Dear Neighbor,
It’s October, time to batten down those hatches, change out screens to storms, begonias to gourds, your wardrobe’s bright colors to muted tones, take in the patio cushions. And, of course, decide what to wear on Halloween.
I’ve been thinking about masks a lot lately. In late August, I attended my 50th high school reunion at the Northfield Golf Club, the swankiest venue in town and befitting so important an event. A huge crowd showed up — twice that crowd, actually, as we were all both 18 years old and in our 60s. Hugs, smiles and whoops of delight all around.
By this point, we’d all been kicked around, suffered losses, crushing blows to both body and soul, buoyed by moments and periods of time, which the philosopher Søren Kierkegaard described most eloquently as “Stay, thou art so fair.” And what’s left is who we really are. No more masks.
Nobody does masks better than a high schooler, and back then, we were no different. As Halloween approaches, many of us are asking, “Who do I want to go as this year?” Meanwhile, on a daily basis, every high schooler asks, “Who am I?” Whichever mask is tried on, chosen for the day, the choice is always the same: a cooler version of myself.
Back in July, while discussing the upcoming reunion with my daughter, Lily, she asked, “Who were the mean girls in your class?” I thought for a while and realized there weren’t any that I could recall. No mean boys, either. Not that there weren’t gradations of niceness and friendliness, but no one stood out as nasty or specializing in cruelty. Despite the range of talents and interests we represented, we were a cohesive group, each tending to his or her own bailiwick while leaving others to tend to theirs.
What was missing at the reunion was any sense of bravado. In a class of 220, there were strata — some clearly destined for greatness, whether or not achieved, and some who weren’t, whose successes surprised the hell out of everyone, begging the question, “Who knew?” Apparently, nobody.
As I drove home replaying conversations, I was struck not so much by what we had talked about as what hadn’t: children, houses, careers, accomplishments — all the usual adult topics, the standard sizing-you-up things, the markers of “success.” There was no checking off of boxes, tallying, and how liberating that was. How unmasking.
What we talked about mainly was our safely kept memories. We are one another’s historians, and what a wonderful time warp it was. Almost every conversation started with, “I remember…” and was followed by treasured souvenirs of past selves. That evening, I was addressed as Dot, and married names reverted to their maiden originals.
Two men (boys to my inner girl) confessed they’d had a crush on me lo, those many years ago. I was jubilant — not because I was being hit on (I wasn’t), but because it felt so good to learn that they’d carried that memory and were brave enough to reveal it. Emboldened by their declarations, I did the same to my own past, undisclosed crushes and their responses were the same as mine: “Really? Wow, that’s so great to hear.”
We came of age together, and that is a sacred bond. Northfield was not transient. Sure, there were kids whose parents were short-term visiting professors at St. Olaf or Carleton, and families did move in and out, but the vast majority of us, from birth through graduation, stayed put. There were four elementary schools — I attended the Catholic one — but junior and senior high pulled us all together, as there were no other options.
All these years later, we were united, celebrating one another’s presence, acknowledging and mourning the deaths of 21 classmates. The masks were off. Honesty prevailed, and, for this brief and shining evening, everyone was the coolest kid in the class.
