1987

My discomfort started with a clenched jaw, a stomach in knots, and a real sense of dread. We drove through campus a little after 10pm and all I wanted to do was turn around and go home. All I could think was “There I go again, doing something stupid.” I kept asking myself why did I come back? What did I have to gain from seeing people who didn’t like me almost as much as I didn’t know them? Almost every memory of this place is tainted by something embarrassing, awkward and not worth remembering at all. It was all I could do to stop from myself from blurting out “Yup! The campus looks awesome. We can turn around now. Let’s go home now.” Kisa would have killed me. With a cold he had just driven four and a half hours to get me here…for whatever reason.
The next morning I was feeling worse. Our B&B bed was made of bones and bricks. Everything creaked. The floor, the door, the bed, the dresser drawers. My tossing and turning, sighing and twitching kept Kisa and every neighbor within earshot up all night. Neither of us could imagine getting through a day of socializing and smiling. Kisa had nothing to reminisce about and I surely didn’t paint a pretty picture.
Breakfast changed all that. Sitting down to a gourmet meal of omelets (wild mushroom) and “possibly the best french toast on the planet” we were drawn into conversations with neighboring tables. Soon we were asking each other the usual question – What year are you? 1972. 1982. 1987. We passed stories from table to table. Holden Hall became hilarious. Gehring was more than girly. We couldn’t decide if Madame was the same Madame that everyone knew. Dress codes and dish duty. Outward Bound Hell and smoking in the boys’ room. Hanscom tag and an infamous pickle jar. 1972 remembered the exact same things as us 80’s grads.
By the time the parade rolled around we were all ready to roll. For the first time ever I participated. For the first time ever I found pride.

To be continued…