By Sheryl McAlister
A group of us gathered recently for the 2nd time in more than 40 years. And I — and I’m sure others — were left wondering why we haven’t done this sooner or more frequently.
Ours was the Class of 1982 at Columbia College, a million lifetimes away from the co-ed institution it is today. A small class in a long history of fearless women.
This 60-plus year-old group of women laughed at the stupid things we did back then. Told a few secrets we’d held close for decades. Remembered professors we were particularly fond of. Remembered the funny, the serious, the weird. Looking at old photographs, we searched our collective memories to recall one or two people. We finally remembered one of them. The other, we’re pretty sure, was a party crasher.
The incredible detail with which people recalled those who crossed their paths. How one life touches another – in good ways or bad – recalled nearly a half-century later. And how sad it would be – whether fondly or with disdain — to not be remembered at all.
We talked about our lives, our careers and those classmates no longer with us. We talked as mothers, aunts, grandmothers. The choices we made. Soundbites of the lives we’ve led.
Almost everyone looked the same or similar – an older version of their college selves.
We expressed our gratitude for the person who keeps pulling us together, expanding the group, finding those we had trouble locating. Thank you, Lee.
God, that was a fun time – those 4 college years. Sometimes I think what a blessing and a curse social media is and wonder what pictures we would have had to defend or applaud. I certainly wouldn’t have wanted some of the things I did back then out there in perpetuity.
But I also think how much fun it would be to have documented proof of who we were – who we still are — before the world and, more importantly, the children in our lives just thought we were old.
“With mirth and laughter, let the old wrinkles come,” wrote William Shakespeare.
Damn right.
Copyright 2024. Sheryl McAlister
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