Anonymous

This is a town full of those who wish to lose their anonymity. So when I say that being anonymous alternately pisses me off, frustrates me or even hurts, I’m not likely to get a lot of argument. Or notice for that matter. I wish this whole town knew me as a writer and celebrated me, of course, but that’s not even the kind of loss of anonymity I’m talking about.

At six feet tall, and a rather leonine personality, I’ve always thought of myself as someone who stands out in a crowd – someone you’re going to remember. Not necessarily just if we’ve been in the same room although my ego would like to assume even then, but if we’ve meet, talked, clicked over something or other I find it rather improbable that I’d be forgotten. Sure we’re not going to be remembered by every soul we meet just as we won’t remember every hand we shake. But being forgotten by those with whom you feel connected hurts.

I was at a meeting today and a woman I’ve meet several times, a woman I’ve complimented on her way with words and even been advised by, came up to where I was talking with a friend. The friend squealed a hello to her and turned to me “This is Heidi, do you guys know each other?” I smiled as the woman looked me over, her face blank. “No,” she stated, “nice to meet you.”

My ‘yes’ died in my throat. I shook her hand, wondering if I should correct her, remind her, and finally settled on a minorly defiant “nice to see you again.” I excused myself and walked away. Had my previous heartfelt compliments meant so little to her? Did she not see me as part of the community with which she met every week? Worst of all, was I really that forgettable?

In an instant I was back in high school. Or more accurately, a year after high school. I was home for my first college spring break. I made the usual pilgrimage back to my high school to visit my friends still there. I’d always seen past graduates return for triumphant visits, marveled at how mature and worldly they seemed, and been envious of the grand welcomes the teachers gave them, eager to hear what they were making of themselves out in the big world. I returned smiling and ready to be so lauded.

I walked onto campus, struck by how distant this world seemed from me now. How innocent and simple. Oh how grand I fancied myself after one year in another town. I went straight for the classroom of my favorite teacher. For four years she’d been a mentor and mother figure to me. She’d inspired me and helped set me on my university path. I couldn’t wait to see her light up, get a welcoming hug and regale her with tales of my freshman year.

“Michelle!” I called, striding into the room ready with any number of inside jokes.

She turned to me, a blank look on her face. Certainly nothing I would describe as lit up. “Hi?” she waited.

“It’s me! I’m. Visiting.” I faltered. This was not going according to celebratory plan.

“I’m sorry, what’s your name?”

I stood there for what seemed like an eternity. Her phone rang. “It’s Heidi,” I murmured as she turned to answer it. I wandered out of the room. Had I made so little of an impression in four years? Did she really not care about me? Was I so forgettable?

In college, I’d bonded with my Italian teacher. Having traveled all over Europe, I had chosen my true love and it was Italy. I came into her class ready to learn. I picked up her accent, mannerisms and regional curse words. She became part of my Italian personality. Later, when I returned from my Junior Year Abroad in Italy, I couldn’t wait to visit her, share stories of my year, compare with her stories of growing up there. I marched into her classroom with an ebullient “Ciao, Bella!”

She swiveled to study me. “Do I know you?”

The air went out of me. Even as I haltingly explained that I’d been her student and I’d just returned from her homeland, she stared at me with a bland ‘if you say so’ look.

“The teacher always means more to the students than the students mean to the teacher,” my husband, a former Italian teacher, comforts me as I recall that disappointment.

Now as a teacher myself, I understand how hard it is to remember names. With each class, I must work to recall a slew of new names and faces. I usually retain the names for a little while after the class – several years for the students who stand out. I always retain the faces though. I know who I’ve taught. And I know the students I feel a stronger connection with. Sometimes they are the ones who reach out to me during class. Sometimes they are the ones in whom I see a reflection of my young self. I’m sad when they go on about their lives and for them I’m just another teacher they don’t have any longer. So I would argue that in some cases the students mean just as much to the teacher. I was sure I’d been just such a student.

As the woman from this morning’s meeting brought me back to those other disappointing moments of presumed connection it hit me just how much a sense of being known by one’s smaller community counts for more than the larger anonymity of show biz. A bit of a ‘duh’ moment, I’ll grant you. But it underscored for me that the woman’s feeling of connection or lack thereof was a key component to my own. How often had I gone out of my way to be there for Michelle in high school or chat with my Italian teacher in college? Aside from just taking in their lessons, how much had I acknowledged them for the contributions they were making to my life in the moment? Mattering to someone is what we all crave; being valued by those whom we value. Next week I’ll make a point of greeting that same woman so that she knows someone, no matter how inconsequential to her larger world, someone remembers her. For whatever it’s worth, she’s not anonymous.

Be My Friend

I like to think that with my blog I pretty much have free reign to speak my mind on people and events in my present and my past. I’ve felt particularly cavalier about condemning the cruel wenches of childhood. After all, that was a lifetime ago. They’re never going to read this.

Then a funny thing started happening: my past starting friending me.

Ah, the joys of online networking sites. One day I was startled to see a friend-add from a guy I went to high school with. I wouldn’t have said we were BFF but there was also no hostility there so, tickled by the novelty of connecting with someone from those dark years, I accepted him as an online friend.

Over the last months I’ve had several friend-adds from other high school people. It’s funny, at the time I know some of them would never have called themselves my friends and now here they are. Do they remember what it was like? Am I the only one not grown up enough to let go of the bitterness?

You have to understand I am the furthest thing from a rah-rah ‘wasn’t high school great?’ girl. In fact I always said you couldn’t pay me enough to have to go to a reunion. Those four years were a living nightmare with exclusionary cliques and shallow bitches, why would I ever want to relive them? “How shallow?” You ask? There was a girl in my AP English class that wrote an ode to how her favorite barrette completed her Gucci outfit.

One friend of mine did in fact go to our reunion and he confirmed that it was just as we thought it would be. Planned by the same clique who had fancied themselves queens of the school, it was all about them. He said of the 1000+ pictures the hired photographer took, he found himself in one.

Anyway, in my new fabulous life, I have considered myself fairly insulated from that time and those people. I thought I could freely write about the bitches and the injustices with abandon – without fear of the actual bitch reading it. Now it’s suddenly a real possibility.

I had been about to write a post about a girl I’ll call Holier-than-thou Harriet. Harriet and I rowed together and also staffed the peer counseling center together. Once at a crew team party, she’d offered me a party cup of keg beer. Terrified to actually let down my parents I told her I didn’t drink.

“Oh good for you,” she sneered, raised her chin and wobbled away.

A few days later in the peer counseling center, we’d been discussing breakfast, health and recycling. Even back then, Harriet was extremely proud of her earth-conscious life. She’d been singing the praises of her mother’s bulk-bought, home-made, stone-ground oatmeal when I said I ate the kind from the Quaker packets. She shook her head tragically like she was scolding an ignorant five-year old.

“Those paper packets are such a waste. You’re really doing a horrible thing to the earth by eating that way,” then came the familiar chin raise. I wish I’d called her a holier-than-thou hag then but instead I just got quiet – my favorite high school defense mechanism.

These memories of Harriet had sprung to mind the other day and I sat down to write about how ridiculous the whole experience of knowing her was. And suddenly there she was on another friend’s friend list, heavier (thank God) but still looking imperious and fake-friendly. Maybe I shouldn’t write about those memories. I thought about censoring myself, trying to play nice and be innocuous so they’d like me. Just like I used to.

But…ooops! I just went ahead and wrote them, didn’t I? Screw it. I’m saying what I want with the small effort of changing the names of the guilty. I only wish I’d been so willing to stand up for myself and speak my mind in High School.

The other weird thing about online networks and past friends and loves is the profile pic. Will someone please explain to me why people who’ve reproduced feel the need to include their offspring in their profile pic? It’s YOUR profile, I want to see a picture of YOU. Besides, I have that singleton grip of panic seeing former friends happily married with children. Will that ever be me? I am a firm believer that living well is the best revenge but if some of these old frenemies look like they’re living better than me, well, that’s a life failure on such a grand scale I’m not willing to consider it. Did I mention that I may be the only one here not mature enough to let go of old bitterness?

I did find my high school crush online. I’m happy to say he looks…meh.

And then there was my best friend. I’ll call him Sam. Sam was one of those guys everyone loved no matter what clique they were part of. My family loved him. Everyone thought we would end up together. It was very “When Harry Met Sally.” In fact our song – yes, we had a song – was “It Had To Be You.” Flavorless Phyllis had beat me to the punch and asked him to prom (I went stag) but she was conveniently absent when they played that song so we got to dance to it. I loved Sam with my whole heart but I was always afraid of ruining the friendship by taking it to that next level.

And there he was too on another friend’s list with – my lungs tightened – a baby. The baby looks just like him, mop of curly hair and all. I stared for a long time and wondered how I had ever lost my friend. It wasn’t like I could be sad about him having married someone else. I didn’t really think we’d end up together like Harry and Sally. But there was something that tugged at me to know that this person who had meant so much to me had gone on and had a whole life I knew nothing about. Some friend I am.

So in the end I’ve decided that the sudden proximity of my blog and my past is not a reason for censorship. The days of going quiet are behind me. Maybe in the coming weeks I’ll be able to explore some High School folks pages through eyes looking at humans rather than enemies. Perhaps I’ll be able to see that they were hurting and confused back then too and that I never really knew them at all. Maybe I’ll be able to finally assuage some of the old bitterness and grow up. Maybe. But for now, I’m having fun gloating over who got fat and bald.

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If you need a soundtrack for finding friends online, I highly recommend “Be My Friend” by the fab Scots, The Hedrons.