Gone Without Rhyme or Reason - But Your Presence Remains

“Are you sitting down…?”

“I’m about to…Why?”

“Are there students or staff around you?”

“…no…why? Jason, what’s going on?”

“sigh…you remember Justin Schaefer?”

“Of course, he’s out in Detroit.  Is he okay?”

“Well…no…gah, I don’t know how to put this.”

“Jason, just tell me, what’s going on? What happened to Justin?”

“Barbs, I don’t know if you’ve had a chance to check out Facebook today or not.”

anxiously nervous… “no…I haven’t”

"Well, Justin was out for a run on Sunday, and…he…died…”

I stop…. “whaaaat...?!  What do you mean he died?! He couldn’t have died, he’s perfectly healthy!”

“He’s gone, Barbs, he died…”

“I mean…was he held at gunpoint; tripped and fell into a ditch; was attacked by an animal?!”

“No, no, nothing like that, there was no sign of foul play, he just collapsed, and died…”
...sighs...."whaaaatt...?'
"yea...."

As the severity of the news sunk in after a few seconds it hit like a ton of bricks and the rage takes over "AHHHHHHHH!!!!” as I lean forward in the agony of the shock “NOOOOOOOOO!!!!!” as I arch my head back searching for reason from the heavens. SLAM..as my hands hit the desk! GAAAHHHHH!!!!....tears streaming…BAM…as I repeatedly punch the wooden cabinet door behind me….NOOOOOO!!!!...as I pound my clenched fist back on the desk….tears, whaling, tears and sobbing whaling tears continue for several minuets. 

The sound of Jason’s voice from my phone pulls me back… 

“Barbara, Barbara…”  

“I don’t know what to say, I mean how could this happen?! He was healthy, I just saw him update his profile picture not a week ago where he was walking a bike trail in Detroit.  I have been meaning to call that guy for months now, and the last time I thought to do so was when I saw his updated picture.” 

“Yea, I literally wrote on his wall just a couple of days ago saying how I hope he’s doing well and how we should chat soon.” 

“Damn it! Jason, it was just over two years ago when Justin came up from San Diego for my own dad’s rosary and funeral…sobbing…and now he’s gone…I wrote one of his letters of recommendation to the Volunteer corps that took him to Detroit.  the tears stream down my face again.  How have you been taking the news Jason?” 

“Definitely had my cry sessions earlier, and other than that....…as expected.” 

“Gah, I don’t know if I can finish the work day.” 

“You can’t Barbs, you can’t.  You need to go home.”

After I wrapped up the conversation, I stood up to pick up my half eaten lunch and took the weight of my body out of the room and down the school hall.  As I walked down the hall, this familiar feeling of grief and blinders came back to me in these very familiar halls.  I started to wonder if the 3^rd or 1^st grade classes heard me sobbing and slamming just a few minuets earlier. My steps are heavy and load, isolated in a vacuum of a muffled silence.  I think, and I hope the principal isn’t in the staff room, I can’t bare for the upper grade teachers to see my face.  As the odds would have it, of course she’s in the faculty lounge.  I linger in the first entry way of the lounge where I could remain unseen, waiting and hoping for her to end a conversation.  Surly, she has some other task that’ll take her away from the lounge.  Five minutes pass, and the end of the second lunch is quickly approaching; I have to interject.  With zero eye contact, and head down, I quickly step into the room to expose my grief ridden face, as I place my hand on the principal’s shoulder, “do you have a minuet?” I ask.

Moments later we’re sitting in her office.  I tell her everything I was just told by Jason; and my word vomit proceeds…  

“We were friends in college; he was a Berkeley student in the Newman Club while I did the same at San Francisco State; 

we planned events together for the two campus ministries; 

he came to a couple weddings with me; 

we did a color run together; 

we kept in touch when I went off to Philly; 

he was there at my dad’s viewing, rosary and funeral; 

he helped me as I grieved the death of my father; 

I wrote one of his letters of recommendation to the Jesuit Volunteer Corps; 

he was an only child; his parents just lost their only child, their only son.  

I can’t finish the day today; I can handle the last two art classes for the afternoon, I can’t stay after-school today though – I can’t fathom that right now.” 

“Of course.” And she proceeded with the only thing she could say as I lifted my heavy body up and out of her office, “I’m so sorry…”

The few minutes that were left before I picked up my 7^th grade students were followed by throwing away my half eaten lunch in the trash and leftover pizza from my 8^th grade class who earned a pizza party from me in the staff room as silence fell into the room at the very sight of my bloodshot eyes and wet cheeks.  Clunk, click and flick as I closed the bathroom door shut and turned the light on.  As I stood there alone, I hung my head over the bathroom sink for a moment as I caught my breath and watched tears hit the white porcelain sink all I could think about was how Justin died – alone.

RIIIIIIIING

Lunch’s over.  I quickly move to my classroom and quickly - and as if in a fog - grab the materials my 7^th graders will need. As I proceed down a seemly long middle school hallway, I shove all my emotions, all my grief and all my tears just under my facade and place my binders up.  Every heavy step I feel with great intensity and my eyes are focused daggers as the weight of tears are just waiting to pierce through the veil of my thin facade.  I feel every look; and every long stare; by every curious student and every concerned but nervous teacher as I walk by and further down the hall.  I was indeed the elephant in the room - or in this case the school halls.  And through it all, this strange familiar feeling of grief returned...as I walked these same halls in the wake of my father’s death in the same…exact…way.  This moment and the memory of returning to work the day after my father's death came right back - it felt all too familiar.  As I step into the 7^th grade classroom a grim grey cloud followed my demeanor and the students without necessary prompting or question see it, and sit silently and wait for my directions.  I gaze just over the tops of their heads as to not make eye contact, and tell them what they’ll need; I pause briefly, and simply and quietly say “line up.”

I have never seen a more silent or straight line going from their homeroom to my art classroom; and then to see these students sit like perfectly behaved robots.  I stand in front of this room of 12 year olds not knowing if I’m ready to even open my mouth again, as those piecing tears just lay behind that thin veil.  As I quickly go over what they need to accomplish in the hour I have them in class for, a hand of a young boy goes up. After I finish my sentence, I address the young boy. 

“Yes, Joey?”  

“Ms. Quigley, why are you so sad?” Like a trigger, I felt the piercing trigger being tapped; as it took everything I had not to keel over and fall apart in front of my adolescent students.  I threw my head backwards, clutched my eyes shut, rubbed my fingers through my hair all in an effort to pull down that thin facade.  And the students knew as they watched in their paralyzed hypnosis, as their playful sarcastic teacher gone wretched.  

“Joey, I really appreciate you asking.  But let’s get our work done first, and if that happens and there’s time, I would be fine sharing with you why I’m so upset.”

The class time proceeds as usual, except their playful art teacher has checked out and been replaced by a cold disconnected robot.  Hands go up; I walk over to hands of students; “like this Ms. Quigley?” “No,” as I take their paper, and quickly and harshly show them them how, and then abruptly walk away.  Every place I walk or position myself in the room, the eyes of the students follow as they wonder and are mesmerized by the drastic demeanor change of their strict and playful art teacher: where has she gone? I’m sure they are wondering; what happened? I’m sure was going through their heads.  But they don’t even dare to ask one another. 

The time wraps up and students quickly clean up and sit down to hear the grim news of why their teacher is so forlorn.  I pull my stool over to the front and center of the room and sit before taking a deep breath as I lift my head to look at their faces for the first time.

“I got a call today – just at lunch actually – about a dear friend of mine named Justin from college.  Justin has been living and teaching out in Detroit for the past year and a half, and was out on a run this past Sunday morning, and…he…just…died…  No rhyme or reason, just fell and dropped dead."  Pause…  

"Justin and I did campus ministry together in college, we stayed in touch after graduation.  He was there when my dad passed away, and I even wrote one of his letters of recommendation to go out to Detroit.  And you know what gets me the most?" 

As they all are hanging on my every word… 

"I had been thinking about Justin over the past few months, like man, it’s been a while, I haven’t heard from him in a while, I should call that guy and see how he’s doing and we should catch up…and I never did…and now I can’t…"

and those tears start to trickle through the veil…as the students sat paralyzed, not knowing what to do as they see grief seep out of their teacher.  One student; a boy stands up from the back row, walks up, and hugs me....

A simple yet profound gesture. 

With the fact that Justin's passing happened in Detroit, right before the Thanksgiving holiday, I was more than vigilant in checking social media constantly to stumble on an update on when his services would be in San Diego – his hometown and where his parents live.  As the days passed like weeks, friends from college all came out of the woodwork calling and texting each other searching for answers and a shoulder to let their waterfall of tears out on.  In that two week span I spent more time reading and re reading hand written letters Justin mailed to me or Facebook message threads; more time re watching a home video of Justin, some friends and me making fools of ourselves in a college talent show; spent more time making the long drive to San Diego; spent more time on the phone with friends; more time in sobbing and tear-filled group hug sessions that lasted longer than I even dare to guess; more time wondering why?  God, how…why…this makes no sense...he was so young!

Justin’s rosary and viewing had people from all parts of his life including a fare number of college friends from San Francisco State and Berkeley.  These once silly, seemingly carefree and prayerful group of Newman folks, that merely had the worries of an undergraduate student, now a few years older and not silly or carefree – not this time.  A unspoken silence of an understanding lay it’s fog over us all as we stood in the small room that had Justin’s body in the front waiting for us to pay a visit.  He was so young – 26 fucking years old!  And there he lay so still, so motionless, so lifeless; and yet so peaceful.  It was all I could do, to not shake him.  This isn’t real, just wake up Justin; you’re fine! Instead I turn to a college friend as we weep in each other’s arms!  His funeral Mass rained with his presence, his seemingly comforting presence; despite our either bloodshot eyes combined with wet cheeks, or our robotic demeanor – his presence was certainly there.  As the crowd of mourning folks processed to his resting place the solemn faces remained; silence remained; tears and unanswered questions hovered like luminous clouds just above.  One by one, flowers were laid on his casket as the breeze gently kissed our damp eyes and faces - a comforting presence...in a word: Justin.  And arm over shoulder, and arm and arm our Newman friends stood in a line with heavy hearts in solidarity as we watched our dear friend lowered into the earth.  We had just buried our friend.  

As I think of Justin’s life, I think of all the testimonies people said about him over and over.  “Justin always was so present; never distracted; to Justin if you stood in front of him you were always the most important person in his life in that moment; caring; thoughtful; purposeful; giving; intentional; reflective.”  The list goes on.  Personally, I have such high esteem for this young man.  For a friend that I worked closely with in campus ministry while in college, he was someone who believed in my crazy ideas of bringing two identical campus clubs together.  I have some fond memories of him in Bible studies where we both shared a piece of our hearts; there are joyful times of shenanigans in the hilly streets of San Francisco or late night college parties in Berkeley; racing down BART stairs; chasing down city buses; laughing uncontrollably over stories I could never make up; hugs that seemed to heal all hurts and ease all worries.

After college I enjoyed occasional phone conversations and written letters back and forth to Justin as I started a new chapter of  life in Philadelphia.  And when I returned to California, due to my father’s terminal health, Justin was just one of many friends who I could count on as I faced chemo treatments with my dad.  We ran in a San Diego color run; I took Justin as a plus one of mine to a wedding; I’d make the drive down south for taize prayer nights he himself organized; or he’d come up to hang with some mutual friends over some quality happy hours, or a day at Knots Berry Farm when I dragged him and our friend Jason around for my birthday and got them soaked on the white water rafting ride – laughing hysterically of course.   And as Justin questioned his comfy office job, I was one he talked to frequently about his ultimate decision to teach out in Detroit – a program very similar to the program that took me out to Philadelphia.  I was honored when he asked me to write his personal letter of recommendation for the program, and was happy to be a sounding board for his decision to explore the profession of teaching. 

One memory I keep coming back to was one from college.  We decided to grab coffee on Berkeley’s campus before a Newman club talent show that night.  As we sat on this park bench on a sunny Sunday afternoon, sipping our coffee and chatting about midterms and early 20 something worries, he pulls something out of his pocket.  

“I have something I wanted to give you Barbara.” 

“What? What’d ya get me?” Being the geology nerd he was, he hands me a small shiny black rock that’s slightly iridescent.  I look at him, waiting for an explanation.  

“What’s this?” I ask.  

“It’s an obsidian rock, and I want you to have it.  You see, my high school youth minister gave this to me when I was in high school, and told me this metaphor that has helped me.  You see, when you look at this rock, it looks pretty dark and black, but when you hold it up to the sun, you can see a glimmer of light shine through it.  So Barbara, when your life seems dark and hopeless I want you to remember to hold your life up to God, and he will shine His light through the darkness of your life.” 

I remember that day so well, and I still keep that little back rock with that message he gave me when I was an early 20 something fool.  Except now when I hold the darkness or sadness of my life - including the sadness that still prevails from his sudden death -  up to God, and I hold it up to Justin and other dear ones of mine that have passed, and I know they are part of that radiant light that shines in my soul and replenishes my hope and my joy.  

"Crisis can force us deep enough to find that source of passion in whatever you truly love.  The deeper the channel that pain carves into our soul, the greater the capacity we have to allow the river of joy to run through us." 

~Dawna Markova

Not Just A Kiss

“Every woman is beautiful; it just takes the right man, at the right time, in the right manner to see it.”

~Unknown

I’m not one to kiss and tell; so when it comes to dating, I’m pretty private!  Most that transpires between any eligible bachelor in question and me I keep to myself; okay and maybe a couple of close friends I can count on.  Other than those select ones I’m closed lipped and keep that slice of my life close to my chest. 

For almost a year, I have actively dated some select few men; and in that same year took a hiatus from that same activity.  It was an intentional decision I made to go on this ever growing, and ever socially acceptable (and now almost expected) online dating scene.  Coffee Meets Bagel and Hinge were my daily sources of eligible bachelors.  Like fishing, I casted out my net.  I posted my best angles, my best filters, my best, fill in the blank, and I wrote about all my great qualities.  Like a job search, I brushed up my personal resume – complete with my best head shots, and full body photo ops!  Because, let’s be honest, online dating is like a job search. 

In all my life, I don’t think I have ever dated as actively.  Personally speaking, I tend to let things happen organically, or “the old fashioned way.”  And in the wake of my father’s death two and a half years ago I had to shake off some grief and extra weight, to get back to me (so to speak) before I was ready and confident to put myself out there again.  Then, to discover this world of working professionals who didn’t find their soulmate in high school or college, and are left to an array of forums ranging from the hookup option that Tinder offers to the in depth questionnaire and ticket price of eHarmony I was substantially overwhelmed!

In a little more than a half year span I went on more first dates than I can remember, a fair number of second and third dates, and dated a couple different men fairly steadily for some months.  I should probably say right now, I am not seeing anyone at the moment.  I know I was leading conclusions elsewhere.  Sorry to disappoint. 

Dating these days is so complicated, delicate and convoluted!  Truth be told, it’s exhausting!  Sometimes, I just think how much easier it’d be if I were asexual, and didn’t desire emotional closeness, affection, romantic love, and companionship.  It sure would make my life less complicated and easier.  Yet alas, men are some fine specimens of handsomeness and this woman can’t resist from the irresistible chemistry I find myself in, or from engaging in the dating dance!  Call me a fool I guess.

One of the first bachelors I found myself involved with was intense and passionate!  Anything that mattered to him he pursued it with great intensity – even if there was a conflict between two equal desires.  There was no weighing of what’s more important, he’d simply do it all. Even if that meant no sleep and an obscene amount of driving – he’d do it!   For the time were talked and dated, I don’t think I’ve ever experienced more consistent communication via text and calls - multiple times a day, and most days.  Don't even get me started on the feisty banter that happened between us either.  With this fella, I was definitely able to show my sarcastic side – matter of fact he put my sarcasm to shame in comparison to his.  He kept me on my toes for sure!  Some moments of physical affection were just as passionate – and if I’m honest I was a sucker for it!  Presumably so, and given the level of attraction, I was baffled when said bachelor ghosted – no rhyme or reason, or explanation - just disappeared.  This was my first experience of this new modern (and somehow totally acceptable) phenomenon.  I was dumbfounded to learn of its social acceptance – a totally normal thing to do! Really, I couldn’t believe how a person could allow themselves to dismiss someone in such a cold way.  Ghosting is really worse than rejection, because with rejection you at least have a level of closure; not with ghosting.  With ghosting there are no answers, no rhyme, no reason, not a hint or a clue – nothing, just gone!

After accepting the fact that said passionate, sarcastic gent lost interest I proceeded to the next bachelor.  While bachelor number two wasn’t as feisty, I was still drawn in nonetheless.  We seemed to have plenty in common: an affinity for a particular Bay Area city, both active and fit, and both had experienced the death of a parent.  The attraction and chemistry helped too – that’s for sure!  I found myself intrigued by this man’s intentional direct communication with most things serious – full disclosure!  He bounced ideas off a trusted elder about anything significant that was disclosed between us or that transpired between us; then proceed to follow up with me about some points of their conversations.  He had a quite façade to him, but an occasional goof ball would emerge.  With this guy though, I experienced a side of myself for the first time, a side (if I’m honest) I was afraid of.  Part of me questions the line we walked on, but part of me also is content with it too.  It’s a weird oxymoron: while I’m not necessarily proud of our actions, I also don’t regret it either.  In a strange way I think I had to experience these things with this man.  And while I have a certain gratitude to this man for his time and patience, I think we both knew what we need and are looking for, the other can’t give.  So we parted ways.  In all sincerity though, I wish him well!

Out of all my dating escapades recently one particular guy truly took me by surprise!  One spontaneous night, one particular gentleman shocked me!  And with all my online profiling, I didn’t meet this one through a daily match.  This one was a familiar face!  A good friend, who I am comfortable with; and at the end of an eventful night, caught me blind sighted!  He kissed me – like really kissed me – and I didn’t see it coming!  Let me be clear here: I’ve been kissed plenty of times, and by plenty of men, but this one left me speechless!  Without any hesitation, without any permission and with the surest confidence this man grabbed my face and passionately kissed me like I’ve never been kissed before for the first time!  I don’t think I have EVER felt more desired than I felt in that moment.  And in that moment my instincts were rendered paralyzed!  And as the moment continued and progressed, there was a moment when this gentleman’s breath was taken away as he pulls away from me, gazes upon me, sighs and utters: “gah, you’re beautiful!”   In that moment, my heart simultaneously glowed and melted!  This man touched, woke, stirred and spoke to a part of my soul that had yet been trigged.  He spoke to and of my beauty!  Let me reiterate: he didn’t just speak of it, he spoke to it!   

Allow me to diverge for a moment: I know I am beautiful.  I don’t say this in a conceited way, but more in a way of self-love and confidence.  Yet like most women, I do struggle from time to time with my self-image in terms of how I view my beauty.  A lot of this struggle stems from my late father (another story read from this earlier post).  Trust me when I say I’ve been told plenty of times by a number of men of my physicality: “you’re pretty, beautiful, sexy, hot, gorgeous, stunning, astonishing, cute,” fill in the blank with any number of adjectives.  However, as many times as I’ve been told by any man of my beauty, never has it been told to me in such an intimate and genuine manner!  The level of beauty I felt – truly felt – I have never felt before!  It was such an indescribable feeling.  In that moment, having a man just grab me, and moments later sigh in my beauty; to see him have to catch his breath at the sight of me?  I’ve never felt more like a woman then I did in that moment! Never have I had a moment of physical affection or intimacy quite like that before.  It was truly romantic!

Since that pivotal experience – this almost and arguably rite of passage – I do view myself differently, and carry myself differently because of it.  Its exterior effects are subtle, yet the feeling and thoughts after the fact run deep.  While I knew prior to this experience I am in fact beautiful, there is a deeper understanding of this beauty as truly seen through the eyes of this man.  As I’ve reflected on this moment I wonder what he saw in me that took his breath away.  Was it the glimmer in my hair; the sparkle in my eye; the softness of my skin; or the tenderness of my lips?  Or was it something deeper as he looked past and through my grand façade in this moment of affection?  Like I said, I’ve known this man; he isn’t a stranger.  So what was it he saw differently in me in that moment that made him catch his breath?  I may never know, and he may not be able to put it into words, but it has unlocked a certain awareness in me that I also struggle to put to words. 

With this profound experience and new awareness – of myself, my beauty, and my womanhood – I contemplate the power I hold with it.  The power or higher level of confidence and self-awareness that flows from this rite of passage rains, refreshes and molds the woman I hold myself to be.  Audrey Hepburn once said, “The beauty of a woman is not in a facial mode, but true beauty in a woman is reflected in her soul.  It is the caring that she loving gives, the passion that she knows.” And while these man’s words to me, spoke of my outward beauty, the words he spoke to me affects the love I show and the passion I know.  It ripples into my classroom and to my students; the affects cascades and guides my interactions with friends and family; the experience flows through and empowers me in my graduate studies at Loyola Marymount University; it makes me more aware and selective of other potential bachelors I choose to entertain; it renews me and reestablishes my knowledge of my beauty, but in a deeper way that I have never known before.  In the moment this man’s breath was stripped from him was the same moment a certain feminine and sensual spirit was unlocked in me.  To this moment I am grateful for, and to this man, I say: thank you!  

“Nothing makes a woman more beautiful than the belief that she is beautiful.”

~ Sophia Loren

Two Years Ago vs. Two Years Later

Dear Dad,

Two years ago today you departed from us, and I was broken and shattered…

I can remember mom’s voice waking me – her screaming sorrows that jolted me up and said you were gone.  I can remember feeling my heavy footsteps as I went to your bedside – anticipating the sight I would see.  I can remember seeing your pale discolored face, and feeling your firm cold skin, and collapsing underneath my own screaming tears and sorrow.  Dad? DAD?!?!  NOOOOOOO!!!!  Waiting for those two hours for your body to be picked up were the longest two hours of my life.  I kept looking up from my knelt position hoping and bargaining that this was all a dream; just the worst nightmare ever.  The kind of nightmare you have as a child of your mom or dad dying; and after waking up, you run and hug that parent.  But this wasn't a dream, and I couldn't wake up from the nightmare.   I remember when they took your body at 6am that morning.  I sat on the other end of the living room from where the two men handled your body from your deathbed to the stretcher; I watched them lay that white cloth over your body; and I remember the form and shape of your body as I watched you, and as you lay under that cloth.  I remember as they loaded you in before driving to the mortuary losing it again.  Tears!  As I arched my head to the heavens I remember the most beautiful of sunrises, and in a moment I felt your presence trying to comfort me.

Two years ago today, I remember making those phone calls and receiving those phone calls.  I remember saying the same thing over and over, and over; a dagger stabbing me over and over and over - a pain that was strangely comforting.  I can remember being in the mortuary with mom and everyone hours later – everything was a muffled blur.  Barbara...Barbara...BARBARA!  Oh what? Sorry.  I was just a robot on autopilot.  I remember being invited to see your body again in the room they laid you in.  Standing as close as I possibly could to you; stroking your face; studying your expression; and not wanting to leave your side.  I couldn’t leave you Dad!  Don’t make me leave you dad!  Dad, please don’t leave me!!!  Please - is all I could scream in my mind. 

Two years ago today I remember the very thought of you brought me to tears.  The night before as nurses told us it was nearing the end; listening to you heave and cough.  Being powerless to stop it – it haunted me.  Two years ago the very thought of you as you lost your ability to stand, sit, walk and even talk – DAD say something – ripped my insides!  Why couldn’t I save you – was the question I kept repeating in my mind.  I failed you – was the statement I told myself.  Even fond moments that replayed in my head was a cruel tease – a reminder, an ominous reminder that I would never be okay.   

Two years ago I never thought I would be okay – truly.  I never thought I would be able to be happy again – honestly.  How could I – was the question.  You suffered so greatly, and you died; you’re dead;  it would be an insult to you and your life, your memory  and the person you were if I were to ever be happy again. 

And now two years later I can think of you fondly, and it not feel like torture.  Two years later I can talk about the dad you were to family and strangers you never met and feel stable about it.  Two years later I can relive the day you left and the sting has lost its bite.   Two years later and I can go to sleep at night without the fear that came with it.  Two years later I can listen to songs that remind me of you without the rain of tears pouring down my face.  Two years later and I know you are still with me.  Two years later the clouds have broken and the sun has shown its light and warmth on me again.  Two years later I can honestly say – I am happy again – truly.  And I know you are happy with me as you continue to guide me and comfort me. 

Dad, you know that I love you, and I know that you love me. I know you’ll come around every now and then, as you like to do, know that I treasure those moments like precious stones.  With every step I’ve taken forward since your death I’ve thought of you – I hope you know that.  I hope you can be proud of me and the woman I am and continuing to become. 

Love,

Barbara

Not Just a Pretty Face

“A Dad is a daughter’s first love.”  ~Unknown

“Mom, did dad ever call you beautiful?”

“Yes, yes he did.  He told you the same thing too.”

“No.” (As I slam my hand on the table) “NO HE DIDN’T, HE NEVER DID!”...(pause)… “He told me in moments he was proud of me, and that he loved me, but in terms of complementing how I looked, the most I’d get was, ‘you look nice.’”  This was a dinner table conversation I had with my mother just a couple of weeks ago. 

It isn’t any great mystery that the relationship a daughter has with her father will profoundly affect her throughout her childhood and lifetime.  People joke tongue and cheek about girls who have “daddy issues.”  But the reality is there is a deep and lasting residue a father’s influence (or lack thereof) leaves in the deep recesses of a woman’s heart.  It’s a residue that can and will dictate her confidence; her self-worth; her sense of femininity and sensuality; and her love life.  This reality has been no different for me and the relationship I had with my father.

For reasons I didn’t fully understand growing up, my father wasn’t emotionally available to me, nor was he all that affectionate in word or deed.  This disconnect manifested itself in an array of ways.  Despite the lack of fatherly affection I ached for, he did do plenty to show he loved me.  He walked me to the school bus stop every morning during grade school, and drove me to zero period during middle school and high school.  He told me he loved me. He imparted the importance of good study skills growing up.  He talked to me about financial planning.  He told me in some moments how proud he was of me.  I do know that he indeed loved and loves me – truly I know. Yet when it came down to emotions, my dad, well, was emotionally constipated.  I ached for him to call me his precious princess (more or less) – he didn’t.  I longed for him to tell me how I should expect boys and men to treat me – it didn’t happen.  I wished he showed more interest in my school girl crushes and dating life – you guessed it, he didn’t.  But out of all the fatherly affection I craved, most of all I ached for him to tell me how beautiful I was.  It…did…not…happen.  Ever!

Growing up with an emotionally unavailable dad (and for other reasons – for a different blog) it caused me to be incredibly shy and not outspoken.  Those of you who know me now, might say, “No way,” to which I’d say, “WAY!”  Ask any of my family members, ask anyone who went to grade school all the way to high school with me – they can attest to my wall flower former self.  It caused me to be extremely cautious and sensitive; to a fault really.  Imagine, if you will a chubby girl who wore oversized clothes paired with a baggy hoody, and a pony tail – on the daily.  Yup, that was me!  Don’t talk to me about dating in high school – I was totally ill equipped.  To be honest, I didn’t even know how to explore and embrace my femininity, much less my sensuality.  It felt awkward and unnatural to me.  Truth be told, I was almost ashamed to do so – like I wasn’t worthy enough to explore that side of myself.  Sounds depressing I know – it gets better, I promise.

Maybe being a fish out of water in Rome for a semester helped push me out of my comfort zone; perhaps living in the hilly streets of San Francisco for three years aided in this process; or perchance my two years living across the country in Philadelphia helped push me out of my wallflower former self.  Or just maybe all of the above helped.  Well, it wasn’t until mid-way through college I really began to explore myself, my femininity, and so on.  Matter of fact, I can recall actually confronting my father on the day I graduated from college, regarding his emotional absence, and how it affected me growing up.  We sat in my living room that overlooked the Sunset District in San Francisco and the Pacific Ocean, following my commencement.  He expressed his limitations in this realm from a traumatizing childhood of his own, and his vow to not inflict the pain on me (and my siblings) that he suffered from his own parents. His means to his end was to disconnect emotionally.  Touching: yes.  Insightful: indeed.  Clarity: certainly.  Yet, even though I now understood why he withheld emotional affection from me, it did not make my desire for the very thing any less. 

Before my father passed away, and even now, I have come to a point of serenity that he never called me beautiful – even till his dying day.  It’s been an internal battle that I’ve had to address, and resolve with, and to be able to say to myself, and believe myself, when I say to myself, that I am in fact beautiful – and not just because I hear those words from others, but because I truly know it.  This great ache and scar I’ve had has been a stumbling block I’ve addressed in both direction and therapy.  It has lead me outside of myself; it has led me to value myself; it has led me to be confident; and it has led me to feel comfortable and dare I say confidant in my beauty – my distinct beauty – it has led me to feel, not only comfortable in my own skin, but even the real need to explore my own individual femininity and sensuality.  And while the distance away from family for five years gave me time and space to grow into my own, and direction and therapy has given me tools to address and overcome these “daddy issues,” it still proves to be a profound scar in those deep recesses of my heart; something that gets easier yes, but always present. 

Case in point, that conversation I had with my mother just a short two weeks ago.  Feeling sufficiently emotionally zonked after this long and drawn out conversation I crashed as soon as I got home that night.  And that very night, I dreamt of my dad…

I don’t remember a whole lot from the dream, but what I do remember was being at the school, working, and for some reason I knew my father was picking me up.  If memory serves me right (which is always sketchy recalling memories from a dream) I even spoke to my dad on the phone in the dream.  But what stuck out to me the most was when I saw my father in the dream.  I was in the parking lot of the school, he was walking towards me – with the biggest smile on his face – and I ran to him!  Upon contact, I jumped into his paternal arms, legs wrapped around his waist, arms around his shoulders, and my head nestled in the small of his neck.  And he held me and embraced me for a good long while, again in the middle of the parking lot of my work, and for the first time, I felt beautiful in the eyes of my father! And the interesting thing is, he never actually said it in the dream, but somehow, I felt it was his way of conveying it to me.  He always was a man of few words; and more actions. In the dream he showed me that I was beautiful.

Some might say, it was just on my mind, and so I dreamt of him.  Well, let me say, there have been PLENTY of times my father has been on my mind before I drift off to dreamland, but the amount of times it’s manifested itself in a dream, I can still count on one hand – with extra fingers to spare.  Call me superstitious, but I truly believe my father came to convey something to me that night, something – perhaps – he finally understands my need of, and something – perhaps – he’s not limited by any longer.  He’s truly free from earthly and human conditions and limitations – just a thought. 

The morning following this prophetic dream my thoughts were in a whirl!  It got me thinking about all the other parts of my womanhood and my femininity, and how consequently my father views me, but just as importantly, how I view myself.  In the words of an iconic female country singer Shania Twain, “she’s not just a pretty face; she’s got everything it takes.”  I got me to thinking…

I’m a sister, a daughter and granddaughter; I’m a friend, a mentor and teacher; I’m a world traveler, college graduate; and incoming graduate student; I’m a two time marathon runner, a crazed fitness fanatic, but also a closet fat kid who still loves carbs, cheese and chocolate; I’m a writer (obviously), a photographer, a beader who loves to make jewelry and an artist at heart; I’m a compassionate lover, a fierce listener, and am humorously sarcastic; I can be a shy and clumsy first kisser, but a passionate and sensual second, third and fourth kisser (no details disclosed, sorry not sorry); and at times when provoked I can be a bitch (only when warranted of course); I am a God believer, a Jesus lover, and a practicing Catholic; I love me some great discussions on politics and social issues; I love most kinds of music, and when the time is right I love to dance the night away; I am beautiful, yes, but I am not just a pretty face, I am so much more – I have everything it takes!  Perhaps, and just maybe that is something my father has and did convey to me; that I’m not just a pretty face; to him, I mean so much more.  How indispensable!

When I think – really think and recall – moments with my father, I do know he loved me very deeply.  At times it came out in restrictive ways.  Like when my siblings and I were at the beach with extended family, and he’d bellow for my sister and me to come closer to shore – mind you we were barely knee deep in water.  Or during a trip to the Grand Canyon, and as curious kids do, my siblings and I were leaning over the railing to get a good look at this tremendous hole in the ground, my father was there to burst our bubble and pull us close to safety.  In retrospect: protective and loving; at the moment: a buzz kill.  There were times as well that my father was playful, and I do look on those moments fondly, and think had his childhood been different, might those playful and caring moments been more than just few and far between; likely so I’m sure.  Most of all, I do greatly cherish the last year of his life.  It was in that year, my father and I were able to have the most heart to heart conversations.  It was in that year he and I had the best father/daughter relationship – but now as adults.  It was in that year we took trips together with the rest of the family.  It was in that year he shared more with me of his life; his proud moments, and his demons.  It was in that year he expressed his desire for me to marry and have a family of my own; and his great pain for knowing he wouldn’t be able to be there to give me away on my wedding day.  But over it all, and above it all I treasure how much he expressed how proud he was of me – for going to and finishing college (and being the first of his children to do so), for the amount of traveling I’ve done (and how that made him think I took after him and all his traveling).  In the last months of his life, there was a simple and profound sense of pride he expressed for the adult (the woman) I had grown into – brains, wit, (and now post prophetic dream later) beauty!  You see, he had always expressed how proud he was of me, and now, finally, (post prophetic dream later) I felt beautiful in my father’s eyes.  Combined, this feeling, this gift, my dad gave me (even if it was a bit delayed) is freeing, liberating, and has so much power.  At long last, that missing puzzle piece in my relationship with my father was finally filled, and the ache - gone!  Simply put – and at the risk of sounding cliché – the point of completion my dad and I reached was and is beautiful.  

“A daughter needs a dad to be the standard against which she will judge all men”

~Unknown

At An Appointed Time

“Hi, I’m here for the 3 o’clock group interview.”

“What’s your last name?”

“Quigley”

“Yup, we got your name here.  Just go ahead and have a seat and once everyone else arrives someone will take you all back for the interview.”

Two weeks ago, after much anticipation and one false start, I took part in a group interview for a dual program: Master’s degree in Education and a California Teacher’s credential.  The whole day - heck the whole week - all I could think about was the interview. The confirmation email I received about my spot in the interview I read at least five times.  The two educational articles I was asked to read prior to the interview I annotated and re read about the same number of times.  I had rummaged through my closet and laid out three different options of what I should wear to such an important interview.  Truly I had crossed my T’s and dotted my I’s. 

I left work that afternoon looking business professional ready.  We’re talking ironed beige slacks, with a white button down collared shirt, paired with a black cardigan over, topped off with some classy jewelry, and some grey and white fake alligator close toe heeled pumps! I looked the part! Driving from work in Santa Ana, onto the dreaded 405 freeway, just past LAX, to shortly arrive at the beautiful campus of Loyola Marymount University was surprisingly smooth. Traffic was surprising clear; seemed like a good omen for sure!  At the very least it kept me in a good hopeful mood.  As I parked, put in my free parking code in the meter, and made my way up the elevator I began to take deep breaths as I reached the ground level. 

Ding!  On my floor. 

Being the first candidate to arrive I sat in the waiting area of the Office of Primary and Secondary Education.  At this point I couldn’t help but pull out my annotated articles from my teacher tote, skimming through the main points and reading through my notes. I was beginning to feel like a student again right before an exam.  As other candidates tricked in one by one, there was a noticeable tension in the air.  We all knew why: we were all about to be drilled and compared to one another.  Breaking the silence, I reached out my hand for a shake and a name exchange to the others sitting in my vicinity.  Clearly that helped to ease everyone. 

“Alright, we’re ready for you all.”

As we trailed behind each other through the office corridors and into a board style meeting room that overlooked the campus our first task was to find our name tags that indicated where we were to sit.  Card stock, folded in half so they stood upright, with our names perfectly centered and beautifully printed name tags - very classy LMU, very classy indeed.  As we situated ourselves and sized everyone else up at the table, the Director and Assistant director of the Office of Education at LMU addressed us.  The interview continued with friendly introductions, and continued on with the interrogations!

“Why did you choose to apply to LMU?”  

We all had a chance to answer, and answers ranged from, “it is where I’m at now for undergrad school, and it's such a beautiful campus”  to the quality and reputation LMU has. As eyes moved to me, I took a deep breath before saying: "I'm attracted to the focus in urban and inner city education and the Jesuit tradition of social justice and service to the poor here at LMU."    

“What do you think is the biggest challenge in urban education?”

..........

In the fall of 2009, in the hilly streets of San Francisco, I sat as a collage intern next to a 5^th grade girl who was struggling to stay awake as her teacher taught a lesson on grammar.  “Tracy (alias name), wake up.” Said child rubs her eyes and stretches her eye lids open.  “Tracy, why are you so sleepy?”  “I was waiting for my mom to come home last night.”  “Where was she Tracy?” “I don’t know, probably at her boyfriend’s house.” “Did she ever come home last night?” “No.” “Was anyone else home with you last night?” “No.” “So you never actually went to sleep last night did you Tracy?” “No, Ms. Quigley, I didn’t.”

In the spring of 2011, in the battered streets of West Philadelphia, I wrestled with an eighth grade boy by the name of Charles (again, an alias) who didn’t do an ounce of work in my class.  Even getting him to do simple classwork was a test of my patience; don’t get me started on his homework.  One day it reached a breaking point. “I don’t feel like fucking doing it Ms. Quigley!”  Charles is puffed chest and inches from my face, in the middle of class.  After a forced and abrasive reaction to his actions, and a couple hours sitting with him after school, I was able to speak to his mother.  Her unaffected and blasé response to her son’s actions shocked me!

In the spring of 2014, in the colorful streets of Santa Ana, I found myself sitting in a conference between a parent, his 2^nd grade teacher and myself: “So, Justin (another alias) really isn’t focused during class, has problems doing his own work and even finishing his work without being constantly monitored.”  The mother in Spanish to English translation made excuses for her son based on a burn accident that happened to him as an infant.  As his teacher and I expressed sympathy for the accident we struggled through translation to impart the importance of not enabling his behavior because of something that happened years ago.

..........

“Parents and families!”  I stated boldly and without hesitation.  “As a teacher, you can motivate all you can, and guide students consistently and constantly on good work and study habits, and the value in those habits, but if a student goes home to parents or a home environment where parents are permissive, passive (or worse), absent, then guaranteed those parents aren’t enforcing what the teacher is trying to achieve.  Teachers face a constant uphill battle as students are getting two very different messages from two very influential adults in their lives: their teachers who spend 7 or more hours a day with them, and their parents who they go home to.”  

The next section of the interview functioned a bit like a fish bowl experiment. 

“So, the two articles we sent you ladies, we’re sure you’ve read over fervently and took lots of notes.  At this time we’re going to invite you six to have an open discussion on the articles for 30 minutes.  You can talk about both articles or just one; no order of points you have to follow; anyone can talk at any time; and we’ll let you know when there’s 5 minutes left before we call time.”

No pressure whatsoever!

“So who knows what about Common Core State Standards?” I say boldly to open the discussion, and to break the tension, again.  Our conversation revolved around the very controversial Common Core State Standards (one article topic) and the achievement gap between white middle class students and minority students (the topic of the second article).

..........

In August of 2011, I found myself – without any formal professional development training - staring blankly and hopelessly at a lesson plan template that looked foreign to me, not even comprehending where I should start. 

In the spring of 2013, I sat across the table from a former elementary school teacher, now friend and mentor.  “To have a seasoned teacher who’s been in education for 20 years spend hours on lesson planning like she’s a rookie begs a certain question of training and support.”

..........

As I'm making eye contact with all candidates at the table I say, “I’m not saying Common Core, in of itself is a bad idea, what I am saying is the implementation of it from 2011 till now has been less than forgiving.”

The discussion from Common Core and the demand for students to articulate their math answers in written form led to the question of English language learners, and students who have problems composing sentences period, to the achievement gap.  I make a comment, “while Common Core is placing more rigor on students, is the achievement gap widening for those who even struggle to articulate themselves in writing?” A perfect seg-way to address the achievement gap of students between affluent neighborhoods to students from inner cities schools.  

..........

“By the time I get home from work, I just don’t have the time or energy to read to my son Ms. Quigley.”

Talking to a parent who’s changed their child’s school three times in a year about the importance of school consistency in their children’s academic success…

“Maybe consider taking away T.V. and video game privileges’ because if I’m honest, four hours in front of a screen is a bit excessive.”  

..........

“Parents in these urban settings are working two or more jobs, and just don’t have the energy to invest time in their kids.  They send them to school, and have a mentality that education is JUST the role of the teacher.  How do you educate parents on how to be just that – a parent!  The fact of the matter is so many parents need parenting classes.”

Flash backs of a hostile work environment, low teacher moral and an unusually high teacher turnover rate at a former school…

“You know, as demanding as teaching is, if the moral isn’t there at a school – especially in intercity schools – you can guarantee a high teacher turnover rate.  It starts with a supportive and caring administration and flows through the teachers and staff.  As much as teachers can and will stick it out for the kids – particularly in urban settings – if there is stress walking into the school halls and the admin office, then it’s only a matter of time till a well-intentioned teacher leaves the school; and naturally so.”

At the table with the other five young ladies, I as well as two others definitely steered the conversation, while the other three timidly spoke up just a couple of times.  These were just a couple of discussion contributions I made to this 30 minuet fish bowl experiment as the director and assistant director diligently scribbled notes on their paper pads. 

“Time!”

As we wrapped up the interview with last minuet questions to the director and assistant director I couldn’t help but feel truly confident about my performance.  And then I thought about all the flashbacks I had during the course of the interview; all the classroom moments I had with students from different intercity schools – literally from coast to coast – and how those moments whether I responded well or not, combined with the bonds and console I’ve made and received from seasoned teachers and a former teacher of my own undoubtedly prepared me for this moment, at this time.  The interesting thing is I’ve put off applying, and going back to grad school and put off getting my credential for at least 3 years now.  Granted 2 of those years I was in the trenches of grieving alongside my family before and after my father’s death from cancer.  Much of the time I couldn’t see past my own nose, much less gather myself to tackle a daunting grad school application.  But I digress.  At any rate, as I thought about my performance, and thought of my flashbacks that lead to me and prepared me for this moment in time, I thought: that went perfectly!  It’s cliché, and perhaps a bit cheesy, but my grad school application process and interview happened in God’s time.  I'm exactly where I'm supposed to be – right now! 

Got Through All the Firsts; What About all the Rests?

Dear Dad, today is your (earthly) birthday.

While I’m thinking of you, and truly missing you more so today,

I stop and wonder, whatcha doing up there in eternity?

Do you get a trip; a ticket down here

unbeknownst to us?

When I talk or even think; do you overhear?

Where ya perched on the corner of my bed?

While I delayed getting outta it,

knowing it was another holiday without you?

Or is that any old day or eternal moment instead?

When I think to visit your grave,

are you more there;

just cuz that’s where your remains lay?

As if you’re its slave?

Today you would’ve been sixty-five.

In the grand scheme, still young.

Why couldn’t we revive,

you from the cancer that claimed you;

why didn’t you survive?

As I stare out the window glass,

through the bare branches,

and partly cloudy sky, that tell me it’s a,

California winter,

I wonder if this winter,

this mourning; this grieving;

will melt away more and the flowers will show,

its colors to me again.

Or better yet; when?

As much as I acknowledge,

this long winter isn’t,

at it’s harshest;

that the patches of snow are melting.

I wonder when the full colors,

of spring will renew me,

finally, 

and the sorrow and grief will be all but abolished.

Steams of memories; like streams of consciousness,

I cling to.

Your voice,

you facial expressions,

The way you hugged,

the mannerisms you carried yourself with,

I hang on to.

And if I’m honest,

I’m scared if I don’t preserve your memory,

I’ll be letting you go; and losing you that much more.

Walls and pages of photographs,

that tell your story,

through your ages,

hit me like a double edged sword.

While it’s the only way I can see your face,

and it heals me temporarily,

it also makes me wish the picture I was stroking,

could be your skin or any kind of trace.

Being past the year mark,

of your passing,

I’ve heard, many a times:

once all the “first” holidays,

are behind,

some more peace seems to disembark.

And while I will agree,

I wonder,

what about all the “rest?”

When will I truly be set free

and feel truly like me?

This past Thanksgiving, spent with your side,

was indeed comforting.

And while tears inevitably poured,

the grieve of your loss was truly at low tide.

Perhaps the presence of your brother,

Mike and his family,

made your presence more pronounced,

and the grief hadn’t sustained like any time other.

Even this Christmas Eve, as I sat,

in the church pew with Joey on my side,

and Mom in the choir loft singing carols and alleluias,

I wanted so badly,

for times of Christmas Eves pasts where you,

were there, 

on my other side. 

And it didn’t end there…

Unwrapping gifts addressed from one parent,

that obviously didn’t include you,

hit me like the stomach flu.

And so, I wonder…

while your death isn’t as fresh,

as it was, almost sixteen months ago,

what will every other holiday

without you be like?

When I turn thirty,

without you, and thinking of you;

will I be sturdy?

Ten Christmases from now,

when I’m possibly married,

will your physical absence allow

stories to be recalled,

of the father you were

to some children of my own

will you be around then, when they’re

all grown;

to admire and watch over your grand-kids

like you have so many times for me?

Even in the short span

your physical self, departed,

I can recount times I felt

your spirit around me.

One recently, when a van ran

a red light, and nearly hit me and my sudan.

Times like these, give me comfort

of your long love, and continued care

amist my declining despair.

Still, I remain patient

of that unceasing and amazing grace from both Him and you. 

Second, First Impressions

Take a poll of random people and ask them if they will attend, or attended their high school 10 year reunion and odds are the data likely will be polarized.  On one end responses might come back like the following: “why would I go to my 10 year?  Isn’t that what Facebook is for?”  “I haven’t talked to any high school friends in years; there’s probably a reason for it.”  “Why would I want to see people who made my youth so awful?”  “What’s the point?”  “I don’t feel like I need to go and see people and prove myself, or feel judged by such a forced fake setting.”  On the other end some responses might come back like this: “I haven’t seen these people in years, and we just lost touch, I can’t wait to reconnect with people.”  “Yea, it’ll be cool to see people, catch up, and see how people have changed.”  “Yea, I’ll go, it’ll be cool to show people how I’ve changed or have grown.”  Speaking personally, I fell on the latter end of the spectrum as I attended my own high school 10 year reunion just last month.   

After a false start to my ten year back in August, I attended (and convinced my high school best friend to tag along) a makeshift and somewhat spontaneous happy hour organized by the class president in placement of the postponed reunion.  Walking into our high school’s small town El Torito I was met with a couple of hand fulls of familiar faces – now just a little more adult looking.  A pocket of former jocks; some ASB kiddos; and mustn’t forget my high school click – some bandos!  The casual setting was decent.  A couple drinks, some chips and guacamole, and defiantly got to chat with old friends, acquaintances, and even some of the cool kids I never did back in the day.  As the afternoon was winding down, and classmates were bowing out, I approached the class president and offered to help with the now postponed reunion.  Without getting into details, there was too much of the responsibility on her plate, and I wanted the reunion to happen just as much as anyone else – so by some impulsive decision on my part I found my sleeves pulled up in weekly meetings and a steady stream of committee tasks for the next two months. 

As the anticipation built for this highly anticipated reunion, so did mine – as well as my stress.  Make no mistake, I was happy and actually enjoyed being part of putting the night together, but there were definitely moments where I thought I bit off more than I could chew.  Sleep deprived nights, tons of emails, plenty of meetings, and errands later the night had finally arrived – and for the first time I thought to myself: ah, this is the part where I can relax.  And at that moment I finally felt excited – it was the first time I could be excited.  Up until that point my nose was to the ground, and I had my alter ego coach side screaming at me yelling “GO! GO! GO!”  Finally, everything was done: contract was finalized with Dave and Busters; centerpieces were made, being placed and spruced up; question sheets and bingo cards were printed and set out; slideshow; videographer; prizes; DJ; photobooth; check, check and check!  The ladies on the committee, as well as myself, could finally take a sigh of relief.  The night was finally here, and we – along with our arriving classmates – could finally enjoy this moment!   

And what a slew of moments that night was!  There was so much that made my reunion incredible, and as much as I’d love to dish out a play by play of the night, I also know I don’t want to lose readership.  Taken a minuet to define the night I’d wrap it up in a few similar sentiments: meeting people all over again; second first impressions; expectations shattered; in essence – people redefined!  Not just my classmates redefined – but myself as well!  And yes, it was quite a parttayyy!

With a photobooth, class elections, bingo cards as an ice-breaker, our videographer interviewing people with fun and potentially funny questions from high school, a DJ with a dance floor, plenty of food and drinks all around the night had something for everyone.  The night had a natural ease to it, and even half way through people’s dance moves were finally being dusted off – thanks to one of our animated classmates who became our unofficial M.C.  All jokes aside, there was also plenty of mingling and a genuine nature among classmates.  Taken a general consensus – people had a great time!
   

This whole experience – at least for me – was very serial.  You see coming from someone who was just a bit of a wallflower in high school it was pretty ironic, that I, one: attended, and two: that I was actually on the planning committee for the reunion.  Alright, maybe it’s not too farfetched that I attended, but that latter of that statement is kind of a bombshell.  Seriously, I would’ve been the last person you’d peg to be part of the planning for my high school’s 10 year.

The high school experience I had was neither delightful nor dreadful – it lay somewhere in between.  I was neither the socialite, nor the target nerd.  Honesty, I was a bit of a wallflower, who – like many – struggled with self-esteem and confidence, which had a lot to do with being raised in a very sheltered environment, and being on the chubbier side.  Where I’d hear, watch and envy peers who had effortless confidence, as they strutted across campus and approach and talk to anyone they wanted – jock or cheerleader – I kept to myself.  House parties were not in my vocabulary till I hit collage; contrary to the cattiness of most adolescent girls (just watch Mean Girls) I backed down from any drama; and the delicate art of flirtation that is rampant in high school I was totally ill-equipped for!

This isn’t to say I didn’t have a decent time in high school.  Yes I had my band friends – fondly referred to as bandos.  And yes, I had a mishmash of rag tag friends from other clicks: drama, hipster, choir, gamers, and surely I’m missing some.  Dances – I went to my fair share of ‘em, but always with a “friend” (seriously had no game in high school – which I can chuckle at now).  Football games – only went because I had to perform at the half time show with colorguard, band and drumline.

Colorguard was my safe place and where I spent most of my time in high school.  This was where I channeled much of my adolescent strifes, through the aggression you need for the equipment work, as well as some expression in the movement below the flying objects.  It was a place that was safe for me; a place I loved; a place I found a bit of myself – really and very therapeutic!  Matter of fact one good friend of mine – who shared the leadership role with me of captain and co-captain senior year – couldn’t make it to the reunion.  Truth be told, I missed having her there at the reunion.  But I digress.  

So 10 years of life after graduation I wasn’t the girl I was in high school that greeted people at the door.  Truth be told it was a really remarkable, and quite a flattering experience to have multiple people make mention of it.  Aside from just having the confidence that night I lacked in high school, as one of the committee members who hosted of the evening, there was a deeper initiative in me to make my rounds with everyone (not just lost connections of friends) but yes even the cool kids I never had the nerve to talk to on campus.  Was there a tinge of hesitation? Nope!  Genuinely, I wanted to say hello, and ask how they’ve been.  The return was always received well and actually with open arms.  No more high school fake façades – just adults with a shared youth experience.  Being received by my former peers in such a positive way – who I envied and was too shy and intimidated by to approach years ago – was such a gratifying feeling.

To have one of our valedictorians who was one of those all-around guys approach me immediately as he arrives to spill how much he’s envied me for years came as a bit of a shock to me. When asked why he lists off my marathon runs, travels and writings as things he’s always wanted to do – my heart glowed with grateful flattery.  Really what an authentically sweet thing to say!  Make no mistake, this is not said with vindication or even a feeling of revenge – but rather a feeling that yes I have grown up, but more so grew that confidence.  And as much as my old friends and peers were happy and proud of my accomplishments, so too I was for them and theirs!  There was a genuine reciprocation.  Was it wonderful to have classmates complement me – yes, I won’t lie about that.  Was it a treat to reconnect with old friends – indeed it was, and I look forward to what that’ll look like.  Was it neat to exchange numbers with some of the cool kids, with a mutual respect and express a wish to connect after this evening affair – totally!  Reminds me of a conversation; as I’m talking to our class elected “most clueless” from senior year (who’s now in a PhD program studying medical physics – talk about ironic!) we connect mostly on the topic of travel as conversation flows easily.  I make fun of the fact that we never talked or associated in high school, as he chuckles in agreement he says to me: “Barbara, you’re really cool, how come we weren’t friends in high school?”  “Simple, I was really shy in high school, and you were kind of one of the cool kids.”  We laugh at the reality of the past, and agree that we should definitely connect the next time he’s off from PhD studies. 

Above all the smiling faces and laughs I encountered I am most appreciative of the time I got to spend on the planning committee – really it’s something I am proud of.  As stressful, and at times ridiculous, it was (ladies on the committee know what I’m talking about), I was able to connect with my best friend from high school, as well as really get to know the other two ladies on the committee – again, who I didn’t really talk to or associate with while in my adolescents.  That time together, is especially valuable to me because the four of us had time longer than 5 hour reunion span to connect.  There was more reminiscing, more catching up, and more respect built for each other.  Aside from my obvious high school best friend, I can say with confidence I earned two new friends.  Cheesy sounding – but how cool!

Now a month later, looking in the rear view mirror of the reunion there is still a genuine high of all the old friends I reconnected with, and all the second first impressions I had.  High school is such a fascinating time.  It’s a time that can be so full of life and possibilities, but truth be told, it can also be a battle field.  Regardless, it’s a pivotal time shared for four years with a slew of personalities – and with fake facades, raging and changing hormones, as well as the status quo in the way, it’s almost impossible to see people for who they really are.  Maybe that’s why these reunions exist.  Given time and space to live and grow outside of the high school bubble really offers people a chance to meet again without all the (excuse my French) bullshit getting in the way.

  

Check out the video from the night here.  And if you enjoy that check out Rob's website for any event you need filming for!  
http://www.bigbotproductions.com/