Day 346: The Class Of 1985

I try not to spend too much time in the past. Oh, I’m a pretty nostalgic person by nature, but the older I get, the less time I try to spend in the past comparing the me that was then to the me that is now. There’s little point. We share a lot in common, but the worlds that we live in are completely different.

Every so often, though, I like taking the road that leads back to the mid-1980s and looking around again. I’ve found myself doing just that of late as my daughter gets ready to graduate from high school. Mostly, I’ve been drawing comparisons between the world she’s grown up in during her high school years and the one that I did. I’ve also been projecting what the world that my youngest will grow up in will look like. No offense to either of them, but I like my world better.

My high school world consisted of growing up in a town of 2,000 people total. There was very little crime. There were no really dangerous drugs that were widely available or wildly overused (that I can recall, anyway). There were no guns in lockers. There was no gang activity in the hallways. No childcare center in Room 200. No truant officers. No police in the parking lot after the final bell. In short, there was nothing that really served as a steady, constant reminder of how big and bad and cruel the outside world could be.

I’m guessing there were more than a few of my classmates that didn’t like school, and they probably had good reasons not to, but man, compared to today, walking the hallways of ole’ Ashland-Greenwood High was a cakewalk.

I notice that the kids in the city schools older girls attend today tend to gravitate to groups populated with kids that share the same interests. Kids in my school did, too. But it wasn’t too terribly hard to break outside those circles, if even only temporarily. At least it didn’t seem so. My friends were jocks. My friends were also farm kids. Potheads. Some liked their cars. Others liked to sing. Some acted. Some were in band. Some were cheerleaders. Others liked heavy metal. Some rolled their pants legs up to get their “Miami Vice” on. Some of my friends were smart. Some not as much. Some were artists. Some were magicians with crafting wood. Some smoked. Some drank. Some did neither.

My high school world was a class that totaled roughly 65 kids. My daughter’s class contains many hundreds beyond that. I’d venture to say that if she actually knows even 25 to 30% of her fellow classmates’ first and last names, she’s doing well. I, on the other hand, not only knew every one of my classmates’ names, I grew up with nearly all of them, spending the greater portion of my life from five years old to 17 roughly nine months out of the year.

I knew a great deal about them, and they about me. That might not have always been a good thing, but it wasn’t always bad, either. I can’t say I knew all of them intimately, but I can say I knew all of their personalities. I knew who their friends were. I knew more or less what they liked to do. Who they liked to hang out with and where. I knew who their girlfriends and boyfriends were. I knew their brothers and sisters. I spent the summers swimming at the same pool. I spent afternoons roller skating at the same rink. I spent Christmases with them. Every year growing up, we celebrated each other’s birthdays. And on some level, I cared in some way about each of them.

I’m lucky. I’m still friends with some of those people. A few are among my best friends. I’m friendly with many others. I’ve been surprised and pleased and happy with how many of them have turned out. I wish I knew more of them better. I’m lucky. Although I’ve gone my own way and they their own, these people who belonged to the Class Of 1985 at Ashland Greenwood High School with me played a big role in who I am now. I may be biased, but I don’t think they did too badly of a job.