Ten years gone, Part 1

Last Saturday night I had a nightmare. I dreamt my parents made me transfer to Regina for my senior year of high school.

I have no clue why they made me transfer, but knew they did. And I was not happy about it. I was sitting in journalism class on the first day of school; all the other students were wearing super preppy school uniforms. When the teacher asked me a question, I said, sassy and contemptuously, “I just transferred here. I have no clue what’s going on.” I remember nothing else, but when I woke I thought, “Thank God that didn’t happen.”

Memorial Day weekend not only marks the social beginning of summer with picnics, camping, and the Indy (Danica Patrick) 500, for millions of teens across the country it marks the end of that great American social institution everyone either loves or hates: high school. It ended for me 10 years ago this week (I’ll have to check for the exact date), and I am still dreaming about it — no doubt a testament to the indelible psychological mark it leaves on everyone.

Instead of writing in my novel for the remainder of the week, I have decided to postpone the start of Chapter 5 to acknowledge the 10-year anniversary of my high school graduation. I anticipate writing multiple and erratic posts about a variety of high school related subjects, and am starting tonight by touching on the odd dreams I still have about high school.

I have high school dreams — the ones I can recall later, at least — every now and then, much as I did in high school. And just as they did over a decade ago, they follow the same pattern. Though not quite the stereotypical naked in class dreams, they are close.

Usually I am talking to friends or dealing with some kind of nonsensical situation when the bell rings. In the five minutes before its next sounding I need to be in class at the other end of the school. Halfway there, I realize I forgot something. I run to my locker, located in an improbable corner of the building, and am stopped by friends every step of the way. With a minute left before the next class begins, I reach my locker. But FUCK! WHAT’S THE COMBINATION?! I turn the lock, trying familiar numbers. Conveniently, my mind skips the part where I remember the combination and retrieve whatever I need; it jumps from my hurried exasperation about the locker to my frenzied and anxious rush through the halls to my next class, book or folder or whatever in hand. I run and run, the second hand of every clock speeding toward the bell-sounding moment. Packed with shoulder-to-shoulder traffic earlier, the hallways have emptied as everyone else has been responsible and found their next class. I keep running. Go! Faster! With the room in sight down the narrow hallway, the bell begins to ring; I have until it stops before I am late. I dig dig dig, sprinting. My heart is in my throat. FUUUUUCK! I am almost at the door when the loud tolling stops.

Do I make it? I don’t know. My memory of the dream always ends there, or I wake up, dread racking me as I regain my bearings in the darkness of my room.

Another common high school dream follows the same premise, only it is the first day of school and summer renovations and additions have made the building unfamiliar. Not only do I need to get something from my locker or the guidance office and run to my next class, I have no clue where they are. I run down dead end hallways or up unfinished stairwells. Somehow I manage to figure everything out, but am still just a step away from the open classroom door when the bell stops ringing.

I often dream about visiting the Newslab, finding it has either been remodeled or moved; it is not the same place I loved and practically lived in for two years. Those dreams are melancholic. In reality the Newslab has changed a little, but it is relatively the same.

Ten years after I graduated, why the hell am I still dreaming about high school? Why am I so afraid of being late to classes I finished over a decade ago? I have no clue why, but am sure I will be running to beat the bell for years to come.