I recently attended the 45th Anniversary
Class Reunion of my high school graduation class -- Muncie Central High School,
Class of 1970. Even though the
class has reunions ever five years, it was the first time I attended. I thought
maybe it was time. Maybe I could put
to rest some of those long ago ghosts from a high school experience that was, at best, a very unhappy time.
The reunion resulted in a surprising swirl of
emotions -- some good, some not so good, some so multi-faceted that they are
taking a while to digest. In the
end, this reflection about more about me than my classmates
and the reunion itself.
To understand nearly anything, you have to
start at the beginning.
I grew up on the east side of Muncie, the
youngest of seven born to older parents (father 52, mother 45). My dad worked
at Chevrolet and had a third grade education. By the time I started high
school, he had retired with health issues. My mother had, at best, an eighth
grade education. For most of my school years, she was an elementary school cook.
Although they lacked formal education, they were among the most intelligent
people I've ever known, interested in politics and the world around them.
I grew up mostly with kids who came from families
that relocated from Jamestown, Tennessee and Morehead, Kentucky, seeking
factory jobs. They brought with them their prejudices, but that mattered little
since our neighborhood and elementary school were all white.
But that changed in junior high. Muncie
Schools, in their infinite wisdom (sarcasm intended) took the poor white kids
from the east side (Mayfield and Ault Shire additions) and the poor black kids
who came from Whitely, an ironically named all-black neighborhood that carried
the moniker of its developer, and threw them together in a new school -- Kuhner
Junior High. It was a volatile
mix.
In my first day in junior high, two older
black students jumped me and took the money I had on me. My joyfully innocent
view of school was gone in an instant. I never viewed school quite the same
after that. And the tension in the school spilled out in other ways. The most
vicious fight I ever saw was at Kuhner when two girls attacked each other with
knitting needles right outside the school office. Still, I got along with most
of my classmates. Black and white alike, we shared one thing in common -- our
economic status.
I didn't have great grades at Kuhner, but I
topped the charts on all the standardized tests. When I got to Muncie Central, I was placed in the
"college prep" classes. The problem I faced was that those classes
contained almost no one else from Kuhner. LouAnne was in a couple of my classes
my sophomore year. Gary Marcum, who was a math whiz, was in my science classes.
But that was about it. Everyone else in my classes came from McKinley and
Storer junior high schools.
I was shy, socially awkward and tremendously insecure. I was quite
immature in most respects, though I didn't know it at the time. I didn't know
how to make new friends. I was nearly petrified around girls. And now I felt
isolated, like Robert Heinlein's "Stranger in a Strange Land."
In my junior year, my father died suddenly.
After missing most of that week, I returned to class only to have my English
teacher confront me about why I hadn't been in class the previous week. Seems
no one from the office bothered to tell my teachers. The experience confirmed
that few at the school really knew anything about me.
This is not to say that I was bullied or
picked on. I don't remember any instances of name-calling or classmates making
fun of me (except in gym class, of course) -- not that I didn't give them the
material. It's just that my life seemed so different from those others who sat
in my math, history and English classes. They knew each other from junior high
and before. They had an easiness and familiarity in their conversations. They hung
out with each other, went to dances, ballgames, movies. I stayed to myself. After school, I
went home and read or watched television.
When Muncie schools erupted in race riots in
the tumultuous late 1960s, police roamed our school hallways. But even then, I
never had any confrontations. The experience of my first day in junior high was
never repeated.
My only activity was band. It helped me more
than anything to get through my high school experience. In the end, my absolutely awful grades
as a sophomore gradually improved to mostly As and Bs by my senior year.
In college, life changed. I found my footing
both in the classroom and socially. I graduated with honors. My life has
traveled a long way from those days of high school insecurity. I've practiced
law more than 30 years, trying cases and handling appeals in federal and state
court. I've received numerous honors from the Indiana State Bar Association.
I've written two novels and hosted an online radio show. And in 2014, the
Muncie Central Alumni Association honored me with its Distinguished Alumni
Award.
But still, sometimes in early morning dreams,
those shadows from high school linger. Maybe that is why I decided, after
45 years, to attend my class reunion.
The reunion really started a night early. As
I left a downtown restaurant after dinner, I ran into three classmates. I
recognized Bruce Munson, a Muncie lawyer with whom I have had occasional
professional contact over the years. The other two were Portia Henshaw and Phil Scruton. I recognized Portia, with whom I shared
most of my academic classes. Phil was a leader in the band and dance band,
which were my only school activities.
Particularly heartwarming was the genuine
excitement Portia showed at seeing me after all these years. We had connected
several months earlier on Facebook, but there was nothing like a face-to-face
meeting.
One of our classmates later described Portia
as the type of person you knew, even in high school, would become a fascinating
woman. You knew she would grow even more interesting and beautiful as she
aged. And he was right. She lives
with her husband in Colorado where she teaches school, hikes and is an
ultra-marathoner. And she bears that calm self-confidence that comes from being content and at
peace with herself and her life.
Saturday evening I walked into the Delaware
Country Club not knowing quite what to expect. Part of me wanted to turn
around, but the chance meeting the night before encouraged me to go forward. So
I did.
Of course the first reaction is,
"Everyone is so old!" Then the
realization hits -- you are that old, too. I glimpsed a couple of faces I
immediately recognized, and saw some familiar names on people I didn't
recognize at all.
Phil Scruton, who I had seen briefly the
night before, was one of the first people I saw. Some things don't change. He
is still the smoothest guy in the room, always ready with a winning
smile, flirting a bit with woman, sharing stories with guys, and always seeming
to know just a little something that you don't.
I saw Larry Ratchford, a slight man who for
years played keyboard with various local musical groups. He is Muncie's version
of Paul Schaffer, even bearing a likeness to David Letterman's long-time band
director. I didn't get a chance to talk with him -- and he probably wouldn't
have remembered me. But it was fun watching him scurry people up onto the dance
floor, enjoying the music and encouraging people to move to the rhythm of the
evening.
Stephen King wrote in his story "The
Body" (later made into the movie "Stand By Me") that you never
have friends like the ones you had when you were 11 years old. My biggest
disappointment of the evening was that none of my good friends when I was 11
years old were present. None of them. David True, Bradley
Smith, Bruce Downing, Steve Miller, Benny Wyman, Gary Store -- the guys I
played ball with and rode my bike with -- none of them were there.
But some of the guys I knew from elementary
and junior high did make it. Sam Moore wasn't a close friend, but we played baseball
together and were in the same elementary school classes. Sam moved to Dallas
when he got out of service, the same city where my son currently lives. He's now retired. You can tell
something from a face, the way someone talks, the way a man carries himself.
Sam is a just a good guy. I was happy I saw him.
Gary Marcum, who was a math whiz, was there,
too. He seemed to be the center point for many of the Kuhner folks, most of
whom sat at his table. Gary is a man of faith and a high-intensity bike rider
who I enjoy following on Facebook.
There were another four or five Kuhner Junior
High students who attended, but I only found out through post-event Facebook
posts by Gary. Charlie Boggs, Dale Kiger (both good basketball players) and a
couple more were there. I wish I had been able just to say "hi."
I spent a good part of the evening talking
with Mike Frame. Mike was a bit of a wild man in high school, testing the
limits of his 1968 big-engine Dodge Charger. But he survived -- including
getting a ticket for doing 137 mph.
Mike ended up with a construction business in central Florida. With two
heart surgeries behind him, he just retired, turning his business over to his
son. Mike is a big personality, and one of the few people who dominates a
discussion to the point that even I have a hard time getting a in a word or two.
He's a big bear of a man, oblivious to
subtleties and nuance. Like
Popeye, "he yam what he yam, and that's all that he yam." I'm not sure Mike and I have much in common anymore.
But I can't help myself. After all these years, I still like the guy. I hope to sit down with him over beers again some day.
There were two somber moments during the
evening. The first is to be expected. In a corner of the room was the poster
with the photos of all our classmates who have passed away. I stood looking at
it with Portia. Her best friend's photo was there, a victim of cancer. I
recognize maybe a dozen photos and names. All those young faces staring back at
our no longer young eyes. By the
50th Anniversary there certainly will be more of those once young faces on that
board. It is the way of life. And
time.
The other moment was a long discussion I had
with a classmate who had recently battled cancer. She was a sparkling sprite of
a girl, full of life and energy. Her experience with cancer, her parent's
strokes, and the aftermath in which people she had always counted upon had
turned their back on her, have sapped much of the joy of life she always exuded.
It was tough to hear. She's recovered from the cancer and has a good man in her
life. I hope it all goes well for
her. She deserves better.
The Muncie Central Class of 1970 had well
more than 500 graduates. Yet as I sat looking over the room, I realized that
part of our graduating class was missing. In a school where perhaps 15 percent
of the graduates were African-American, there was not a single face of color in
the room.
Not one.
There were some serious racial tensions during
our high school years. There were riots in the Muncie high schools all three
years we were there. When racial tensions soared, we had uniformed officers
patrolling the halls.
But despite the tensions, the school was not overtly
segregated. At least in my classes and in band, whites and blacks generally
seemed to be at ease with each other. Of course it didn't help when the
football coach's son punched out a black girl in the cafeteria when she cut in
line. But that was the way of things in those often troubled times.
I don't know the reason such an important
segment of our class was missing. Maybe class reunion organizers need to make a
stronger effort to reach out to African-American leaders in the Class of 1970.
I just hope that when the 50th Anniversary rolls around, that all segments of
our class are represented.
When I arrived at the Reunion with Diana,
my date from the Muncie Central Class of 1969, we chose to sit at an empty
table near a window. The table was the only one that did not substantially fill
during the evening. Throughout the evening, only Mike Frame joined us at our
table. Next to me was Gary
Marcum's table, filled with those who attended Kuhner Junior High. Elsewhere there were tables full of
classmates with whom I shared classes, but who were only acquaintances rather than friends.
It was a strange feeling. All these years later -- all these years,
and miles and experiences later -- here I was in the same position as I was in high school. I remained in that void between
those with whom I grew up and those with whom I shared classes -- not really
belonging in either world.
That sound you hear is the thumping of people jumping off the Colt's bandwagon. 
