What I Learned from My 30th High School Reunion

Well, let me just start off by saying I was not popular in high school. I didn't really fit into any of the cliques. I was too straight for the Stoners, not quite bright enough for the Brains, not quite athletic enough for the Jocks, and definitely not cheerleader material. I did have a handful of friends, but I spent a lot of time hanging out by myself in the vicinity of the library.

I had gone to the fifth year reunion, which was a painful déjà vu of an unsuccessful high school dance. No one had changed; the cliques were as virulent as ever. This didn't encourage me. I ignored all of the subsequent reunions, until the day a postcard arrived in my mailbox announcing the thirtieth.

At first I was horrified, then intrigued. Had enough time passed for all of the petty adolescent foolishness to be history? Was it possible that the Jocks, Stoners and Cheerleaders had all degenerated into a sort of middle-aged homogeneity? Would I actually not feel like a total outcast?

I waffled about going, but curiosity got the better of me and I decided to take the plunge. I forced my husband to accompany me as a human shield. I didn't want to suffer the humiliation of standing in a corner by myself. My husband was safe; he had gone to a high school in a state 2,000 miles away. He didn't have to worry about anybody sniggering at him from behind their plastic cocktail glass. And admittedly, I didn't mind having everyone see the tall, blue-eyed hunk I had married.

So we went. Smiling people came up and talked to me. Better still, people greeted me who would have never given me the time of day when we were in high school. I was relieved and actually started enjoying myself.

But the real reason I'm glad I went was because of one person I saw there, and what it taught me.

He was a boy that I had gone through elementary school with, but I don't even remember seeing him in high school. I may be forgiven for this, since my high school was fairly large; there were over 600 students in my graduating class. But this particular kid wasn't someone anyone paid attention to anyway. In grade school, I don't think he had any friends. He didn't exactly get picked on, but for the most part, he was simply invisible. The situation wasn't much different at the high school reunion. He seemed to be alone there, too. I recognized him and went up to say hello. What he said to me just blew me away.

He said, "I remember how you used to help me with my schoolwork when we were in fifth grade." I was stunned. I didn't remember helping him. I didn't even remember ever speaking to him. And yet, here it was, not just thirty but thirty-seven years later, and he still remembered that I had helped him, and how he had appreciated it. This, I think, is a small miracle.

The lesson I learned from this is that our actions live on in ways we can never imagine. Before we act or speak, maybe we should stop and think: is this how I want to be remembered?