The Cap’s Still Missing & That’s OK
June 1988. I remember it was a Friday night in our local football stadium, and that it was hot. I was a walking jumble of emotions.
Excited.
Scared.
Angry.
Ready to move on.
As my high school commencement started and the music played, I recall being more concerned about the potential for the football player next to me passing out from the heat than anything else. Pushed aside was the stuffed pain I had from a relationship that took decades to heal. The anger from that rejection. The misguided desired to be loved at whatever cost. The need to matter.
I don’t remember my name being called or anything about the ceremony.
What stands out to me?
When everyone threw their caps in the air, I threw mine so high I never found it.
I didn’t care.
Fast forward thirty years and I’m finding notifications on Facebook that peers are posting here and there about our 30th reunion. Thirty?
Where did that time go?
In those decades I received an Associate’s Degree, and then my Bachelor’s. Where rejection felt like a heavy coat I wore during the middle and high school years, accepted and approved was my lot in college. It was a good, fun time. After that graduation I was introduced to a friendship with Christ that marked my twenties, although full of missteps, health challenges and rejection. There was marriage and becoming a step-mom, having our own son and daughter, as well as a miscarriage. Moves, loss of parent, in-laws, near death of child, writing, becoming published, and connecting with some on Facebook from those earlier years.
What I didn’t experience in those decades was a desire to return to the past. I was always the type that when I finished a season in my life, I didn’t look back. I graduated Friday and all my notebooks, notes, anything related to high school was pitched in the trash by that Sunday. Math was hard. I was smart, but not smart enough. It was a corporate town and I was from a blue collar family. I was bullied for my weight and acne, both symptoms of PCOS that wasn’t diagnosed for years that I suffered great pain from. Home life wasn’t horrible by today’s standards, but there was unresolved anger. Even when Christ came into my life, that former life of mine changed, but my baggage stayed. It took a long time for me to heal and break free from the anger.
One of the notifications was from a classmate I often sat by simply because our last names were close in the alphabet. He stated with a lot of profanity that no one cared about him then, no one cares now, so don’t be looking for him come reunion day. That was the gist of it, and when I read it, the sassy side of me that did show up back then here and there wanted to write “ditto.”
I’ve said the same about my own calling hours. If you don’t talk to me now, don’t come boo -hooing when I’m dead. I’m the same person today pretty much that I was then. If I wasn’t good enough to invite to your birthday parties or say hi to me in the halls then, why should I try so hard to attend? Just by reading the replies, I can tell the cliques and behaviors are still there that are emotional triggers for me.
My dear friend asked if I was making the trip and I explained no, it just wasn’t a priority for me. I told her I had a feeling I’d have much more fun watching it all take place from a distance and through social media. Each Christmas I return to my hometown and invite high school friends to join me for dinner. I absolutely treasure those who sacrifice their time to come. Those are the ones I want to see. I’ll see them in December.
I’m not saying my attitude toward my reunion is right, but my mom admitted she has zero interest in high school nostalgia. Her years were very tough on her and she doesn’t want to re visit the memories. If we’re wrong, at least we’re in good company with each other. My husband is at a big reunion year as well and admitted he’d never go. He was friends with a different class than his own. I had that situation as well.
Thirty years. My graduation cap’s still missing. I’m okay with that.
