A few years ago, I attended the 35th reunion of my high school 
graduating class. It was the first and last reunion I would attend. Of the 350 students in our class, I considered only about 15 of them to be friends. Among those 15, two were my very best friends. In the years following graduation, my best friends and I remained in touch, and shared the highs and lows of our life experiences including intimate details about our careers, marriages, children, deaths in our families, and divorce.
One of my best friends was Valerie. Unlike me, she kept in touch with former classmates, and attended a number of their get-togethers. As the 35th reunion approached, I resisted her attempt to persuade me to attend. “Come on,” she insisted, “You’ll enjoy it.” My efforts to convince her that I could easily live out the rest of my life and not miss seeing former classmates or revisiting a period that I was happy to move beyond fell on deaf ears, so I relented.
Upon arrival at the hotel ballroom, pre-registrants received a name tag bearing our picture that had been copied from the year book. Valerie and I sat at a table near the door “to see and be seen” she said jokingly. As former students and their spouses or companions arrived and took their seats at tables round the room, Valerie pointed out to me those people who she recognized. A couple of alumnae arrived in wheelchairs, while some others leaned on a cane or walker. Occasionally, one of our former pals like Phil, walked in, spotted Valerie and me and joined us at our table. When we were students, Valerie and I were lumped into the group with others labeled as the poor, shy, quiet kids. We were often shunned by the in-crowd, because we lacked their brash assertiveness, stylish clothes, and haughty attitude. Although, overall the crowd that evening looked pretty good, it was clear that the youthful faces from our yearbook were now etched with age. But what was more evident was that after all the years the cliques remained intact. The birds of a feather from high school days past still flocked together.
The mistress of ceremony and the souvenir program acknowledged some of our classmates who were deceased. Some had died in the Vietnam War; and death claimed others under various circumstances. It was good to see in the mix at least two couples who had been high school sweethearts. They had married immediately after graduation, and there they were, still together like Will and Jada Smith. Well, maybe more like Ossie Davis and Ruby Dee.
When the DJ began playing oldies from our heyday, the best dancers from our class got up and showed that they could still strut their stuff. It wasn’t a wonderful night to remember, but it wasn’t a bad experience either. In spite of the fact that a few faces in the crowd triggered flashbacks of days when I endured teasing, rejection, and longed to fit in, my self-confidence that evening was a million times greater than it had been in my youth. I had grown from a timid, introverted girl into an outspoken and confident woman, who no longer needed the approval of my peers to elevate my self-esteem. I remain grateful that I yielded to Valerie’s wishes and joined her at that reunion, because three years later my dear friend died of breast cancer.