Forty Years Later ~

Recently I received an invitation in the mail to attend the Garfield High School Class of '72 reunion. So many memories returned as I read the details, and briefly considered attending, if only to tell my story and find closure to a painful memory.

I couldn't figure out why I got the invitation, because I only attended Garfield for a month. One of the longest, scariest, most challenging months of my life. Certainly at 15, it was the hardest cause I'd ever undertaken. I was a white kid from the suburbs who volunteered to get bussed across Lake
Washington into the inner city of Seattle, to a high school which was 80% black. We could have also chosen Franklin High School, which had a 30/30/30 split of the races, but Lori, Diane and I, ( we called ourselves 'the Garfield three') chose the greatest challenge on purpose. Fresh out of Junior High and looking for a way out of the snobbery and shallow culture of Bellevue, we signed on to what amounted to 'reverse busing' to a place we thought would be exciting and new.

 To this day I do not know whose idea that program was. It had merit, but as you shall see, there was no support system set up for the hapless young students who thought they were just entering a sort of "Room 222" or "Welcome Back Cotter" type world. For those of you born after the 70's, that is a reference to two popular TV sitcoms about inner city high schools. They were funny and clever, and everyone was so congenial and cool. Ah... an example of how the media creates its own reality.

It was 1972. The political situation regarding race was complicated. The Black Panthers were strong and the Civil Rights struggles were fresh. However, we idealistic youngsters were naive enough to believe that racism in America was essentially over. Forty years later I am stunned to find that racism in America seems to be increasing.

The story of our month was this: We attended classes, and walked the halls. Some days it seemed OK, we would only get questions from out of the blue like, "Are you from Mercer Island?"  Too often, though, girls would follow us asking for money. "White bitch, gimme a quarter".  Going into some of the bathrooms was an exercise in courage. There would be a few girls hanging out at the sinks, staring with burning hate as I walked past. I know what it feels like to try not to exist. After a few weeks I began to understand from the inside out what living as a black person in America felt like.

On a Friday in the 4th week of school, there was a football game rally during the last hour of the day. Everyone was hyped up. I could feel the energy, and I knew I did not belong. It was hard to feel a part of the school when we went home to a whole different town, even likely to go to the football game at our local high school, Sammamish.
 The five of us who took the same bus stood waiting at our corner behind the school gym. The bus didn't come on time, and the minutes went by, until it was over an hour late. We stood there, not knowing what to do. This is before cell phones, remember how that was? We didn't have access to a phone nearby, and no idea even who to call to find out what was happening with the bus.

Meanwhile a group of kids was leaving the rally, and they saw us on the sidewalk. They began calling us names and getting very close, screaming at us. They hit one girl in the face. I can still see the red mark, her broken glasses, and her stunned look. She was from another school, and we didn't know her very well. She was a small, serious girl and I could not figure out why they hit her. We all began to walk away, to get off that corner to somewhere, anywhere to ask for help. A police car cruised by, and we turned to it with relief. The black kids following us quickly disappeared.
The police asked us what we were doing there, and what was going on. We explained our predicament, and I remember them looking at each other and chuckling, like we were so stupid to get our dumbass white selves into that crazy situation. I felt such disappointment in these men, (both white) who were there to "serve and protect". They reluctantly offered us a ride up to a store which had a phone.  They acted callous, even as we were clearly traumatized and scared.

We called the school district office and they were able to tell us that a tanker truck had overturned on the Lake Washington Bridge. Our bus was stuck on the wrong side of the accident. They assured us that it would arrive within the hour. We waited at the store, and the bus finally made it. The rest of the night is a blur. The last part of the memory is that I never wanted to go back to Garfield again.  I felt like a coward, but I never did make myself go back.

So when I got the reunion invitation, I fantasized about showing up,  just to see if there was anyone who remembered any of my month. It amazes me to think that some of those students are now almost 60 years old, we all have many years between us and the complicated angst filled days of high school in  Vietnam War- Nixon era America. If I could bet on the type of person putting on this event, I am betting it was not one of those angry girls hanging in the bathrooms, or following me calling me names. I wasn't there long enough to make connections with the kind people. Consequently I remember the angry people forever. Yet, maybe it was only youth and the insecurities of adolescence which caused the hatred. Oh, and economic inequality,  a history of slavery and violence, and that thing which dogged us then, and dogs us now - ignorance.

The dates have passed and I can only hope the reunion was a success and the class of '72 had fun. Maybe if they invite me again to the 50th, I'll try to attend.