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Al Gore and My High School Reunion 7/6/2006 1:22:14 AM
I thought I would remember them forever, from the my sh#t doesn’t stink cheerleader whose snobby face violated too many pages in my year book, to the wiry little guy who occupied a back seat in three of my classes and still I had never heard his voice. Those I treasured, as well as those I wanted to forget, seemed permanently etched in my memory.
Later, when I realized the imprints were not as indelible as I once had thought, I turned year book pages again to cram for the reunion. The omnipresent cheerleader faded in significance. I smiled at the wiry guy’s picture, and laughed at my own. And I wondered why so many of those who had written to a great friend I’ll never forget had never called in ten years. Would they remember me?
I went to the reunion alone, in a jumpsuit I knew I would be comfortable in because I had worn it several times before. I spotted an old friend I had known since elementary school and sat at her table, because that was also comfortable. Within minutes, the man I had married and divorced during the ten-year gap, who had not attended the same school, surprised me by joining us because he thought I would be more comfortable with a dance partner on hand. With all that and dinner and dancing still to look forward to, I would have been perfectly satisfied.
A handsome man and his wife came to claim the empty seats at our table. Her fit of laughter made it hard for her to settle in the chair. Eye contact with my old friend confirmed what I dreaded; neither of us recognized either of these two. When I saw his hand cover the place on his chest where our hostess had pinned my senior picture on me as I came in, I assumed he belonged to us. The wife finally pulled herself together and pried his hand off the picture when dinner arrived. We discovered the silent wiry guy was neither, ten years later.
They had taken care of everything. The class officers, jocks, and cheerleaders had married one another and sat at a reserved table in the front of the room, closely resembling who they had once been, give and take a significant amount of hair and pounds. Between dinner and dancing, they awarded prizes, one to the classmate with the most children, a couple for people who had traveled farthest to get there, and maybe one or two for significant accomplishments. I stopped paying attention until I heard my name.
Wiry guy escorted me past the front table of bald men and sour wives to accept our most changed awards. While the unchanged masses applauded, I told myself this beat most children in ten years.
My male counterpart had put on a couple of pounds and replaced his glasses with contact lenses. My hair was a few inches longer and my outfit covered me from neck to ankles, which was a bit of a change from the miniskirts I had worn in high school but I doubted that qualified me. I looked at the award, thinking maybe I had misunderstood and we were the most unchanged. Nope, the sticker said most changed.
Wiry headed back to the table and I excited to the hall, award in hand. Bald men poured through the doors after me, anxious to lavish me with compliments once they were out of sour earshot. Not only did they think I had changed the most, they highly approved the changes.
In less than two minutes, I pointed out how much more they had changed than me, and reminded them that in their flat-stomach, non-balding days they had preferred girls with bubble butts and big boobs. The only thing that had changed about me was their opinion. Tongues back in their mouths and tails between their legs, they returned to their reserved places. I went back to my table, unchanged.
Because of this experience, I believe I know how Al Gore must feel today. I’ve turned gray, and lost a molar from grinding my teeth every time I hear someone say, “Where was this man in 2000?” He was right there, saying the same things he is saying today. Only in their flat-stomached, non-balding days, too many Americans preferred knee-slapping, beer-drinking, lunatics.
I believe we owe Al Gore the most unchanged award, and an apology.
All That Gore
They minced your words, pulverized them in a political Cuisinart,
and then dunked me in the rhetorical concoction until I couldn’t breathe.
They butchered you, a policy here, a proposal there,
and roasted your personality until I couldn’t watch.
They brought me your heart on a platter, served up the world on the side,
and I couldn’t bear to swallow.
Now, hungry for all they wasted, they regurgitate you,
spit you back like they’ve created you, and I want to scream.
