Southern California
Postcard 1: A Nobody Becomes A Somebody
We hopped in the copper Pontiac Grand Prix and shuttled our way to Hermosa Beach to meet the wedding crowd that has arrived already. I got that feeling in the pit of my stomach that makes you question if you've made the right decision. Others will probably wonder how did I get here. And, I think I'm asking myself the same question.
We've jet-set across the country to L.A. County for a high school friend's wedding. Although, to say we were friends in high school wouldn't really be accurate. We knew of each other and had a few classes in common. He was in a more popular crowd, winning positions on Student Council and such. The clown everyone knew. I, on the other hand, had a clique, but was in no crowd. I was a number (04721) amongst 2,000 peers.
As it goes, we didn't really connect until a decade after our school days, when we both attended our 10-Year Reunion. Since then, we've seen each other a couple times a year when he travels to Atlanta for business, getting to know each other without the restricting social pressures of adolescence. So his high school crowd is not exactly my crowd.
We walked into Pedones, where New York style pizza meets the beach. As I suspected, I didn,t really know anyone. A crowd of college and post-college friends had collected. We were the odd ones out in more ways than one.
There was a face I saw on the other side of the room that looked familiar, however. "How do you know the bride or groom?" he asked. I explained I went to high school with the groom. "Oh, really? I did, too. I don,t remember you."
Ouch. I was disappointed. Was I so non-descript that he never noticed I sat in front of him for two years of math? Does he not remember who helped get him through Trigonometry? Yet at the same time, I was relieved he had completely forgotten we were in gym together, where one day I had spun around, accidentally nailing him in the groin with my flailing hand and a force so great, he fell to the ground in agony, screaming a derogatory alliteration that was not "fantastic fun".
I didn't have Genera clothing; I had Britanica. I didn't play the sports that had the crowds flocking to watch; there is no glamour in standing wet and mostly naked in front of your peers. I didn't drive a new or sexy car; I drove the Big Rig, a '77 Chevy Suburban, baby blue in color. I didn't have a locker in Corridor 1, where the key to popularity is location, location, location (at least until our friend Kathy made special arrangements with the Activities Secretary our Senior year). While being told you're not remembered rips open those high school insecurities that you're nobody unless you blend with everybody, it's a bit of a relief to know that I'm nobody remembered, released from constraints created by a ruthless social structure.
As I sat there, eating my pizza like a nobody, it occurred to me that if no one remembered me as a nobody, then they also didn't remember me as a somebody. I was approaching this from the wrong direction. I should be approaching this offensively rather than defensively. Establish myself as a somebody the yearbook photographer who looked into everyone else's lives through a camera lens and recorded their fondest moments for the rest of our collective lives. The swimmer who helped to bring Sunset High School their repeated conference championships. The guy who had a car so big, he could take 17 people to the Drive-In Movie, and still have room for the lawn chairs, 60 cokes and 8 pizzas. A somebody for really being a nobody.
9/27/02