Going Through My Middle School Yearbook...

I recently came upon my middle school yearbook during my weekend back home, and the experience was quite melancholy. I first opened the book to see the dozens of signatures scrawled on the inside front cover because the actual signature page was full. I found myself thinking, "Did I really know all these people? What happened to them? Are they ok? What have they done with their lives?". I remember that sunny day in June of 2014 when we all went around outside West Middle School with our yearbooks and pens and graced each other with a small amount of ink with which to remember us by. It seems now like a dream, another life with which I am completely detached.

There were little messages inside the signatures. Some simply wished me a happy summer, as I no doubt reciprocated to them, but others were more personal. With a few of those people I maintain correspondence, but what happened to the others? Where are those who knew me well enough to use my nickname and write a little experience they shared with me, and yet are now so apart that they no longer cross within the planes of my mind which are apparent to me? Of course, I won't name any names, but it's more than a little saddening to realize that there are so many people with whom I was once close, who I will likely never see again.

There are even teachers names and messages written in the pages of my yearbook, and to them I am eternally grateful. I ought to do a separate post on my wonderful teachers, but to see their writing once again upon my paper brought back a lot of great memories. I wondered then where these teachers were now. I've vowed to not visit my old haunts at West Middle or West Elementary until I do something of note, but now I'm beginning to rethink that old promise. They may think that I didn't care enough to visit them, but that is not the case. In fact I wish more than anything for some of my longer works to come to fruition quickly, so that I may see them again under the bounds of my honor.

I then went to the pictures, and first went to my own little image. I won't say much on it, but let's just say it's definitely not the best picture I've ever taken. I spent a lot of time looking through these pictures. At faces I once knew well enough to acknowledge them in the halls. At people who I once shared classrooms with, lunch tables with, and who were my extended family for three years. There we all were, bright and happy faces staring back through the lens of the camera into the future. And I found myself thinking, what would this me say about who I've become today? Would he see the haggard and bristly beard I keep and laugh? Would he be surprised by the curliness of my hair?

I also found myself delving a little into the not too distant past. Many people in those pictures have discovered themselves for who they truly are, and many others have yet to find that out. Some who I thought I knew well turned out to be untrustworthy, and some who I thought to be conniving were true, hard working people. Knowing the futures of some of these pictures, I began to ponder if I knew it then; if I perceived it. I think not, I was far too stupid for that, but perhaps in the wild jungles of my subconscious, where the savage and unformed lie, I did know it. And perhaps I chose to ignore it.

It goes without saying that this was a most nostalgic trip for me. I mean people often stare into space and say, "Simpler times," with a sigh and a shake of the head, but as I flipped through the pages of young kids and clubs and signatures, and all of it, I really felt that those were simpler times. Yes, there was strife, of course there was struggle. How could there not be? A life without struggle is hardly lived at all. But with all that struggle there were gym classes where I spent time unwinding. Art class where I learned to express myself. And of course the core academics, where I met some of the teachers who would shape me most in my early teenage years. I remember falling down. Many times. I remember doing stupid things which make me cringe at the mere act of recollection. However I also remember reaching new heights, making new friends, and finding that perfect balance of responsibility and fun, which truly lent itself to a great experience. There were times in middle school when I wanted to hide in a locker and melt away, but now that I look back on it I find myself with nothing but fondness and a wistful longing for the past aching in my heart.

And to anyone who went to middle school with me, first of all, I'm sorry for my terrible fashion sense and my general lack of neat hair, but I also would like to say thank you. Whether or not you were nice to me, or I was nice to you, you helped me form a better version of myself by eighth grade. Even if we only had one conversation, or merely knew each other my reputation, or perhaps we didn't even know each other, you influenced me to become who I am today. It's weird how just some pondering on the yearbook led to a cornucopia of memories bursting forth with extraordinary detail, which I'll perhaps explore later. So once again, thank you to those who helped shape my existence for those three years in the strange halls of West Middle School, and thank you as well to all the people who continue to make my life better merely by their presence in the present.