Normally when I write this blog, I let emotion drive the words. I write about what I feel—my anger, frustration, or joy—at what’s happening in the world around me. Without getting too bookish or nerdy, it’s my own soliloquy from Hamlet:

“To be, or not to be: that is the question:
Whether ’tis nobler in the mind to suffer
The slings and arrows of outrageous fortune,
Or to take arms against a sea of troubles,
And by opposing end them.”

I emote, but I rarely get personal—not in judging individuals or describing my own life. This week, though, I’m breaking that rule. I’m getting a little more personal, opening my emotional kimono wider than usual.

Why now? Because this week I attended a significant high school reunion. I won’t tell you which one, but let’s just say the number was higher than our parents’ ages when we graduated.

It’s a cliché to say that high school is a transformative—and often traumatic—time. We’re larvae just trying to survive long enough to build the chrysalis that will protect us while we transform into whatever final form awaits. My high school years were no different. But I believe I was luckier than many. Our class of nearly 400 students was, at least from my perspective, particularly close. Sure, there were rivalries and petty differences—probably some bullies and other unpleasant folks—but time has sandblasted most of those memories away.

What I’ve carried with me all these years is the sense that if I were to unexpectedly meet any of my Summit High School classmates on the street, I’d be genuinely happy to see them—eager to learn where life’s journey had taken them and hopeful the years had brought them joy.

So why was I so nervous about attending this reunion?

Other than the usual pre-game jitters, much of my anxiety stemmed from my outspokenness about what our feckless leader Delta Tango and his toadies are doing to this country. I’m not shy about my opinions. I believe that if we don’t speak out now, we may lose the opportunity to speak at all. But classmates warned me that not everyone shares my point of view and that I should tread carefully.

My worrying was a waste of time.

From the minute I entered the Broadway Diner (we’re from New Jersey, after all), I felt the warmth one feels upon seeing an old friend after a long time apart. There’s no single English word for this emotion, so let’s make one up: reunionglow.

One of the first sparks of reunionglow came when I realized my memory hadn’t failed me. Despite the evolution from feckless teenagers to senior citizens, I could still recognize people by name—without relying on name tags featuring our yearbook photos. These days, when the neurons deliver information in real time, it feels like a major accomplishment.

Another source of reunionglow was hearing the arcs our lives had taken. It was like picking up a book I’d once loved, set aside, and was now resuming. No one I spoke with had lived in a straight line. Everyone’s path had zigged and zagged, hit potholes, and carried on. There was the woman who began as a lounge singer, went through a few detours, then entered medical school at fifty and is now a board-certified obstetrician. The friend who, despite five arterial stents, still generates more energy than a small nuclear plant. Even the girl who once would’ve been voted “Most Likely to Party” is now a devoted grandmother. I loved hearing it all.

That night, when I got home, I could barely fall asleep. I hadn’t felt that overstimulated since… high school.

The next day we met at our alma mater. Since moving back to my hometown over a decade ago to care for aging parents, I pass it almost every day. To me, it’s a familiar sight that—despite several additions—looks much the same. Looks deceive. The mid-century building has transformed into a modern learning facility that resembles a small junior college more than a modest small-town high school. That’s both good—and a little horrifying.

The good: the school is fully equipped to prepare students for the century ahead. From STEAM (Science, Technology, Engineering, Arts, and Mathematics) labs and production facilities to courses in entrepreneurship, Mandarin, financial literacy, and the culinary arts, it embodies a well-rounded liberal-arts education.

The horrifying: the extensive preparations for active shooters, bomb threats, and other horrors of our times. I’m glad they’re prepared, but devastated that our world has sunk so low that such readiness is necessary. My generation let this happen—it’s a stain on whatever legacy we claim.

Two things I saw that day gave me hope. First, four large black-and-white portraits in the cafeteria—Einstein, John Lennon, Mother Teresa, and Beethoven—reminded me that today’s youth are encouraged to identify with dreamers who enriched the world with kindness, brilliance, and music.

The second was a poster that read: “Hanna Weschler: We hold your promise. Never forget.” Beneath the image of a woman holding her daughter’s hand was the caption:
“Depicted above are Hanna and her mother walking together in Kraków, Poland, following World War II. Both are survivors of Auschwitz and the Holocaust. Adopt a Survivor Project: Fall 2021.”

As the son of a survivor—and the relative of many who did not—seeing that poster gave me hope. Despite our current political turmoil, this generation will not forget.

The penultimate moment of reunionglow came at a party held in a mansion that serves as headquarters for an old-school women’s charitable organization in our town called The Junior Fortnightly Club. It’s a throwback to a time when families didn’t need two incomes to survive—when women busied themselves with charitable work and men took the train into the city, self-medicating in the bar cars on the way home. Walking into that mansion from a past that shares little with today’s realities, I couldn’t help but feel that we, too, were relics.

Inside was a roaring party—rooms full of people getting reacquainted, sharing stories, reminiscing about the days when our world consisted of this town and these very people. The energy was palpable; it could have overwhelmed even the most hardened cynic.

Three distinct emotions defined that night for me.

The first came as I posed for a photo with classmates I’d known since elementary school. Looking at those faces—people I’ve known since the world was young and still dewy—I realized I could see them as they are now, burnished with time, and as they were then. It wasn’t Einstein’s space-time continuum so much as Gabriel García Márquez’s magical realism: a blending of past and present that felt wondrous and unique.

The second emotion was hope. Many at the party had seen my outspoken political posts. Several sought me out to share their own thoughts on the maelstrom we’re living through. It gave me optimism that all is not lost—that we’ll emerge scarred but better for the struggle.

The last emotion came as I stood before a poster titled “In Loving Memory” honoring classmates who had passed. Second column from the left, third from the bottom, was my best friend, Rich. Seeing his name gave me pause—not only because I miss him every day, but because I could imagine our conversation about the reunion. He’d have refused to come, insisting that if you hadn’t maintained a friendship through the years, there was no reason to reconnect now.

I know what I’d have told him: “You don’t know what you’re missing.”

And I can hear his answer: “You go, and you can tell me later.”

Which, I suppose, is what I’ve just done.