As I write these words, the Class of 2018 prepares to march onto the old Kienle Field at Lindenhurst Middle School to the familiar strains of Pomp & Circumstance. In just a few short hours, they will embark on the next chapter of their lives, as proud alumni of Lindy High, the last dozen or so years of schooling an already-fading memory. 

I remember it like it was yesterday. June 24th, 2000, a Saturday morning. Hundreds of folding chairs lined the old grass field, as our parents and loved ones perched on the wooden bleachers excitedly waiting for the ceremony to begin. Behind the scenes, in the locker room of the gymnasium, I paced nervously in my cap and gown, binder in hand, silently running through the words of my valedictory address. 

As my guidance counselor passed by, she glanced my way. “Do you need a piece of gum Jamie? You look a little green.” 

And green I was, as I stood on the stage a few moments later, listening to our principal introduce me as the student whose dream job it was to become a clubhouse reporter for the New York Yankees. Big dreams indeed for a girl who had never held a job outside of a part-time assistant teaching gig at her local dance studio. 

But that’s what high school was for, to cultivate those lofty goals and give birth to the endless possibilities borne from a college education and our eventual entrance into the great workforce. I often wonder how many of us wound up doing anything comparable to that which we aspired to on that particular day, some 18 years ago. How many ever truly know what they want to be when they grow up? Perhaps we’re not supposed to.

Much has changed in the nearly two decades that have elapsed as we spread our wings and went our respective separate ways in the search for a lifetime of fulfillment. For some, college called, degrees were earned and positions accepted at prestigious corporations. For others, the path evolved a bit differently, perhaps in settling down to start a family and build a home, or to explore other creative outlets and passions en route to a less traditional existence. 

To each his or her own, as they say. 

Ten years later, at our first reunion gathering, we reconvened as a class, a bit older and a tad wiser; overall, though, not much seemed to have changed. Looking across the bar at the old familiar faces, it was as if no time had passed. In the blink of an eye, we were back on that field, decked out in our Bulldog green and white, the world at our fingertips. 

In just two short years, we will likely gather once again, this time at our 20th reunion. How will the stories have evolved? What new tales will we have to share? Will the past still seem as easily within reach as it once was? I have a feeling it will. As they say in my district ~ Once a Bulldog, Always a Bulldog ~ and it’s true. 

To the graduating Class of 2018 . . . may your memories be just as fond 18 years from now as they are today. 

Mine certainly are.

Published: June 27, 2018