Boys and Men

I usually shy away from wearing nametags (“Hello, my name is ____”), as I am comfortable with introductions, and I know who I am. Next year I will celebrate the fortieth anniversary of my high school graduation and will be expected to wear a nametag.

Every five years I have faithfully attended the anniversary – 35th, 30th, 25th  . . . all the way back to the early years. The gradual aging of my classmates has been duly noted, along with their marriages, separations, the birth of their children, job changes, grandchildren, death of their parents, and even the untimely passing of some of them.

I have not been as faithful in going to my college reunions – not that they were as tightly organized as the high school ones – still I did not make the effort. I’ve been out of college thirty-five years (maybe thirty-four if you count that last semester) – so this year a couple guys arranged a reunion to coincide with the school’s homecoming weekend.  I learned about this from Doug, a guy I haven’t spoke to since I graduated, but when his name came up on the phone, I knew exactly who it was on the other end of the line.

Doug and I met in the fall of 1977 when we were both freshman at St. Cloud State University (a small religious institution in central Minnesota . . . perhaps you have heard of it). We lived four rooms apart on the fifth floor of Holes Hall.  A lot can happen in thirty-five years.

When I walked into the bar on Saturday night I looked for Doug or anyone familiar.  I roamed around looking lost – maybe even out of place. At first, I saw no one I knew.  Then one guy came up to me and introduced himself and asked if he should know me.  “Thirty-five years ago, maybe,” I replied. He looked familiar – time had been kind to him. He still had a youthful look and a full head of blonde hair.

He had organized the reunion and suggested I put on a nametag, as that would help everyone. I wandered the bar scanning faces for recognition. If the face didn’t exist in my memory I read the nametag. Even after all those years the people that I knew looked pretty much the same once I allowed that the years had done their work. I saw a guy there that I felt I should know, and when I read his name everything clicked – except just in my mind. He had no idea who I was and even apologized for it.

One guy I recognized had been a star basketball and football player during those years.  He told me about a couple pro ball prospects he had during his senior year, but an injury dashed those dreams. I expected him to sound bitter, but he wasn’t. Instead, he talked about his three kids and how thankful he was for them.

I did find Doug with a little effort and some imagination. He no longer wore his glasses, and he had lost his youthful innocence he had worn so comfortably his freshman year. I apologized to him for my part in corrupting him that first year. “No, don’t apologize – that year was the most fun I had in college,” he said.

Life was no longer fun for Doug. He was out of work, single and he explained to me that he is just days away from moving his mother into an assisted living facility. “I just don’t want to rush it,” he said. “I would rather be half-an-hour late than half-an-hour early.”

No one was the same, nor should they be, I guess. I had walked into a time warp. I had expected to see the same guys I knew when I was in college. I knew they would be older, I just hadn’t allowed for thirty-five years of changes (marriages, separations, children, grandchildren, deaths and despair). The exterior was roughly the same, but inside much had changed. These were no longer the young men I knew.  I wore a label that night to tell people my name, but the guy I once was doesn’t exist anymore.