The G-Man Returneth
Not that I ever went away...just had so much on my mind that I couldn't boil it all down into anything concise. Nevertheless, I'll try...
Went to my 20-year high school reunion last weekend (Redlands High Class of 1985), held at the Mission Inn in Riverside. Had a great time, but I really want to address another aspect of it all:
I've noticed that in many circles, it's uncool to admit that you had a good time in high school, as if you're validating a fascist system that mandates obedience, conformity, mindless consumerism, ungodly devotion to athletic conquest, et cetera et cetera. Sure, I could pretend that I showed up to school either drunk off my ass from a forty of King Cobra, or baked out of my mind from some sticky buds, wearing Ray-Bans and greeting every authority figure with a phlegm-addled, "Fuck you, pig!" Hey, that might aid my musical career prospects in some quarters...that I don't take SHIT from the MAN, understand?! Alas, I was not one of the "rebels" in high school-- first, I wasn't politically astute enough to spearhead any drive to confront any inequities that existed along racial or economic lines at RHS (and they DID exist), and second, being a "rebel" in Redlands usually meant smoking cloves on a two-and-a-half-foot-high cinderblock wall across the street from the campus (near the Kentucky Fried Chicken), or drinking screwdrivers in your car at lunch.
Politically, Redlands was (and still is) the antithesis of San Francisco/Oakland/Berkeley...my Mondale/Ferraro bumpersticker on my '68 Volvo 125S sedan lasted about a day. But I didn't get beaten up, I didn't get my tires slashed, and most people who cared about politics would jokingly give me a hard time (this was in 1984, when Reagan was still perceived as a virtual god), but no one called me "Commie Fag" or "Nigger Lover" or anything vile like that. And I did have a few friends here and there who were Democrats, but we were disconcertingly outnumbered.
The cool thing about RHS for me, though, was that it was big enough that you could find things to do and people to hang with. Also, there were a lot of veteran teachers who were tremendously dedicated and would take an interest in you if you were willing to work hard. I got to be on the newspaper staff, in jazz band, in marching band, on the track team. Fortunately, my family was supportive of my interests and financially well-off enough and that I didn't have to take a job during the school year, and I know that made things a lot easier for me, but I pretty much got to be who I wanted to be during that time.
Numerically, alumni from the marching band were well-represented at the reunion, and that's not surprising: we were a close-knit group, even though the overall band numbered around 150 back then. Here was an organization that was very top-down and very regimented, but the respect for authority was earned. When we finished our field show in competitions, we sat at attention in the stands-- no mucking around and throwing shit at each other. All business, but we were highly respected by our rivals, and one of the best in Southern California. On top of that, we were better integrated racially and socioeconomically than most other campus groups, and not just when we rehearsed or performed.
Band camp was two weeks in August, and it was brutal. Nothing like 100-degree-plus heat in an irrigated desert with wretched air quality. But the sense that we were all in this together made things infinitely easier. Our instructors were tough but fair-- as long as you came to WORK, they respected you. The one exercise that I thought I would never survive was marching in place for ten minutes straight, with our instruments, bringing our knees waist-high on every beat (about 120-130 beats per minute). But we always made it.
Fortunately, we had one of the hippest band directors imagineable-- the inimitable Patrick Winters (now at Eastern Washington University). With a full beard and Birkenstock sandals, he could have been drawn perfectly by Garry Trudeau. He expected a lot from us, but was someone you could talk to as well. The number of his former students at the reunion who are now teachers themselves is a testament to his influence. The fact that I'm still a musician speaks volumes about the influence he had on me.
It would be a compelling narrative (and a cloying, disingenious attempt to bolster my "cred") to tell you all that my reunion was torturous, that everyone was unhealthy looking and appallingly intolerant, and that I was ragged on for being in my late 30's without a wife or children and living in San Francisco ("how's Than Franthisco, Tom? Always knew you were a poof!"). But just the opposite was true--most people were disarmingly sincere, and genuinely interested in the fact that I stuck with music. My most common line was, "Needless to say, I find myself among the 84 percent of Californians who cannot afford a median-priced home." Those that I remembered then as good people seemed the same now, and I'm sure that most of my high school friends are now good parents as well.
If you've made it this far, thanks for reading...I realize the nostalgia factor is high here, but it's based on what is, not on what was only imagined. All in all, my reunion was a good reminder of where I came from, as well as a reminder of the self-discipline and drive I used to have. A necessary recalibration is in order, as well as some e-mails to some old friends.
Went to my 20-year high school reunion last weekend (Redlands High Class of 1985), held at the Mission Inn in Riverside. Had a great time, but I really want to address another aspect of it all:
I've noticed that in many circles, it's uncool to admit that you had a good time in high school, as if you're validating a fascist system that mandates obedience, conformity, mindless consumerism, ungodly devotion to athletic conquest, et cetera et cetera. Sure, I could pretend that I showed up to school either drunk off my ass from a forty of King Cobra, or baked out of my mind from some sticky buds, wearing Ray-Bans and greeting every authority figure with a phlegm-addled, "Fuck you, pig!" Hey, that might aid my musical career prospects in some quarters...that I don't take SHIT from the MAN, understand?! Alas, I was not one of the "rebels" in high school-- first, I wasn't politically astute enough to spearhead any drive to confront any inequities that existed along racial or economic lines at RHS (and they DID exist), and second, being a "rebel" in Redlands usually meant smoking cloves on a two-and-a-half-foot-high cinderblock wall across the street from the campus (near the Kentucky Fried Chicken), or drinking screwdrivers in your car at lunch.
Politically, Redlands was (and still is) the antithesis of San Francisco/Oakland/Berkeley...my Mondale/Ferraro bumpersticker on my '68 Volvo 125S sedan lasted about a day. But I didn't get beaten up, I didn't get my tires slashed, and most people who cared about politics would jokingly give me a hard time (this was in 1984, when Reagan was still perceived as a virtual god), but no one called me "Commie Fag" or "Nigger Lover" or anything vile like that. And I did have a few friends here and there who were Democrats, but we were disconcertingly outnumbered.
The cool thing about RHS for me, though, was that it was big enough that you could find things to do and people to hang with. Also, there were a lot of veteran teachers who were tremendously dedicated and would take an interest in you if you were willing to work hard. I got to be on the newspaper staff, in jazz band, in marching band, on the track team. Fortunately, my family was supportive of my interests and financially well-off enough and that I didn't have to take a job during the school year, and I know that made things a lot easier for me, but I pretty much got to be who I wanted to be during that time.
Numerically, alumni from the marching band were well-represented at the reunion, and that's not surprising: we were a close-knit group, even though the overall band numbered around 150 back then. Here was an organization that was very top-down and very regimented, but the respect for authority was earned. When we finished our field show in competitions, we sat at attention in the stands-- no mucking around and throwing shit at each other. All business, but we were highly respected by our rivals, and one of the best in Southern California. On top of that, we were better integrated racially and socioeconomically than most other campus groups, and not just when we rehearsed or performed.
Band camp was two weeks in August, and it was brutal. Nothing like 100-degree-plus heat in an irrigated desert with wretched air quality. But the sense that we were all in this together made things infinitely easier. Our instructors were tough but fair-- as long as you came to WORK, they respected you. The one exercise that I thought I would never survive was marching in place for ten minutes straight, with our instruments, bringing our knees waist-high on every beat (about 120-130 beats per minute). But we always made it.
Fortunately, we had one of the hippest band directors imagineable-- the inimitable Patrick Winters (now at Eastern Washington University). With a full beard and Birkenstock sandals, he could have been drawn perfectly by Garry Trudeau. He expected a lot from us, but was someone you could talk to as well. The number of his former students at the reunion who are now teachers themselves is a testament to his influence. The fact that I'm still a musician speaks volumes about the influence he had on me.
It would be a compelling narrative (and a cloying, disingenious attempt to bolster my "cred") to tell you all that my reunion was torturous, that everyone was unhealthy looking and appallingly intolerant, and that I was ragged on for being in my late 30's without a wife or children and living in San Francisco ("how's Than Franthisco, Tom? Always knew you were a poof!"). But just the opposite was true--most people were disarmingly sincere, and genuinely interested in the fact that I stuck with music. My most common line was, "Needless to say, I find myself among the 84 percent of Californians who cannot afford a median-priced home." Those that I remembered then as good people seemed the same now, and I'm sure that most of my high school friends are now good parents as well.
If you've made it this far, thanks for reading...I realize the nostalgia factor is high here, but it's based on what is, not on what was only imagined. All in all, my reunion was a good reminder of where I came from, as well as a reminder of the self-discipline and drive I used to have. A necessary recalibration is in order, as well as some e-mails to some old friends.
posted by Tom (a.k.a. "G-Man") at 9:59 AM
1 comments
