Sometimes, when I tell people about my early years, they don't believe it. People don't believe that my community was so racially diverse that I went away to University thinking all dry skin was described as "ashy." (I had to be told that it was a "black term" there. I don't know why - my skin looks ashy when it's dry, too...) They don't believe that one of my ex-boyfriends turned out to be a drug dealer. They don't believe that I have friends who went to jail. And they don't believe the strangely large number of friends and classmates we lost to car accidents, suicides, and more unusual circumstances.
When that all sinks in, they don't believe that we sent two kids to Harvard and a long slew to other Ivy League and Public Ivies. They don't believe that my classmates have turned into amazing human beings, working for large multinational corporations (including the one that made my beautiful computer) and small start-ups. They're business owners and lawyers and bankers and teachers. They work at insurance companies and sell real estate, some are loving, invested stay at home moms. Many are a combination of these. One was instrumental in the amazing Cleveland Rocks New Years Eve celebration - second in NYE TV viewing audiences only to Ryan Seacrest and NYC.
I don't come off as particularly lily-white in my background, but for some reason people assume the angsty-est my teenage years ever got was worrying if Johnny or Jimmy would take me to prom. And I don't even think Johnny or Jimmy were in contention.
The older I get, the more appreciative I am of my class and my classmates. They knew me when I was awkward and nerdy (haha, as if that's changed!). They went through my horrible middle school years. Some taught me how to do make-up, another how to use a curling iron without burning the ends of my hair. Some held my hands and let me cry on the bad days; some made fun of me almost every day. I acted dumb for some of the guys; I acted too smart for my actual knowledge most of the time.
And my classmates went through all of that with me. That's not to say it was a grand ol' time. It wasn't. There are a significant number of people from my high school that I like a whole heck of a lot more now than I did then. They've grown, I've grown. Our interests have shifted and merged; our egos have been assuaged as we've grown into ourselves. We're better human beings than we were in our teenage years.
And yet, those years mean we are indelibly imprinted on each other's lives.
I can love without attention to background because some of my first friends were Tanisha and Ada. I don't shy away from showing my intelligence because Angela, Allison and Joe D. challenged me to be smarter, to apply myself more, to compete for respect. Colleen taught me about forgiveness and about strength. Carrie taught me to stand up for people, even if it means risking your own popularity. And Adam, Tom and Krissy Z. taught me that literally anything can be fun if you let your creative juices out of the bag.
Had you taken the 360+ of us and spread us throughout the country, you would likely get 360+ people who look nothing like we do now. We influenced each other, strengthened each other, became a part of one another even when we didn't want that.
They know this, though - we've talked about it before. At our high school reunion, there was a long list of stories that ended with "It's so nice to be around other people that understand this!"
Today, though, is a day to remember and pay tribute to these friends. Ten years ago in November, we had to say goodbye to one of our classmates. He was in a car accident our senior year, and he never recovered. Today is his birthday.
Out of respect for his family and other friends, I'm just going to refer to him by his initials.
VL was ... a hottie. There's not really any other word that comes to mind first. He was also smart, creative, and funny. But, boy, could he get away with anything by flashing his smile. I used to let him cheat off me in history just to see that smile.
I often wonder what life would be like if VL was here. He was supposed to be here - to be in "awe" of my "success" as a lawyer, to be one of the ones who says "I always knew this is what you'd turn into." And he would've meant it. He was supposed to be present at our high school reunion, buying rounds of shots while telling stories of our younger years.
And I was supposed to congratulate him on his marriage - to fawn over pictures of his kids. To congratulate him on his new job or new career or new ... something. I often sit and wonder what that something would have been. Potentially a hockey star. Or a model. Or a reporter. Or a TV anchor man.
It's not rewriting history when I remember VL that way. Sometimes, I know, we glaze over the bad in a person as we try to remember the good. I've seen that a lot this week in the news. But, that's not this. This is the story of a kid who really had a life to lead. And it's still upsetting all these years later to realize he didn't get to live it.
VL taught me a lot. He taught me how to be flirtatious. I know that sounds strange, but I knew in 8th grade that he could say and do things I just could never have gotten away with. So I remember studying him - studying how he interacted with teachers. Later, I would practice those looks. Those smiles. The way he finished a joking sentence.
As I said - I was a nerd. I had a lot of time to study kids who were cooler than me.
He taught me to be confident in myself. He taught me about leadership and about dedication.
And in his death, he has taught me to be extraordinarily generous in love.
I say "I love you" often and quick. It's supposedly one of my worst habits. I get a lot of slack for it. Some people think the sentiment's not worth sharing - some people think "I love you" is only meaningful if you're reserved with it, if there's only a certain number you dole out. Some people think if you love someone you shouldn't have to or need to say it.
But that's all bullshit.
Love isn't some staid thing. It's not meant to be confined by rules, and it doesn't benefit from a limited engagement. It's wild and rambling, it dances in moonlight and wakes up before the earliest sun ray. It can be quiet at times, but only between bursts of unbounded excitement - a fire that got a little too much gas poured on it.
Love has many forms, but at its purest, most God-like it has this stretching force, this consistency that is all encompassing, constantly growing, constantly reforming to invite many more into it, that just never stops. It skips between people like a child with a rope. It pulls you in and then encourages you to pull others in.
When we try to stop it, we lose it. Just all together gone. Like a balloon after you stick a needle in it - you've changed its very definition and it loses its purpose.
So I say it - "I love you" - almost constantly. Sometimes too soon, sometimes too often, but always with sincerity. And always with the hope that if I pass too soon - or if I never get to tell someone how I feel again - that they will know it was the truth. That they will feel that force, let it transform them, and then pass it on.
There are many things I wish I had said to VL back then. I wish I had told him his eyes could make a girl melt (although I imagine he knew that). That I appreciated when he was humble and honest with his failings. That I hoped I could be that way too, someday. That even though we lost touch after 8th grade, I have so many vivid memories of him that my junior high life could never be defined without him. That I was grateful for his friendship. That it was painful when he left us - that it still is for many of us. That I miss him and wish he was here. That I think his impact on the world has lasted much longer than mine would have at that age.
Of course, I was 17 then. I wouldn't have known to tell him some of that; I would've been mortified to tell him other parts of it. But, in his passing, I have kept lessons that will never leave me. Lessons that have transformed me.
Today as I wish him a Happy 36th Birthday, I can't help but think of these two songs. I love you VL. You are missed.
When that all sinks in, they don't believe that we sent two kids to Harvard and a long slew to other Ivy League and Public Ivies. They don't believe that my classmates have turned into amazing human beings, working for large multinational corporations (including the one that made my beautiful computer) and small start-ups. They're business owners and lawyers and bankers and teachers. They work at insurance companies and sell real estate, some are loving, invested stay at home moms. Many are a combination of these. One was instrumental in the amazing Cleveland Rocks New Years Eve celebration - second in NYE TV viewing audiences only to Ryan Seacrest and NYC.
I don't come off as particularly lily-white in my background, but for some reason people assume the angsty-est my teenage years ever got was worrying if Johnny or Jimmy would take me to prom. And I don't even think Johnny or Jimmy were in contention.
The older I get, the more appreciative I am of my class and my classmates. They knew me when I was awkward and nerdy (haha, as if that's changed!). They went through my horrible middle school years. Some taught me how to do make-up, another how to use a curling iron without burning the ends of my hair. Some held my hands and let me cry on the bad days; some made fun of me almost every day. I acted dumb for some of the guys; I acted too smart for my actual knowledge most of the time.
And my classmates went through all of that with me. That's not to say it was a grand ol' time. It wasn't. There are a significant number of people from my high school that I like a whole heck of a lot more now than I did then. They've grown, I've grown. Our interests have shifted and merged; our egos have been assuaged as we've grown into ourselves. We're better human beings than we were in our teenage years.
And yet, those years mean we are indelibly imprinted on each other's lives.
I can love without attention to background because some of my first friends were Tanisha and Ada. I don't shy away from showing my intelligence because Angela, Allison and Joe D. challenged me to be smarter, to apply myself more, to compete for respect. Colleen taught me about forgiveness and about strength. Carrie taught me to stand up for people, even if it means risking your own popularity. And Adam, Tom and Krissy Z. taught me that literally anything can be fun if you let your creative juices out of the bag.
Had you taken the 360+ of us and spread us throughout the country, you would likely get 360+ people who look nothing like we do now. We influenced each other, strengthened each other, became a part of one another even when we didn't want that.
They know this, though - we've talked about it before. At our high school reunion, there was a long list of stories that ended with "It's so nice to be around other people that understand this!"
Today, though, is a day to remember and pay tribute to these friends. Ten years ago in November, we had to say goodbye to one of our classmates. He was in a car accident our senior year, and he never recovered. Today is his birthday.
Out of respect for his family and other friends, I'm just going to refer to him by his initials.
VL was ... a hottie. There's not really any other word that comes to mind first. He was also smart, creative, and funny. But, boy, could he get away with anything by flashing his smile. I used to let him cheat off me in history just to see that smile.
I often wonder what life would be like if VL was here. He was supposed to be here - to be in "awe" of my "success" as a lawyer, to be one of the ones who says "I always knew this is what you'd turn into." And he would've meant it. He was supposed to be present at our high school reunion, buying rounds of shots while telling stories of our younger years.
And I was supposed to congratulate him on his marriage - to fawn over pictures of his kids. To congratulate him on his new job or new career or new ... something. I often sit and wonder what that something would have been. Potentially a hockey star. Or a model. Or a reporter. Or a TV anchor man.
It's not rewriting history when I remember VL that way. Sometimes, I know, we glaze over the bad in a person as we try to remember the good. I've seen that a lot this week in the news. But, that's not this. This is the story of a kid who really had a life to lead. And it's still upsetting all these years later to realize he didn't get to live it.
VL taught me a lot. He taught me how to be flirtatious. I know that sounds strange, but I knew in 8th grade that he could say and do things I just could never have gotten away with. So I remember studying him - studying how he interacted with teachers. Later, I would practice those looks. Those smiles. The way he finished a joking sentence.
As I said - I was a nerd. I had a lot of time to study kids who were cooler than me.
He taught me to be confident in myself. He taught me about leadership and about dedication.
And in his death, he has taught me to be extraordinarily generous in love.
I say "I love you" often and quick. It's supposedly one of my worst habits. I get a lot of slack for it. Some people think the sentiment's not worth sharing - some people think "I love you" is only meaningful if you're reserved with it, if there's only a certain number you dole out. Some people think if you love someone you shouldn't have to or need to say it.
But that's all bullshit.
Love isn't some staid thing. It's not meant to be confined by rules, and it doesn't benefit from a limited engagement. It's wild and rambling, it dances in moonlight and wakes up before the earliest sun ray. It can be quiet at times, but only between bursts of unbounded excitement - a fire that got a little too much gas poured on it.
Love has many forms, but at its purest, most God-like it has this stretching force, this consistency that is all encompassing, constantly growing, constantly reforming to invite many more into it, that just never stops. It skips between people like a child with a rope. It pulls you in and then encourages you to pull others in.
When we try to stop it, we lose it. Just all together gone. Like a balloon after you stick a needle in it - you've changed its very definition and it loses its purpose.
So I say it - "I love you" - almost constantly. Sometimes too soon, sometimes too often, but always with sincerity. And always with the hope that if I pass too soon - or if I never get to tell someone how I feel again - that they will know it was the truth. That they will feel that force, let it transform them, and then pass it on.
There are many things I wish I had said to VL back then. I wish I had told him his eyes could make a girl melt (although I imagine he knew that). That I appreciated when he was humble and honest with his failings. That I hoped I could be that way too, someday. That even though we lost touch after 8th grade, I have so many vivid memories of him that my junior high life could never be defined without him. That I was grateful for his friendship. That it was painful when he left us - that it still is for many of us. That I miss him and wish he was here. That I think his impact on the world has lasted much longer than mine would have at that age.
Of course, I was 17 then. I wouldn't have known to tell him some of that; I would've been mortified to tell him other parts of it. But, in his passing, I have kept lessons that will never leave me. Lessons that have transformed me.
Today as I wish him a Happy 36th Birthday, I can't help but think of these two songs. I love you VL. You are missed.
The Dance, Garth Brooks
Go Rest High on that Mountain, Vince Gill
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