The other night I had a dream I was in my high school hallway and my 17-year-old self was walking toward me. In the dream, he walked right by me, without even seeming to see me, let alone say “hi.” I woke up from the dream agitated that my 17-year-old self did not think who he’d become (to wit, me) was worth noticing.
After a time, I made my way to asking myself what I would say to my 17-year-old self if I could get his attention. At first I thought I’d tell him everything I’d learned about life in the over half-million hours I’ve lived since I was that age, wisdom that should inspire any 17-year-old to put down his life and pick up mine.
Then I came to the realization that adults of various stations in life and relationships to me were offering what they thought was sage advice when I was 17, a constant drumbeat of hand-me-down instructions which they believed would lead me to a good life.
I heard that drumbeat off in the distance, but I was marching (dancing, really) to the tune of a different drum. My drum had a beat pounded out by my pursuit of straight A’s. When I say straight A’s, I don’t mean academic grades; I mean as in Approval, Admiration, Adulation, and Acclamation by my peers.
Given that any barrage of advice from me to my 17-year-old self would probably meet the same fate of being ignored, I thought I might try instead to slip just one suggestion by his finely tuned advice defense system. The sage suggestion I came up with was that he keep an altruistic eye out for social casualties, that he reach out to others to ensure that no wounded were left behind.
I know that’s a lot to ask of a 17-year-old, but life has a way of sooner or later asking a lot of those who live it well.
When I think of what that altruistic eye might look like, I think of a dear friend who was born with severe cerebral palsy, and about whom I wrote a column several years ago. She told me about the hardships, the suffering really, she had endured in her life at the hands of others because of her difference. In high school, besides the disappointment of not being able to participate in many teenage activities, she experienced some kids making fun of her, imitating her way of walking and talking right in front of her.
At that time, a half-century ago, and in the ethos in which she lived, you didn’t go to a “trusted adult” about any injuries, psychic or otherwise, inflicted by your peers. What was kids’ business stayed kids’ business.
She told me that two girls from her neighborhood always had her back. I asked her if she remembered any boys who were there for her at that time. A light came on in her face when she told me about a popular boy who always stood up for her, her friend. That’s what I’m talking about.
It was amazing to me when, as part of my preparation for writing this column, I looked at my high school yearbook photos and realized how many of my fellow classmates I did not know. Granted, I went to a large urban high school with 700 students in my grade alone. Still, seven hours a day, five days a week, nine months a year, you’d think I’d know more of them than I did.
When I thought about why there were so many I did not know, I saw the answer was not that I was socially timid or awkward, not that I was a loner. The answer was that I was focused on those I considered part of my adolescent social caste and ignorant of too many others.
When I went to my 40th high school reunion, I resolved beforehand to relate in a genuine, openhearted way to whomever was in front of me, to experience them as fully as possible, whether they were in my high school clique or not, and with no regard to their high school or post-high school social status. I followed through on that resolve, and wound up having one of the best nights of my life.
Again, I don’t have any reason to believe my 17-year-old self would take my suggestion to let go of, or least loosen his grip on, the magnet of greater glory on the teenage social stage. But as that young man keeps walking by me in the hallway of my dreams, without acknowledging my existence, I’d like to take him aside and give him a hug if he’d let me, no words needed.
After all, the two of us have been through a lot together.
Amherst resident Richard McCarthy, a longtime columnist at the Springfield Republican, writes a monthly column for the Gazette.