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High School Revisited

While I was rummaging around on the Internet a few months ago for an easy way to squander a free hour, I suddenly heard the world's most recognizable anonymous voice tell me, 'You've got mail!' It was the America Online postman, that merry messenger of spam, that ombudsman of obligation. I saw the e-mail heading, I clicked, I perused the message. An online service called ClassMates.com was inviting me to join my old high school chums at a virtual reunion on the Web. This I had to see. I promptly found the site, entered the name of my high school (New Brunswick, NJ) along with the year (1967), and bingo! There I beheld the names of roughly four dozen vintage adolescents now undoubtedly grown musty and plump with age, though we weren't privy to their latter-day portraits. I recognized most of the names -- the good, the bad, and the nerdy. Women appeared by their maiden names, most of them long discarded, no doubt. I ransacked the list for a handful of fondly remembered females with the flip hairdos and innocent smiles of thirty-odd years ago -- the girls I had always respected for their minds, their charm, and their perky (but eternally clothed) teenage bodies. I looked for Connie and Ellie, Barbara and Betsy, Dale and Judy. But they were nowhere to be found. 

The members of my old circle -- the spirited academic crowd that suffered cheerfully through advanced English and calculus and a few borderline-psychopathic teachers -- were largely unaccounted for. Maybe they weren't inclined to look backward like this sentimental cynic; I'd guess they were too busy splicing genes and writing 400-page dissertations littered with footnotes. At least half the names on the list belonged to former in-crowders and in-crowd wannabes. I'd have little reason to contact any of these characters now, since I had little contact with them then. Back in high school I knew these popular folks at least marginally, and they liked me at least marginally. But I wasn't of their crowd, or even of their species: they were energetic young hedonists; I was a dutiful wonk. They entered high school as fully formed young adults; my voice didn't even change until midway through sophomore year. They partied while I studied. They dressed in natty sweaters and sleek shoes; my mother bought my plaid shirts at E.J. Korvette. They dated and enjoyed the delicious first fruits of adolescence while I'd trudge back to my room at night with homework in every subject. 

Seeing those names on the roster at ClassMates.com brought back a rush of fond memories and festering resentments. It amused me to think that these hardy middle-aged characters had survived the Vietnam War, Watergate, Saturday Night Live, disco, MTV, PCs, Michael Jackson, the online revolution, the Lewinsky affair, Y2K, the tech stock boom, the tech stock crash and pregnant chads. In truth, I enjoyed my high school years; I'd have to confess that some of the best people I've known trod the halls of New Brunswick High School back in the mid-sixties. The in-crowders at NBHS didn't assert their social status by pecking at the lower-ranking kids; ours was a remarkably good-natured class, at least by adolescent standards. But I knew I wasn't among the elect -- the chosen ones who floated effortlessly into the upper firmament of high-school popularity through a happy combination of good looks, social skill and those infernal natty sweaters. I was liked, I had friends, but I sensed that my reputation never extended beyond my own circle of genial wonks. The in-crowders, on the other hand, enjoyed schoolwide fame. They were the marquee names -- the celebrity glitterati of New Brunswick High. That early, easy fame must breed a self-confidence that propels you through life like some kind of emotional jet-fuel. Though I mingled with most of the in-crowders on pleasant enough terms, I knew I belonged to a lesser social caste. After all, I wore plaid shirts and carried the weight of academic expectations on my young shoulders. I emerged from high school convinced that I was vaguely second-rate.

Once in college, we dutiful academic drudges enjoyed a brief moment of happy revenge. Intoxicated by the world of ideas, we'd dismiss anything beneath our dignity with a flippant 'That's so high school.' High school became a synonym for anything trivial, jejune, petty-bourgeois, unworthy of our consideration. We were convinced we had triumphed over the old in-crowders by the sheer force of our intellects; in a world that valued original minds, what good were their natty sweaters now? But our glee was short-lived because it turns out, of course, that the real world is more like high school than college. Think about it. The name of the game is conformity in the cause of self-advancement. The world still loves the in-crowd ideal: the right looks, the social skill, the extroverted energy, the sex appeal, the glint of mischief in the eyes. In the real world, those things will aid your cause more than a penetrating intellect, superior linear reasoning ability, a love of Kierkegaard or a penchant for quadratic equations. After all, it's the in-crowders who vault to the boardrooms of corporations throughout the business world; it's the in-crowders who populate the pages of People magazine; it's the in-crowders who marry young, propagate their genes, lead well-adjusted lives and naturally gravitate toward success. Isn't it? You can bet that George W. Bush was a high-school in-crowder, perhaps the ultimate male expression of the breed. Ditto for Jennifer Aniston among the women. You can see it in their faces.

Meanwhile, the folks from my old academic crowd have to content themselves with gaining tenure at the University of Toledo or publishing an occasional book of essays that sells 3,200 copies. It doesn't seem fair: all that homework, all that intellectual curiosity, all that endless reading and eyestrain -- and the people who partied through school are running rings around us. Aren't they? Maybe that's why virtually none of the thinkers from my class enrolled in ClassMates.com. Old jealousies die hard. On the other hand, maybe we should give ClassMates.com a chance. I did. I registered, and my name has appeared on the roster -- though I haven't yet paid the $29.50 annual fee for e-mail contact privileges. I'm still not sure if I want to erase the 33-year buffer zone between the insecurity of my adolescence and the worldly cynic you see today. But who knows -- I might find out that after a third of a century, it doesn't matter who was in the in-crowd and who merely aspired to it. I might find that we're all just middle-aged humans with a common past and a common desire to postpone the inevitable as long as possible. But I wonder if the old in-crowders still wear those natty sweaters. 

© 2001 by Bridget Petrella Media Relations. "Some Cynical Guy" appears here by permission of the publisher.

Profile of a Cynic...

Bayan, who claims to be a "kinder, gentler cynic," currently lives in Allentown, Pennsylvania. His weekly column, "Some Cynical Guy," is published and syndicated by Upbeat Online. 

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