High school reunions, you gotta love ‘em.
Mine’s coming up, the last one before the geriatric class of 1966 is in a retirement home eating Jell-O and strained peas for lunch.
Reunions are the brief shining moments that come along every few years where we get to be teenagers again.
The first big reunion is the 10 year. Only 10 years have passed and everyone is sagging a little, but still looks about the same as in high school.
There are the same cliques, the same social strata, like the caste system in India, from the upper class down to the untouchables, which was my group.
You see the prom king and queen standing by the punch bowl. The prom king looking like Brad Pitt on steroids, with his Dudley Do Right smile. His queen is a perfect Barbie, all around her are Barbie-ettes soaking up the high school status.
Then there’s the socialites, the “Soshes,” cheerleaders, and the crew-cut crowd, the gung-ho people who put on all the events in school, that only they went to.
Next are the nerds, the science club types with skin problems and bad haircuts. They’re all texting on their smart phones.
Then come the rowdies and kalohes who are too cool to have anything to do with high school, but shell out 100 bucks and fly across country for the reunion.
Then the Surfers, I was one who paddled out all through high school. By some miracle I graduated even though I ditched school 4 days out of every week to go surfing — well almost.
Years go by and it’s the 25th reunion. Life has sobered us up so we drop the social status thing. We’re all just people now, glad to get away from life for the night.
The prom king has turned into a sloppy drunk, and his queen is in rehab for drugs.
The nerds are all computer moguls and U.S. Senators. The rowdy kalohes are wearing MAGA hats and driving pickups. The surfers are still surfing, no change at all.
Then 25 years slog by and it’s time for the grand finale, the 50th. The end of the line.
The earlier reunions were strictly for our class of ‘66, now anyone still alive can come. If you can crawl or hobble through the door they give you a name tag and point you to the bar.
You walk in and everyone looks like your grandparents. A few are vaguely familiar, but it looks like a Leisure World Convention.
Some old duffer comes up to you and says hi. You look closer and it’s Jim Smith from your freshman English Class. He’s looking at you thinking the same thing.
After a few beers with old friends telling of times long past, of the girls and the parties, and the tricks you played on your teachers, you know you’re part of a lifelong family, your high school ohana.
At the end, everyone sings the alma mater, “Our strong band shall ne’r be broken formed at Tustin High.”
As you sing it’s chicken skin, you feel the lump in your throat, and your eyes filling with good tears.
Dennis Gregory writes a column for West Hawaii Today and welcomes your comments at makewavess@yahoo.com
