My High School Reunion: Identity and Faith on Saturday

By Saturday morning of my high school reunion, I was pretty darn full of...myself. The previous evening I'd heard, "you look exactly like you did in high school" a zillion times. (Really? Gray roots were showing back then?)

I was also feeling rather perky thanks to a powerful combination of achieving Internet connectivity and getting a good night's sleep. Thus fortified, I drove to the high school for nearly six hours of schmoozing. Identity and faith continued to be a central topic but not because I was so darn busy fulfilling Matthew 28:18-20. I had other stuff to do.

This other stuff included but was not limited to paying off a bet I'd made with one of the reunion organizers. (He won a jar of macadamia nuts.) I also wanted to find out for myself if a former football player who scared the snot out of me really does now study with a guru for months at a time in India. (He does.) And, I wanted some quality time with Peter Balakian.

I've always felt a special affection for and affinity with Peter. This, I believe, is because my mother made sure two things happened by the time I entered fifth grade. First, I was taught how to play the string bass. Second, I was shown documentary footage of Nazi death camps being liberated by Allied forces. As a result, I spent several formative years standing behind Peter while he played cello in the elementary school orchestra and to this day I consider genocide a clear and present danger. By genocide, I'm thinking Rwanda and Darfur, not...oh never mind.

Don't know if he still plays cello, but Peter has become a poet known for his prize-winning memoir, Black Dog of Fate and work about the Armenian genocide.

In Black Dog of Fate, Peter captures perfectly what it was like to grow up where we did and at a time when no one thought twice about making comments like, "You're eating like a starving Armenian" and "Don't try to Jew down the price." Peter's memoir revealed how I wasn't the only one whose childhood was shaped by a collective unconscious memory of diaspora.

While tucking into lunch, I learned that Peter is currently teaching a course in "Genocide" at Colgate University. ("Mom! Dad! I got an A in genocide!!") We chatted about antisemitism; the first century and Constantine. This proved to be perfect prelude to conversations throughout the day during which I was asked, "Why Catholic?" in the most thoughtful and thought-provoking ways.

Exactly the question I've been pondering lately, but one I put on hold to enter the embrace of Vigil Mass at Our Lady of Mount Carmel that evening before reconvening for the gala dinner.

My High School Reunion: Faith and Identity on Friday

So, I didn't attend Temple Sinai on the Friday night of my high school reunion weekend. I did not come to this sanity-affirming decision all by myself. A dear friend reminded me what happened during an impromptu visit years earlier.

Silly me, I'd stopped by the synagogue office to ask for permission to tour the sanctuary and was treated to an inquisition. Because visiting from out-of-town wasn't a good enough reason, I got huffy in return, "My grandfather of blessed memory designed and built the bimah. My family donated most of the landscaping." (Because reforesting Israel wasn't enough.)

"Well, we don't want people wandering around," snarled the synagogue secretary. I muttered dayenu and promptly decided to expand my tour to the kitchen where I once scrounged around for B'nai B'rith breakfast leftovers. (One Youth Group activity I remember.) Take a WAG, did I open the refrigerators?

With that memory reignited, I decided to ditch services and join the cloud of witnesses gathering at a local restaurant. Thanks to the humorous grace of God, the first clutch of classmates happened to be those who'd attended Our Lady of Mt. Carmel (Roman Catholic) parochial school before transferring to public high school. Bemused curiosity all around about what the h-e-double hockey sticks had happened to me.

Not for the last time during the weekend did I trot out my "Jewish in identity, Christian in faith and Catholic by religious practice" trope.

As it turned out, I really didn't have to brace myself. The big negative reaction never came, not from them nor from classmates with whom I'd once raided the refrigerators at Temple Sinai. Instead, on Shabbat I was treated to a delightful riff about what the nuns would have done with me had I attended OLMC. Think: The Trouble with Angels meets Doubt and The Sound of Music.

Thus began a weekend tuned to the Self-Discovery Channel. Saturday would be even more illuminating in the domain of faith and identity, although I do plead guilty to indulging in unrepentant schadenfreude at times.

My High School Reunion: Planning Mode

The Tenafly High School Class of How-Did-We-Get-So-Old Reunion isn't for another three weeks. Still, tonight seemed like a good time to get more organized for this blessed once-a-decade event.

More specifically, I checked out the schedule for Friday night Shabbat services at Temple Sinai, the synagogue I attended from 4th grade through high school. Services begin at 7:30 PM. w00t. Depending on the Torah portion and drasha, I might stay for the oneg. After that, I'll return to my hotel room and curl up in the fetal position -- if I don't check into Englewood Hospital.

If I get it together early enough, I could probably squeeze in a visit to the Franciscan Convent (up the block from my old house) en route to Saturday's brunch. I'll probably go to the public library while everyone else is feigning interest in high school football (Go Tigers!). Or, maybe I'll wander around town instead of studying and getting lousy grades anyway. Maybe there's a nail salon in Tenafly? I know there's a mikvah.

My big plan is to end up at Our Lady of Mount Carmel for the 5:00 Vigil Mass. Depending on the Gospel reading and homily, I might proudly skulk out after receiving Communion instead of waiting for the dismissal hymn. After that, I'll return to my hotel room and breathe into a little brown bag for a bit -- if I don't check into Englewood Hospital. In fact, I'm sure I'll make it back to the hotel. Wouldn't want to miss the evening's festivities!

What Day is it Anyway?

Although Merry-Go-Round is probably a more accurate descriptor, time has been see-sawing for me these days. I'm keenly aware of this phenomenon for a number of reasons.

First, there are the conversations during which I'm gently reminded, "You know how you get when you're finishing a book manuscript." Ok, so my time awareness gets weird.

And then, there's Facebook.

Just as I got my Twitter addiction controlled, I was invited to join my high school reunion's group on Facebook. I joined and I participate. I participate a lot. Here's my excuse: I went to high school with funny, smart, talented, creative, generous, and funny people. They also call me by the nickname I had growing up. One even wrote, "Sorry but I cannot call you 'Meredith.'" Fine with me!

While some of us can't recall what we had for breakfast, we do remember luridly hilarious details about teachers, detention, the cafeteria, and other errata. Recently, some folks were musing about the cost of tickets to see Iron Butterfly at the Fillmore East ($4.00).

Because we're also sharing who we are today, time is skipping and tripping all over the place. Thus, I was more than a bit confuzzled to get email this afternoon from a relatively new friend who asked, "What are you doing for your anniversary tomorrow?"

My anniversary? What anniversary? Which anniversary? Time became a Tilt-a-Whirl as my brain raced through all the possibilities, but in the end I simply want to know: Is cake involved?