Dissection of a Pig Roast

My visits home are always accompanied by mixed feelings. I was not happy because it was not the type of place that made me happy. Junior and High School were hell, a problem compounded by the fact that I was forced to switch from a public to a Catholic school in grade 7. The new school was small (by grade 12 the graduating class was 39) and intensely clique-ish. I did not have much athletic ability, cried too easily and was a little to willing to question the authority of the teachers and the actions of my classmates. I was an easy target for the other students to alternately taunt and ignore.

My dislike of enforced participation in any activity can be traced back to the “Secret Santa” ritual from junior and high school. Every year a “majority rule” voted to keep the tradition alive, and to voluntarily opt out was not permitted. Every year my name would be drawn, traded among classmates and ultimately ignored. I can only recall one year in which I actually received gifts, because one of the few classmates I had as a friend made a point of trading for my name so I would not feel excluded.

Through seven years and two degrees, as visits to my hometown became less frequent and less fraught with angst, I would talk to graduates from the grades behind me. Several said that what got them through and made them feel ok about themselves was my determination to be an individual in the face of so much teasing.

I spent three years at my former high school as a librarian and teacher. In between shelving books and showing middle school students the basics of research, I did guest appearances in Senior AP English classes to talk about narration via the X-Files, Frankenstein and Alice in Wonderland. I watched as the school transitioned from an outdated two story + basement to a Grade K – 12 facility with separate gym, cafeteria and auditorium, ample classroom space, two libraries and separate wings for each stage (elementary, middle, high) of learning.

I still see those kids, "my kids". They call me by my first name and greet me with hugs. The youngest have finished their first year of college. The oldest are finishing graduate school, marrying and trying to figure out what to do with the rest of their life.

My fifteenth high school reunion is in August. I am not attending. I see all the people I want to see from my tiny class of 39 and my former students. On Saturday, the father of one of my oldest and dearest friends looked around at the little group of us assembled for pre-party preparations. "This is my family", he said with a smile. "This is my extended family."