Slices of Stacy

What if... what if I'm NOT terminally unique? Holy SHIT.

So I had this great idea, right?  I emailed one of the people organizing the reunion (the one I'm not attending) to ask if anyone had thought of a contact guide, of sorts.  You know... the people that attended (or this could be emailed or snail-mailed out later to everyone they'd been able to reach) could fill out this little form listening address, email address, quick facts.  Then you email a compilation to everyone to cut down on mailing costs.  Voila!  You get the bare bones facts without getting drunk and throwing up on someone's shoes, or getting all maudlin and crying in the parking lot because HIGH SCHOOL WAS HELL and everyone knows it.

Somehow I got on his email group list of everyone that is attending and you know what?  So far 35 people will be there.  35 classmates.  Out of, like, 220 or something like that. 

Then I remembered when I had lunch with our valedictorian last winter.  I reminded him of one of my worst high school memories, of which he played a central part (but not in a bad way -- more like a "damn I hate that you're seeing the seedy underside of my existence" kind of way) and you know what?  He barely remembered it.

So now I have this theory.

This theory of mine is that everyone who got that envelope from Tom felt the same thing -- a pit in their stomach.  They also remembered having someone make fun of their jeans or something like it.  They remembered the hurts, the angst, the genuine difficulty of surviving high school.

And I can't help but wonder... would the reunion have better attendance if someone had managed to speak up about it?  What if one person -- just ONE PERSON -- could own up to it?  What if there was someone who said, "You know what?  Those four years of my life (six, if you count junior high, and let's, shall we?) were among the worst of my life.  I felt like an outcast the entire time.  I can recall the good memories on one hand."  What if they then followed that with, "I'm not coming back here to be validated.  I don't need your validation anymore.  I never really did.  But I want to heal some of those old wounds, so I'm showing up."

What if everyone who attended made a pledge that they weren't going to try to glamorize their lives -- that they'd be honest about how many times they'd been divorced, how long it took them to finish their college degrees (HOLLA!), how things were good sometimes and really hard sometimes and it's so nice to know we're not alone anymore.  What if we could just come together as grown-ups to let our kids play together and look people in the eye and take back all the power we gave the popular clique, or the cheerleaders, or the football players?

What if we could just be honest?  What would happen then?

Just call me Angela Chase

For a long time I've been of the opinion that there are essentially two high school experiences:  The '90210' experience and the 'My So-Called Life' experience.

The '90210' experience consists of a world where everyone is essentially equals -- sure, there are accidental shootings, anorexia and drug abuse, but it's the "other" kids.  The rest sail through on floats for homecoming parade, participating in school activities, getting decent grades, etc.

The 'My So-Called Life' experience (named after the short-lived television series starring Clare Danes) is one in which you were excruciatingly aware of your own existence and how far outside the norm you are.  Your first crush turns into a secret hook-up.  Your best friend is an alcoholic who hooks up with your first crush, breaking your heart forever.  Every single day is torture.

Guess which one I had?

Looking back, I'd be willing to bet that most kids actually felt the way I felt -- but nobody could admit it.  I never had the right jeans.  I had no interest in football.  I felt like an alien.  Perhaps to a certain extent I alienated myself: I didn't want anyone to know what was really going on at home.

When I hit junior year and started doing community theater, I had something of a reprieve: I found people like me.  I found out that I DID belong somewhere.  Just not at my high school.

I got more paperwork today about the reunion.  I looked over the list of people that they're still 'unable to locate':  there was the guy I used to skip class to make out with.  I was never quite good enough for him to ask me out, but if he needed a cheap thrill he didn't think twice about asking me to get a hall pass at exactly 1:35 and meet him by the lockers.  There were people I whose names I don't even remember.  People whose names I've tried to forget.

I've tried to forget the guy who called me fat on our first day of high school.  On that day I was 5'2" and 105 pounds, with a 'C' cup.  I wasn't fat.  I was a woman. 

I've tried to forget the girl whose serious crush I hooked up with in the chorus room.  She and I were friends.  She trusted me.  And I was so lonely and desperate for attention.

I've tried to forget the girls who laughed at my jeans.  The one who broke into my locker and smeared my lunch all over the inside of the walls.

I've tried to forget the boys.  The ones who stared, who jeered.

I've tried to forget everything about those four years.

And I think about the circuitous route that led me to that particular school.  How hard it was to move at the age of 13. 

And I think... do I really want to go back there?  Back to that town?  Where my stepfather still lives, having married a girl one year older than me.  I used to ride the bus with her.

Part of me thinks that since I'm more comfortable with myself than I've ever been, I should go to exorcise those old demons. 

The rest of me is quite sure that the girls would make fun of my jeans.

It's always funny until someone puts an eye out... or embezzles $20,000

I had an e-mail exchange and then went to lunch with a guy I knew from high school.  As a matter of fact, he was the valedictorian of our class.  During the email exchange, I invited he and his partner to come down to the house for dinner.  I said we could look up former classmates on the Michigan Correctional Institution database and do a shot for everyone we found who'd done time.  He said that we might die of alcohol poisoning if we didn't exempt everyone from Cement City and TRUST ME, Internet, it was funny because it's true.

So one night I did start plugging in names in said database.  And was not exactly surprised, but somewhat saddened, to find the name of Lisa V.  It seems that Lisa won't be attending the class reunion because she's serving up to SIX YEARS IN PRISON FOR EMBEZZLEMENT.

I wasn't surprised because frankly, Lisa always had serious problems with authority. (Hmmm... sound like any other Lisa we all know?)  She was extremely strong-willed and where some parents crack down on their kids' behavior, Lisa's just laid back like Oriental carpets and let her go.

Back in the day (and yes, I'm old enough to use phrases like that, so SHUT IT) I had what you might call a Savior/martyr complex.  I had a habit of befriending people who needed emotional rescuing, then ignoring my own emotional well-being to tend to them.  Lisa was one of those people.  I invited her to spend one entire spring break with us, hoping that if she spent some time with a family who actually had some discipline and structure, she might like it.  It didn't work.

Late in high school, Lisa ran away from home.  She told me she was going, I told the drama teacher.  When she actually left, he called the police.  She was back at school two days later and wrote me a note, proudly announcing that the police in five counties had been looking for her.  That's pretty much when I knew she was lost.

So all the jokes about people doing time?  Real funny, until it's someone you actually know.  Someone you had a feeling might end up going down that path and that you tried to help.  Someone you cared about, and called a friend.

When do people make that turn?  When does the petty shoplifting many of us engaged in become an obsession to get more and more, to keep breaking laws, to commit more and more crimes?  Is it the people that don't get caught that keep going until they reach felony level?  Or do the rest of us just grow up?

You can't make this shit up

I'm proud to announce that a site has been found for the Columbia Central High School Class of 1986 reunion next year:  the Super 8 Motel.

I may have to start drinking now.

This is what happens when you listen to 'Foreigner's Greatest Hits' all day

Internet, use me as a cautionary tale on how NOT to behave, okay?

Yesterday I succumbed to the marketing pressures of Classmates.com.

Let me back up.

I hated high school.  But next year will be 20 years since I graduated (yes, that means I'm OLD, shutthefuckupalready).  Once a year or so I go to Classmates.com and look at who's registered.  It brings up a chuckle or a grimace, depending on who's new.  There are actually a few people I wouldn't mind getting in touch with.  I am really curious about what where everybody ended up.  I wish someone would publish a booklet with a quick bio about everyone in our class.

I'd like the book because so far there is no information about a reunion.  Not that I'd necessarily attend, but I'd like options.  I'm all about the options.

So yesterday I took a look and decided to go ahead and pony up the $15 for a 3-month membership.  I kept getting all these alluring pop-ups about how I could contact all these people if I "went Gold" and since I was already sitting here listening to Foreigner and Journey, "Gold" just made me think of the Solid Gold Dancers and before I knew it I'd typed in my credit card number.  I am not willing to rule out hypnosis -- those little pop-ups are tricky motherfuckers.

So guess what, Internet?  Guess!  No, seriously, guess!  YOU CANNOT IN FACT EMAIL CLASSMATES.  You can look at everyone's Q&A questions, but since the answers come from canned drop-down menus there's nothing really interesting there.  Once you click on 'E-mail me!', you can type out a message which will be stored in their Classmates.com "Message Center" until that member logs in and thinks to click their "Message Center".  Given that prior to this week I was looking at that site once a year, the people I e-mailed will probably get my messages in, say, December.

$15 down the tube.  Damnit.

So if there's anyone out there from Columbia Central High School Class of 1986... drop me a line.  Unless you were one of those girls who had perfect hair every day and made fun of me because I didn't have the right brand of jeans -- in that case, drop dead.  Oh, and R**** S******, who told me on the first day of our freshman year that I'd gotten fat over the summer?  On that day I was only four inches shorter than I am now and I weighed 105 pounds.  You can kiss my ass.