Reflections in Shadows Past

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.