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Reunion reveals what made them more likely to succeed
© St. Petersburg Times, The person I see in the mirror now is the same one I used to see 35 years ago when we rural south Georgians called it a looking glass. His frame still supports about 220 pounds, although his clothes hang from it a little differently now. His hair has integrated a lot of gray strands with the black, and no matter how much he combs it forward, it doesn't keep up with the growth of his forehead. Other than that, he's the same guy who graduated from Washington Street High School in Quitman 34 years ago. That is why I'm traumatized after attending a high school reunion last week. All of my schoolmates sent their parents. I don't know why I expected to walk into a roomful of people I knew, except for a little gray here, a few pounds there. It was not as if we were returning to school after summer vacation, when you could still recognize the person behind the new hairstyle or the growth spurt. This was after 30-plus summers of new hairstyles (not all of them matters of choice) and growth spurts that were beginning to turn in the opposite direction. Except for a buddy I've seen at a couple of chess tournaments, I had not seen any of my classmates in the 34 years since I graduated. Still, I expected to walk into a roomful of schoolmates. Instead, I walked into a roomful of old folks. Instead of walking into a roomful of class clowns, brains, leaders, flirts, beauties, jocks and slackers, I walked into a roomful of grandmas and grandpas, folks getting ready to retire. Fortunately we had name tags. This was a school reunion, combining graduating classes from 1959 through 1970, when the all-black Washington Street High became a junior high school to accommodate integration. Several students (including my younger sister Patricia) who attended Washington Street but graduated from the integrated Brooks County High School, also were there. Even though the reunion spanned many classes, everyone knew or had heard of everyone else by reputation or through brothers or sisters who were classmates. Although I had never met Herman Tate, class of '61, I knew him from his name cropping up regularly in conversations my sister Alma and her friends used to have. So when I spotted his name tag, I embarrassed her by dragging him over to her table. Most of the teachers were familiar, some seemingly unchanged. Mr. Marshall, the principal, merely had gained a few pounds. Miss Shackleford -- who called her paddle Jimmie Wood or the board of education, and who, along with my mother, persuaded me to accept the scholarship to Morehouse instead of one of those white colleges up north with all that cold -- looked better than she did in the classroom. She still had that little bounce in her walk we called a dap back then, before dap became the term for an intricate handshake, then disappeared from usage. Mr. Stevens, the math teacher with the sense of humor and the forearms constantly beating his sides to hitch up his pants, was still funny and still had the pumping forearms. In his presence, I felt guilty because I had not pursued a math-related career. Mrs. Adams, the dignified, no-nonsense economics teacher next door to my homeroom, was still a formidable presence. They were treated with the same respect and deference they received all those years ago, perhaps more, now that the esteem comes from an appreciation of the the job they did and not from fear of the consequences if we didn't do ours. I was impressed that after all these years and all those students who passed through their hands, they would still show up and still remember so many of us. But then, teaching is one of a few careers where you can track your effectiveness. And none of them needed to give a pop quiz to see if we had gotten anything from them. There were several doctors in the house, some teachers, people with military careers, dedicated parents and some who work the farms and factories around Quitman. Arthur Hollis and Cynthia Barnhart were high school sweethearts, and both were people for whom the word purity never seemed corny. Both, classmates of mine, were always ready to work at whatever project was at hand, their motives always trusted. They are still that way and still married to each other. Mary Bell-Sirmans, another classmate, was always a smart but quiet girl who seemed to lack confidence speaking out in class. She cured that over the years and emceed a portion of the program, speaking impromptu and brilliantly to capture the significance of the event. In the course of the night, one of my worst fears was realized but quickly assuaged. As a college student, I sometimes prostituted my writing talents to earn spending money. I have had nightmares about lying on a hospital bed and waking up to see one of the students for whom I had written a paper standing over me with a stethoscope. Alvin Sermons, M.D., is married to Linda Fields, a WSHS graduate. He is also a former client of my services. A seemingly less than serious student at the time, he now is dignified and confident. Were I to wake up and find him ministering to me in a hospital, I would have no doubts about his competence -- except that he's an OB-GYN. So is his college buddy and another former client of mine, Cordell Mitchell. As the night went on, I was glad that Erma Rhee "Rebop" Rhyms had been wrong all those years ago. When I was nominated for Most Likely to Succeed, I heard the usually understated Rebop quietly say, "The only one likely to succeed." One day I will thank her for that vote of confidence that has been inspirational over the years. But success has smiled on Washington Street graduates. I couldn't help but think during the night how our teachers and parents had drummed it into our heads that they wanted us to take advantage of opportunities they never had, to move a couple of steps further than they had brought us. As I looked over the crowd, I decided the generation that preceded and prepared us would have been proud. They would have reason to slap each other on the back. The people there not only looked like them but had also listened to them. Although I did not attend any of the previous reunions, I resolved to attend the next. It was scheduled for five years from now, but apparently the people staring from the mirror at some of my schoolmates didn't have confidence they would be around for five. The WSHS Wildcats are worried about mortality now. A vote was suggested. Three years? Two years? I couldn't betray the confidence the guy in the mirror has in me by voting for two years. After all, he tells me I'm the same guy who held out more than 30. But just to be compatible, I voted for three. And started avoiding mirrors.
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Times columns today Jan Glidewell Elijah Gosier From the Times Features desk Elijah Gosier |
