In the chaos of moving from Los Angeles to Seattle, I stumbled across a box of photos. As I dug through them, I found a picture taken the night I graduated from high school. Staring at the image, it was intensely obvious that I had been crying. With my eyes held tight, I did my best to recall the conversation which led me to tears. Nineteen years in the rearview mirror, a rush of memories and emotion washed over me.
Graduation was bittersweet. I know I am not unique in that sentiment. Frederick, Oklahoma was all that I had ever known. My classmates had been friends and acquaintances since kindergarten. A cast of characters rotated in and out of our lives, but the core of my world remained intact.
Graduation would mean a fundamental shift for me. On one hand, in a few months, I would be at the University of Central Oklahoma beginning my freshman year of college. This would mean a new city, new friends, and new opportunities. On the other hand, time would force me to close the door to friendships and a community that had come to define me.
As I walked across the stage to accept my diploma, the reality of the moment struck me. Soon, the alphabetical calling of names would be finished. We would walk off this stage one final time. Never again would we all be in the same place again. In a flash, the Frederick High School Class of 2002 was presented to an audience packed into Bomber Bowl. We stood, turned our tassels signifying a monumental shift in our universe. We exited the stage and walked toward the goalpost nearest to the parking lot. Here, we would greet our families and friends. Here, we would hug, embrace, and share promises to stay in touch.
We may have intended to keep those promises, but the impossibility of that moment was realized. I started to cry and a photo was snapped. I was then assured we would stay in touch. I took solace in those assurances but knew better.
I left the field. I joined my family at home. Soon, the protection of this place would be forced open by the arms of change. In three months’ time, I would find myself hours from my brothers, my dad, and my mom. Later that evening, my dad drove me to a field party where my classmates had gathered to celebrate. Even here, not everyone was present. The separation and well-intentioned promises were starting to crack. It had only been a couple of hours and the walls were beginning to crumble.
Over the course of the summer, I would spend fleeting moments with classmates. We would rush off to the movies or gather for a party, but as August drew closer so did my discontent.
Nineteen years later, I find myself woefully separated from the lives of my former classmates. I have used social media as a crutch and a Band-Aid for the real work of maintaining vibrant relationships. From afar, I have watched as some classmates graduated from college, while others went to war, or straight to work. Some married had children and began investing time in those little souls. I have watched as some were promoted and I have watched in disbelief as a couple met the painful end of their story. All the while, I have treated likes and comments as an investment in their lives. On the eve of my 20th high school reunion, it no longer feels like enough.
I loved Frederick High School and those with whom I shared the experience of maturing from awkward teens into awkward adults. I think and write about them often. I often find myself recalling some long-lost memory or wondering what a certain person from my class is doing right now. I often find myself wishing we had held dear to those impossible promises we etched into sandstone on that evening of celebration and jubilee. I wish I could do better.
Years ago, Blake Freeland was in Seattle and reached out to me. We got together for dinner. We talked about basketball games in Altus. We talked of those connections we were still maintaining. We laughed and talked a lot about Frederick. Dinner soon ended. He returned to his hotel and I drove home. Then and there, I realized I have powerful tools in my hands meant for human connection. If I miss someone, I should tell them. If someone made a difference in my life, they should hear it from me. If I want to make good on a promise, the power to do so is mine. Out of excuses, the next move is mine.
Be good to each other,
Nathan
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