Hayter’s article for Oct 30, 2022
“The way we were? I don’t think so.”
I’ve made no secret of the fact that I don’t care for High School reunions. I found that out when I attended the 20-year reunion for Pasadena High School’s Class of ‘67. After they had matured, I didn’t care so much for my friends.
I did agree to attend three reunions for some of the kids I taught. The most recent one was last week. It was for the McCullough High School Class of ’82.
Some of you may not realize it, but in 1982 McCullough was still a high school. Later it became a junior high and now it’s a 9th-grade campus. During my first two years as a teacher, I had junior high students. While I remember what it was like being a seventh and eighth grader, I don’t understand the kids now any more than I did when I was one of ‘em. The temperament of junior high kids changes daily. I’ve come to the conclusion that their teachers are God’s gift to humanity. Fortunately, He chose not to bless me with the soul of such stalwarts.
During my third year, I got to teach high
school seniors. High School aged students resemble real people. Oh some of ‘em were
wacko, but most of ‘em were sensible, good-natured, and had a great sense of
humor. The Class of ’82 was my third year of teaching seniors. Each one of them
was a treasure, except for the few who weren’t.As previously mentioned, I think my
students should remember me the way I was. And visa versa. However a few weeks
ago, one of my ex-students was all over my case. Teri Bono kept pressing me to
attend the 40-year reunion of the aforementioned class.
I was Teri’s teacher when she had ninth-grade American History. She was exceptional for a ninth-grader. Serious when she needed to be and pleasant at all times. As a senior, she was in one of my government classes. The perfect pupil. She is now a teacher and has been in contact with me for the last few years. Bottom line, she talked Kay and I into attending the 40-year reunion for the Class of ’82.
My biggest concern was not remembering anyone’s name. That was stupid. After 40 years, I couldn’t even recognize any of them. I wisely brought along my ’82 yearbook. That thing is heavy. It’s like carrying a handleless suitcase full of nickels.
When someone told me that I taught them, I handed over my yearbook and asked that they find themselves. It is just phenomenal how much a 17 or 18-year-old boy or girl changes by The time they hit their late 50s.
It was an awkward gathering. Enjoyable but awkward. You would not believe some of the things I said and did when I taught those old people. Without a doubt, they had allowed their minds to accent the improbable. I remember trying to apply humor to my lectures. You know, the usual. Walking into the wall whenever I couldn’t make my point. But I was never crazy enough to do some of the stuff they “remembered”. Evidence that by the time you’re 57, your warehouse of memories has been toyed with.
At the reunion, I did light up, when someone would tell me that they learned a lot in class. When I attended my 20-year high school reunion, I remember bragging on my teachers. He was the only teacher I knew who attended the reunion of the Pasadena High Class of ’67. The man was a good teacher, but I couldn’t remember much of what happened in class. But, I did brag on him, in the same way my ex-students did with me.
The sad thing is, I never knew how much I enjoyed teaching while I was teaching. I felt okay when I was in front of the class, but the preparation for each day was a bear. I remember early one morning when I was driving to school on one of the two lanes of I-45 heading south. The traffic was usually horrible on the drive to school. I would occasionally turn to look at the drivers next to me. It’s hard to find a smiling face during a drive to work. Equally difficult to wear one.
I made myself a promise, that when I retired I was going to make a trip to school as if I were still teaching. However, when I arrived at the exit, I would keep going until I reached the Galveston seawall. It had the makings of a great experience.
Each school year, I’d played it up big in my mind. When the moment arrived, it was rather depressing. By the time I got to Galveston, the sky was overcast and the tide was high. The waves were slapping at the huge granite blocks at the base of the seawall. A couple of tourists on rented bicycles passed by as I sat on the wall. Neither of them was smiling. I likely wasn’t either.
As I sat there staring beyond the waves, I thought about the teacher who had taken my place. He or she was teaching in my classroom, hoping that the lesson they had prepared would be a worthwhile experience. You’re never certain until you get there.
I eventually exited my perch atop the pot-marked concrete wall and crossed the street for a breakfast at Denny’s. On my way home, the freeway wasn’t nearly as crowded.
end
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