Thoughts, essays, etc.

(The following remarks were made by Nancy Kruh, who MC’ed the reunion dinner in Manhattan on May 25, 2002. Afterward, many classmates requested a copy, so it is included here.)

I imagine that, sooner or later, my counterparts in other MHS classes get up in front of their reunions and say something to the effect that "there was no other class like ours. We were special. We were unique." Well, let them say what they want … but the proof is in the putting. So, let's take a look at the facts about the Class of '72 …

There was our brain power, of course. Seven members of our class were named National Merit Scholarship semifinalists - more than any previous class. Six more in the class received letters of commendation. The six-member debate team, which included five members of our class, won the state 4A championship for the first time in the school's history. Meager though it was, our class also was the first to have any sort of girls' interscholastic sports - a track team. It was a start.

Then there were the intangibles … Our yearbook staff defied decades of convention and chose not to have a Blue M queen. The school newspaper woke us up to cultural sensitivity when it waged a minor - albeit unsuccessful - campaign to toss out the Indian mascot. (Of course, the irrepressible Steve Parker couldn't stop there in the editorial. His suggestion for a suitable replacement - the glyptodont, a prehistoric ancestor of the armadillo - was made solely on the basis that our opponents couldn't use it against us … After all, who would cheer, "Manhattan Glyptodonts think they're mighty tall …"?) By the same token, our class has the dubious distinction of successfully fighting for a smoking lounge, to which I must say: What were we thinking??

Aside from that little lapse, I do think our class had a coolness factor that other classes seemed to lack. I mean, take a look at some of the other class mottos. Class of 1970: "Today is the first day of the rest of your life." (Well? What else would it be?) The Class of 1971's motto holds up about as well as a rerun of "Joanie Loves Chachi": "We've only just begun." But our class motto is both irreverant and eternal … It's the anti-motto motto: "Keep on truckin'." I mean, think about it. It doesn't matter where or how we "truck." We're just supposed to keep on - which, come to think of it, is not such a bad ambition at all.

But establishing that our class was singular still doesn't explain why we're all here this evening. Honestly, why should this still mean something to us? After all, it's been thirty years - a dozen more years than the length of our lives when we graduated from high school. Just leaf through this year's directory, and you'll vividly see how all of us literally went our separate ways after that May evening when we all put on our caps and gowns.

So, what explains our journey - like swallows to Capistrano - back to Manhattan every five or 10 years? It's something I've thought a lot about as I've received each classmate's response to the directory and experienced a peculiar surge of emotion … And upon reflection, I've come to conclude that we're here for a complexity of reasons that none of us could have possibly anticipated back in 1972. Yes, we all went our separate ways, but that hardly diminishes the fact that we continue to share the same starting place.

I think about how different from one another we have become. And yet I think about how uniquely similar we continue to be. We all have the same knowledge base. Who else in this world, for instance, would know the difference between Alan E. Skidmore and Alan C. Skidmore? Or that Deanna Henton and Pam Henton are cousins, but that John Adams and Jean Adams are twins? Or that Vicki Burkhard has perfect pitch, and Wanda Prus can draw better than just about anybody else? Or that Candy Caine isn't just something that you stick in a Christmas stocking?

We also have our own private language. The simplest word or phrase can evoke a rush of recognition from us when the rest of the world doesn't have a clue:

Tuttle Puddle.
Papoose.
Scooter skirt.
Doggie.
"Please drive to Window One …"

Where else on this entire planet would a roomful of people know what comes after, "Coco and … "? Or "M-A-N-H-A-T … "? Or "I-N-D …"? Or "We'll raise a song , both loud and long …"?

In our own strange way - just like our Indian mascot - we really did have our totems. These are some of the things that keep us bound together. But there are other things … It dawned on me in the past couple of days that high school was the last time when any of us had a built-in, guaranteed fan base … We literally rooted for one another. We cheered for each other on the football field and the basketball court and the wrestling mat. We cheered for each other in the school plays and musicals and talent shows and Pops Choir performances. There was no question that we wanted one another to succeed - an amazingly rare concept in a world we've since come to understand is far more about oneupsmanship than collegiality.

And let's be honest here … We got along with one another not just because of who we were and what we did, but also in spite of who we were and what we did. High school was a time when our rough edges had yet to be smoothed, when every day held dazzling new opportunities for embarrassment and sheer mortification. But I think that, too, is the sort of thing that continues to bind us … We experienced one another when our personalities were just starting to gel, when we began to do the hard work of figuring out the stuff we were made of.

I look back on those years and well remember my excesses. I wrote bad poetry. I shed way too many tears over not getting a part in a play. I probably said some not-so-nice things behind people's backs. (Oh, sorry, Joanne.) But I also remember this kid who was full of passion and ambition and great optimism about what lay ahead. Each of you here surely has comparable memories of who you were back then … But I don't think it's just memory … Underneath all these layers of my adult self - layers that have been tempered by years of life experiences - I can still sense the existence of that brand-new self. It's still a part of me. It's still a part of what makes me who I am.

But who else is there to see that, let alone recognize it? Most of the people in our day-to-day lives have never known us as anything other than adults. And, of course, the younger generations are completely oblivious. I love what Alice Delehanty wrote in the directory in response to "what my children can't believe I did in high school": "Get out! My kids don't allow for the possibility I existed before they were born. What's more, they are monumentally uninterested in my life before them, and any suggestion I was once their age is an occasion for major eye-rolling and snickering."

There's reason enough for why I enjoy being in this room tonight. How lovely it is to be among people who can look into one another's eyes and recognize something that's usually so hidden from view.

And how precious it is to have that distant perspective as we experience one another anew … Remembering our hopefulness and sense of promise as teenagers makes me rejoice even more for your accomplishments today. It also makes me grieve even more for your setbacks and your losses …. It touches me in ways that nothing else can, and it seals our kinship.