Well, I’m back from my 50th college reunion, and I’m a different person as a result — and a happier one. Much happier. Let me explain.
Of the 1025 guys who started out freshman year — Yale was all-male then but no longer, thank God — 900 of us are still alive, of whom we have contact information for about 800. And more than half of those 800 showed up, along with 300 wives, husbands, partners, etc. And every single one of them showered affection on me.
I had been expecting a friendly reception. I’m our class’s corresponding secretary, and instead of writing the usual kind of class notes you see in an alumni magazine — like “Biff and Buffy Jones are back from their golf vacation in the Bahamas” — I write the same kind of stories for my classmates that I do for you. You know: nice stories about about nice people doing nice things. And I knew my classmates appreciated it.
But I never could have anticipated what happened. I literally could not take two steps without somebody coming up to me and saying nice things to me. Really, really nice things. And this went on 24/7 for 3½ days.
Now that would go to anyone’s head, but I brought some special baggage with me. What none of my classmates knew — because I wouldn’t tell anyone — was that I was horribly bullied when I was a kid. I was literally the most unpopular kid in school, the one everyone made fun of and everyone beat up. I’d come home every day with a bloody nose, but the damage inside was much worse.
Like all little kids, I drew the wrong conclusion: I blamed myself. You know how kids are: Mom and Dad are splitting up, so it must be my fault — stuff like that. In my mind, it was my fault for being so creepy that nobody liked me.
The bullying went on through high school — is it any surprise I never go to any of my high school reunions? — but the scars have lasted much longer. I suffered from depression all my life.
But then came this reunion. The overwhelming love I received — and believe me, they really meant it — came to a peak at the memorial service we held for our deceased classmates. By this time I was getting embarrassed by all the attention, so I sat in the shadows at the rear of the chapel, trying to be as unobtrusive as possible.
But when the service ended and everyone started filing out, as each one passed me they either took my hand, embraced me or kissed me. The last in line was classmate Barry Bardo’s wife, Ann, who gently leaned in and said softly in my ear, “God bless you, Marty.”
That night, I called my sister, Ginger, who lives in Los Angeles. I was crying, and I don’t cry easily. “Ginger,” I whispered though my tears, “I’m popular!”
I know it’s childish, but we all have a little 7-year-old kid inside us who needs healing, and I got really healed — with a little help from my friends.
All through the reunion they kept thanking me for what I’ve done for the class, but they’ve got it wrong. That’s nothing compared to what they’ve done for me.
Reach Martin Snapp at catman442@comcast.net.
