Owing to sheer boredom yesterday (25 calls in ten hours), my interest in viewing profiles on classmates.com grew again, so I decided to call up various profiles. It made for an interesting, reflective shift at work that, once again, was rarely interrupted by a phone call.
As expected, many of the people who were God's gift to popularity had the bigger profiles with photos and detailed life descriptions. It's almost like 20 years later, their egos still have to do the loud talking.
I will always remember the principal telling us at our commencement that our class was the "most united" group of students she'd ever seen. Sorry, but as an outsider not involved with the inner circle by choice or chance, I had to laugh. I thought "united" meant the entire class of 195.
Supposedly, we were "united" when the school's SADD chapter put on a scenario where two of our classmates perished in a drunken driver accident. Surprise, they were two of the jocks, the all-everythings, the clique members. Had it been me, the response would have been "Who's he?", and an all-school assembly would not have been thought of (SADD probably would have disqualified me anyway, to conceal hidden truths about how powerful a message to send).
Strangely enough in yesterday's findings, two of the more popular didn't even register anything but a name. No wonderful photos, no familiar stories about how they anchored the wrestling team, no reflections on what contribution they made to the senior class song. No automatic tears or tugs at the heart. This gave me a little gratification. Whether their egos were shot down or they just mellowed, they fell into the woodwork, which I've always been a part of. Who knows come reunion time?
The class branded me "teacher's helper" in the mock elections, which was rather appropriate, since I always got along with them better. So I went searching for some of my old elementary teachers. It turns out four of them became principals in their own right, and one headed the Catholic Youth Camp for 15 years.
The shocker was Ms. McPherson, now principal of a school in Roseville. This woman looked like a scarecrow, and that's how many thought of her. She took a liking to sending me in the hall for any transgression. I hated the ensuing lectures, where my attention turned to her eyes, which would go in circles, left & right, up & down. I couldn't think of a scarier fifth grade thought.
But she, along with the other three principals, were there all eight years I was. They had nearly eighty years' combined experience under the same principal, who was there nearly 25 years. So evidentally, he kept those teachers there because he knew they were good. Looking at the video footage of Ms. McPherson that the school's website provided, it seems like she certainly has mellowed into her role.
The heck with a 20th class reunion, I thought. What about a teacher's reunion? Somehow, the way they share stories would come out interesting, yet quieter, than the loudmouths I'm reading about on classmates.com.
I knew there was something to my formative school years that I was missing.
