An open letter to my high school class

Hearing about the death of our classmate Paul Eganhouse made me take something more than a sideways glimpse of my own mortality, and judging from the many rapidly arriving responses to the post on the 1986 Regis Facebook page, many of you likely did the same.  Knowing some of you have experienced a much harder, and more prolonged confrontation with your mortality, I have to think that Paul's early exit from this life stirred more poignant feelings well beyond my imagination.  At 50 years of age, give or take, we are neither old nor young.  That we have lost more than 5% of our classmates seems like a statistic that would not necessarily be alarming.  Should someone know if that number is high or low, or if anyone wishes for some grizzly research, it would be interesting to know.  However the reassurance that our class' mortality is statistically within range does not help refocus our day to day lives.

Many of you were probably very good friends with Paul.  He was very smart, gracious, good looking, mature, and he had a very reliable jump shot.  Of course he possessed many other great qualities, as you all do, but these were the first that came to mind upon hearing that he had died.  They are qualities that I remember well because they are the ones he exhibited to me.  His intelligence and graciousness we're pretty easy to see, and since he and I were not close they are the qualities that stood out to me.  Undoubtedly many of you remember other qualities that add to the dimension of his life.  Wouldn't it be fascinating to hear everyone's perspective of Paul?  I'm confident that our collective recollection would reveal a richly complex man who left us with good feelings of humanity.  While I would eagerly participate in and enjoy such a memorialization, that's not actually the point of this writing.

The second thing that crossed my mind while reading the announcement of Paul's passing was that I was inexplicably sad.  That sadness rose from the realization that while he and I were not close, or even friends really, we shared this time and space where  mostly disparate, but some common, experiences occurred.  Based on those experiences, and many, many others, he and I became the people we did.  While my own life is scarcely shaped by having shared a certain time and space with Paul, I  am aware that the other one hundred and thirty some others of you with whom I spent one to four of my formative years left an impact greater than I have acknowledged.  Probably that's normal, but perhaps part of reaching fifty is I realize that's something I can change.

For whatever reason, trying to articulate the impact my high school cohort had on me while while it was happening was a very dicey act.  Whether self absorption prevented me from even recognizing it, an immature understanding of the importance you all might contribute to my life, a nearly complete lack of confidence in my power to express myself, or possessing a decorum entirely ill-suited to expressions of appreciation, I never communicated the many ways, subtle, obvious and and at times brutally blunt, you helped shape my life.  Regardless of the circumstances under which we would have interacted, I  am at this point in my life grateful to and for  each of you.

With the passing of each of our classmates; George Nassif, Lynn Smith, Mark Uribe, Michelle Sundell, Sarah Hopp, Ann Valliere, Amy Crane and now Paul Eganhouse, I have reflected on this one contradiction that only time can resolve.  When we were in high school, whether that time was great, miserable or indifferent, we all at some point were told, and we probably tried to understand, that our time together was fleeting.  (For a lucky few of you your time together lasted much longer and hopefully still will.)  High school would be just a small part of who we ultimately become.  On the passing of each of our classmates I took the time to weigh the impact that person had on my life. Each time the amount of sadness I felt for the loss of that person really surprised me.  Even now, thirty two years after my last exchange with Paul, that sadness is more present than I would have expected.  Why would the loss of a person, with whom I  could barely draw a venn diagram of our lives there was seemingly so little overlap, warrant such sadness?  Sadness is part of the resolution.  The happiness, humor, or even contempt I feel and occasionally express when our on-line lives cross is also part of that resolution.  Undeniably while our time together was comparatively short, our interactions possibly few and fleeting, you all helped develop the complex life I am so grateful to live.

So I'm taking this opportunity, while  in the midst of a sadness I can't completely explain and honestly feels a bit self indulgent, to thank  each of you for the imprint you have left on me.  I hope each of you can point to your high school days and feel a similar gratitude for the ways the people, the time and the spaces have shaped your lives.