The walk of alumni

Tonight I had the honor (?) of representing the Class of 2001 in City High’s walk of alumni. Though kind of corny, it’s a quirky CHS graduation tradition you can’t help appreciating. I know of no other high school that does something similar.

To tell you the truth, it was fun. But it felt a little awkward.

Ever since leaving high school, I’ve kept my distance from CHS and anything related to the school. Although I have a lot of pride in being a City alum — I loved high school and received a great education — I feel there’s a stigmata tainting those who hang around and closely associate with the school after their four years are over. You know the people I’m talking about. Though they receive their diploma, they never graduate mentally or socially. They seem stuck in a perpetual time warp, like Uncle Rico in Napoleon Dynamite, and City High has a few well-known cases (one of whom graduated with me). You see them at every football game, cheering madly, and often wearing their old letterman jackets. There’s school spirit and then there’s being fucking pathetic, and I have tried my best to avoided the mark of disgrace the hangers-on wear proudly on their sleeves. Besides my sister’s volleyball matches and track meets, I’ve only been to three football games. Though Mervgotti and I threw disc on the front lawn many nights in college, and I’ve nostalgically walked the hallways a few times (I am guilty of that), I’ve only been back to campus a handful of times when not working there on the school district paint crew. The year after graduating, I refused to make an appearance during newspaper paste-up like so many former editors did. (During the first paste-up my senior year, I swear about half the staff that graduated four months before came to hang out and be a nuisance.)

(Ironically, one of the future career prospects I’m considering is becoming an English teacher/Journalism adviser at City. I even visited the school yesterday and had a chat with a former English teacher of mine, but that’s for another post.)

High school was great, but I moved on. And that explains why it was so awkward to reconnect with the CHS community and tradition in the most blatant way possible: “Hey, everybody! Look at me: City High, Class of 2001!”

Though the graduation started around 6, I thankfully didn’t need to be there until 7:15. Graduations, especially for a school the size of City, become tedious and boring very quickly. There were a lot of people chilling outside and on Carver’s concourse when I arrived, and a few were already leaving. (The vacated parking spots eluded me, though, so I needed to park on a grassy fringe of the dental lot.) It was stuffy and warm in the arena, and it smelled like musty, sweat soaked dust; the ceiling tiles along the concourse had been removed for the arena’s renovation, exposing the web work of wiring and unleashing 27 years worth of aged basketball aromas.

I descended into the bowels of the arena to the pressroom, the designated meeting area. I was excited about seeing the access-restricted guts of Carver, especially the pressroom. It was nothing special — just a room with plastic chairs. The big cloth background seen behind coaches and players during post-game interviews was haphazardly leaned against one wall, like it was nothing important. It was in an adjacent kitchen area where I got my class sign, which was also nothing special: a corrugated plastic sign, similar to those used by realtors, tied to a skinny wooden rod.

Not knowing anybody and unsure what to do in the meantime, I took up my usual, observationalist post in the back where I could monitor the entire scene. The crowd was predominantly old and white. (One guy turned to me and said, “You get to hang out with the old people for a while,” then added, “You get to be as old as us pretty quickly.” I said, “Oh, I’m learning that.”) From what I could tell, everyone knew each other. Many, I was sure, carried their class sign every year and saw the other alumni representatives on a regular basis. Everyone from the ‘60s, ‘70s, and ‘80s were chatting each other up, dropping names and sharing memories, while the ‘90s Gen Xers were awkwardly acquainted with each other. Those of us in the last decade gave each other knowing glances that said, “Hi. I don’t know you, but we’re kind of the same age.” Sara, the ’02 alum, approached me and I remembered her. She had been in one of my classes, and I remembered her older brother puking strawberry yogurt all over the back window at Grant Wood when I was in kindergarten. Good times.

We gathered in the tunnel, where I spotted Chris Street’s memorial plaque and retired jersey hanging on the wall, and walked to the arena floor where I talked with Abbey ’00. When I told her my name she said, “I don’t think I ever knew you.” I shrugged my shoulders. “I don’t think I ever knew you either.” Miss ’03 told me her ex was in my class, and said he broke her heart. (I knew him back in the day, but didn’t say anything.) She was the type of girl who can do nothing but talk about her boyfriends, past and present. Her brother was graduating and her current boyfriend was in the arena. “He’s up there, five rows from the top, next to the guy in the red. See. He’s waving. He’s such a great guy. He was born on a military base in Britain. He made me take down all my Facebook pictures with me and my ex. I also dated a guy who graduated in ’99, who was an asshole. I’ve dated a lot of skeezy guys.”

Okaaay…

Much like high school is a microcosm of the real world, I realized the chronological line of alumni — snaking from 1936 near the black curtain bisecting the arena floor to the tunnel entrance at 2009 — also encapsulated in miniature the different stages and paths of life. Those at the front had lived long lives and were on the edge of the unknown abyss. In the middle were the aging Baby Boomers ready to retire, and behind them were the entrenched middle class until sometime in the ‘90s. Most of us under 30 were still aimless and young, unsettled and unsure what was ahead, trying to carve out our place in the world.

After an emotional keyboard solo and short speech from the popular outgoing principal, the walk of alumni began to the fight song. Abbey said something like, “It’s just like a football game,” and we jokingly psyched ourselves by cheering. Despite being told to hold the sign in our right hand so as not to obscure our face, we had to switch it to our left as the principal greeted us on stage, shaking our right hands. At some point I switched the sign back to my right hand, but likely kept it in my left for a while and obscured my face as I walked across stage. Whatever. Instead of holding it high, I let the sign hang low as I came off stage. One of the organizers accosted me: “Hold it up high so they know who you are!” Okay! Jeeze.

Flanking the new grads, we waited as they walked up the arena steps to the concourse, then resumed our parade to the back of the arena. While waiting for the line to move, I spotted Mervgotti and his family, there for his little brother. They were front and center, and I pointed at him. He laughed and then turned his face as if he were embarrassed.

Back on the other half of the arena floor, I returned my sign (I’m sure it will sit in a box somewhere in the school until being dusted off and used by a fellow classmate next year) and, with little fanfare, went my separate way like everyone else. Instead of sticking around for no good reason (there was no reason for me to stay), I ran to my car and left before traffic became too clogged.