interest for the big reunion. But, there were also these:
“Cross my name off the list. I wouldn’t come if you paid me a million dollars.”
“High school was the worst time of my entire life.”
“I can’t go. I’ve gained too much weight.”
“What if Joey Wilson is there?” (Name changed to protect the guilty).
As often happens, those negative responses weighed heavy and got me wondering. For 50 years I’ve carried nothing but fun memories of those glory days. Could I be misremembering? Or rewriting history to serve my adult narrative?
There was only one way to find out.
I dug out my high school diary and started reading. It wasn't easy, but it had to be done. And so, down I went into the rabbit hole.
The opening entry was written three days before the first day of eleventh grade.
Let me describe myself. Well, I’m fat and have red hair and freckles. I like to play golf and read. I decided to keep a diary because so much goes on and I just forget it all. Too many memories pass away!
And the last came almost exactly two years later.
Well, this is it. I cannot believe that I am leaving for college tomorrow. It’s really scary. I say goodbye not only to you, but to this phase of my life. The high school days will probably be forgotten or become less important as life goes on. Thanks for listening these years and for watching me go through all the changes I have. Maybe I’ll write again, but somehow I kind of doubt it.
Oh, and all those days in between! Every other entry talked about how fat I was (I had no idea I’d never be that “fat” again), and how much I HATE (fill in the name, any name) followed six hours later with I LOVE (same name) sooooo much.
Because most of you don’t live an open-book life like I do, I’ll keep your names out of this, but trust me, you were there. You were all there.
When the cops chased us from the woods at Harston Hall during open campus, you were there. You sat next to me eating chicken and mashed potatoes at the annual Oreland Girls Softball League banquet as I waited to be awarded MVP but never was because my father was the coach. You rode on the roof of my mother’s wood-trimmed station wagon down Bethlehem Pike. You were by my side when we discovered the nighttime scene at Curtis Arboretum. And were part of the vow to meet up in the Bermuda Triangle, no matter what, when we turned 40.
You were the one who, when lost in Kensington (long before it gentrified) said, “Wouldn’t it be amazing if someone invented a gadget that would tell us exactly where we are when we’re driving?” You were the one stealing money from the register at Yum Yum and I was defending your honor to my parents who owned the ice cream shop. My father laughed at you for being afraid of our Great Dane. And you were afraid of failing English class so I tutored you for your “30 Days to a Better Vocabulary” test.
You sat with me on the curb of Surrey Road waiting for day to break after being ditched by the popular kids. You threw an egg in that jerk's face on Mischief Night. You were the guy who said no one would date me because I was too nice. You listened to me whine about my frizzy hair and taught me to “wrap” it. Meanwhile, I told a white lie assuring you that guys liked you for your brains, not your bosoms.
I wrote your essay for English class while you consoled me for being the ONLY person who didn’t get invited to the football dance. I was with you on the beach in Nassau, or in the bar drinking yellowbirds with our teacher chaperone. I made you laugh through your tears on the bus ride home from losing our state championship hockey game and you thanked me for it. You were the one who was in the school play with me who wrote in my yearbook, “You look good without your “mask.” You took me on vacation with you to your family’s island in Canada and another you took me to Wildwood for the day where your father told us to just “walk in and act like you belong” so we could hang out at a hotel pool all day.
We went to the Eagles concert and the Yes concert and to see Bachman Turner Overdrive at the Spectrum. We went to the Phillies’ games and cut school to go to the Flyers’ victory parade. We stole your father’s car from Oreland train station while he was at work and got caught because we left the gas receipt on the floor. You were the one who smoked, I told my mother, when she accused me of smelling like a chimney. You kissed me at a party and laughed about it with your friends.
We took the bus to Ocean City together when neither of our parents would let us drive. Then piled four-in-the-front of a Karmann Ghia and drove to Cape May just for fun. You were on the school sponsored canoe trip down the Delaware revealing deep, dark secrets around the campfire. You were the one I stuck up for when the hard guy called you ugly. You pushed me into the football party with a “YOU go first!” We practiced our foreign language by sending notes back and forth in French. You got yelled at by a substitute teacher for writing on the desk in Consumer Math.
You were part of the Woods Gang, not the Woods Road Gang. But every now and then our antithetical paths would cross. You thought you had made it when you were finally invited to a party at the big house by the country club only to find a random sophomore making out with your three-days long boyfriend. You held my hair when I threw up that bottle of tequila and I drove you to the Cheltenham bar that would sell you a six-pack of Rolling Rock. You mocked me mercilessly for being the first Hunsicker to go to a state college even though you didn't go at all.
You were in Mr. Matula’s office with me more than once. I defended your auditioning boyfriend saying you can’t judge him on who his parents are or even who his friends are because he’s only 17 and hasn’t had a chance to make something of himself yet (he never did). You were high as a kite when you said that we have plenty of time to change all the things we’re doing wrong. You said you couldn’t go to Plymouth Meeting Mall with me because your parents wouldn’t let you out and then there you were with a much cooler group of friends.
We talked about our future families. Who we would become. What we would do. Where we would live. We knew for sure we would all do a better job than our parents did. We were going to be teachers and psychologists and lawyers and artists and all live on the same block in Wyndmoor.
That was you. I didn’t make any of it up. You were there.
Interweaved amongst the stories that would have my parents rolling over in their graves were deeply profound and poignant thoughts. I questioned my choices, my personality, and my friendships while trying desperately to hold onto a modicum of self worth. Yet, I penned the words:
Maybe I’m wrong, but I can’t imagine ever having as much fun as I’m having in high school.
I cried, I cringed, I laughed at the me I was 50 years ago and have to confess that I still got a little lurch in my stomach when certain people checked in at the table the night of the reunion. But I took a deep breath, stood up and hugged that guy who would have died a thousand deaths had I done that in high school, remembering what I wrote way back in 1975:
I had this thought. Life is just one person thinking he’s above another. Maybe if druggies, hard guys, jocks, cheerleaders, hippies, fatsos, geeks and brainiacs all put themselves all on the same level, life would be so much better.
And there it is, in all its glory, in black and white.
I closed my diary but not before googling the words to The Way We Were. And when I did, how I marveled at the forward thinking brilliance of those who selected such perfect lyrics.
