STREAMOFCONSCIOUSNESS
BY ANNE WILSON

The Call of the Ivy

Not long after my last essay for the Zephyr, I traveled to that "bastion of feminism"--Smith College--for my 10th reunion. If you're like me, i.e., not a "reunion-y" person, you might well be asking why I tortured myself in this fashion. (Believe me, I asked myself that question repeatedly once I had committed to attending.) Let me warn you now that if you have not subjected yourself to your own reunions you are about to be subjected to some of the trauma this can arouse.

I have not remained as tightly tied to my alma mater as some people do to theirs. I am certainly proud to be a "Smithie" and I receive the Smith Alumnae Quarterly regularly. (The latter, is due mostly to the fact that when I graduated the Alumnae Association was offering a great bargain on lifetime membership and the Quarterly is part of the package deal.) While I do not belong to the Utah Smith Club I have been known to give Smith a little money, despite my brash intentions 10 years ago as I bore the weight of my student loans, work study, and summer jobs.

A cynical person might contend that all reunions are about is 1) reminiscing about the good old days, which can possibly leave you feeling as though it has all been down hill since; 2) talking about all the wonderful things you've done since graduation--accomplishments that are far superior to what anyone else has done; and 3) cocktail parties so that when the college takes your money (again) you won't feel the pain so intensely.

The more optimistic soul would say that reunions are a wonderful opportunity to relive happy memories, to strengthen your bonds with lifelong friends, to make new ones, and to rekindle your school spirit so that your financial contributions may help your college recruit the best of the next generation, thus promulgating its unblemished reputation far into the future. There will also be a renewed solidarity with your brethren (really "sisters" in my case, but that terminology makes me feel as though I ought to be singing gospel or washing priests' undergarments--neither of which I am cut out for). Aahh, reunions. Are you feeling as nauseous as I am? So again, why exactly did I go?

I actually had several reasons. The first is that my Smith friends are scattered hither and yon. This would be a great excuse, we surmised, to see each other. Plus, if we all went, how bad could it be? I was also inspired by nostalgia for the campus and for Northampton. At any rate off I went, having agonized for only six hours over what I should wear to the erstwhile class dinner.

As it turned out, many of my cadre of friends reneged on the "all for one, one for all" deal we made about attending. It was slightly daunting to think of going, gulp, alone because Smith does turn out powerhouse women. My confidence was not reinforced when someone famous on the plane told me that all of the influential women in his life were Smithies...and wondered how it was even possible that such a fine institution could turn out women who faded into the background. Gulp, again. If you wonder at my bout of insecurity then know, as an example, that my circle of Smith friends is comprised of two lawyers, one doctor, two engineers, a coastal geologist for the state of Massachusetts, a Harvard M.B.A., a Professor with a Ph.D. in English Literature who organizes protests against the U.N. and World Bank in her spare time, the Director of Marketing for the Boston Symphony Orchestra, and an editor with a M.S. in Botany from Cornell.

It crossed my mind to embroider the story of my life into something a bit more exciting but I am a notoriously bad liar. (I think this is actually a character asset but this was one occasion when a series of bald-faced lies might have come in handy.) For not only do I not have the high-powered, high-dollar career to flaunt, I am lacking in another area as well...the only one that might be an excuse for not having the aforementioned career.

That's right. Motherhood. I have not borne--without the aid of drugs--two beautiful children (ages 2 years and 6 months respectively), who accompany me with their tri-lingual nanny and who are enrolled in the best schools all the way from pre-k through lower school. Of course applications are pending for the "right" middle and upper schools but little Cecilia Emelia Abercrombie Fitch and Johnathan Winston David Goliath will have to prove themselves before those arrangements are finalized at age 7. Fortunately they each take lessons for both piano and violin and have The Wall Street Journal read aloud at bed time every night except Sunday when we read The New Yorker. (Reunion will not interfere with this ritual.) In this scenario, 6 months after giving birth I am registered for the Boston Marathon and am 15 pounds thinner than I ever was in college.

Whew, what pressure! In reality I made sure I had a car so that I could leave at any moment if I needed to. I have to digress for a moment longer to say that I did not anticipate motherhood being so prevalent...probably because I am not engaged in it myself. It is natural though--my demographic is age 31-32, our college loans are paid off, our careers (or, ahem, our husband's) have taken off, we have a mortgage and probably the biological clock is just beginning to tick.

It was strange being back in Northampton, even though after an 8 year absence, I still knew how to navigate my way to campus which sits elegantly, and ivy-covered, atop a hill overlooking downtown. (No, the symbolism was not lost on me.) It became stranger still when, within an hour of arriving I am walking across campus enjoying the beautiful gardens of the Lyman Plant House. I am wondering why I never appreciated them as much when I was a student, which truly reveals my age, when I see two women walking toward me. Their conversation floats by me and begins to register. They look somehow familiar and I realize they are gossiping about a mutual friend who had an affair with a good friend of mine (a woman) and who is now married (to a man). From what I could gather it was their opinion that she was a lesbian and there was no way she could love a man and she was therefore deluding herself. Talk about a `blast from the past. On this Graduation/Reunion weekend Smith has around 700 graduating seniors, 200 underclassmen, and probably 2,000 alumnae on campus and this is the first thing I hear? Surely we could talk about mortgages, world peace, the stock market, house-hold detergents, or anything else at all! It was at this point that I realized it could be a really long weekend.

I will spare you the tedious details and summarize by saying there were definitely times when I felt like a fish out of water. It's not that people weren't pleasant, it's just that they were self-absorbed. Many classmates who came were the crowd who organized everything and were the `social butterflies' during our undergraduate years. Their lives are fairly traditional these days - they summer in the Hampton's, have solid careers and/or the exceptional children - and they mostly only notice each other. (An exception might be when, for example, someone shows up at the class dinner clothed entirely in cream linen, accented by a coral pashmina scarf. The more conventional and prevalent `basic black' is an excellent foil to this ensemble.) The only sting I was actually subjected to was when one classmate informed me, upon learning where I lived, that she was, "glad someone lived in Utah". I was more amused than anything, as well as perplexed because she was a railway engineer in Yukon Territory, which isn't exactly Paris, France or Paris, Texas. On the other hand, there were also women who were more like me, who were in the midst of a career change, or `just taking time off'. Some were married, some weren't. (Alluding to my last article, most who had married had at least added their husband's last name to their own if they didn't change it altogether, which I found disappointing.) There was diversity, you just had to look for it.

And, as always, there's someone who has a harder time than you. Yes, it became tiresome to continually explain why exactly I live in Utah and that I actually do enjoy living without the benefit of street lights. But. I was not in the position of justifying why I, a Smith graduate, was an editor of Harlequin romance novels! (Just so you don't think I am totally heartless, I had a respectable conversation with this woman on the concept that romance novels are more egalitarian than they used to be; that the conflict between hero and heroine is usually situational, rather than a battle in which a women ultimately submits to an overpowering male because she can no longer deny the passion that being dominated brings out in her.)

This issue of The Zephyr is supposed to be about `good news', so I must tell you that there was a silver lining. The day before graduation at Smith is known as Ivy Day. It consists of a processional, closing convocation, and the President's State of the College address. This tradition involves the graduates and alumnae lining each side of the main campus path, one woman deep. Parents, families, and friends crowd behind them. Junior students, wearing long gowns and bearing a train of ivy (laurel, really) on their shoulders lead the way through this corridor, escorting the President and Deans.

The women lining the path then follow, like a sock being turned inside out. We are grouped by year; oldest first, youngest last. On this graduation weekend, the reunion classes are the "biggies" - 5th, 10th, 20th, 50th, 75th, and 85th. Each class carries signs that are painted with phrases that, both humorously and seriously, represent the era they attended Smith. We are three thousand women, of different ages, colors, sizes, characters, beliefs and we are all dressed in white, illustrating our common bond. Our white may be an Armani suit, cotton jeans, or a vintage 70's prom dress with combat boots, but it is white.

As alumnae we parade first through each other, then finally through the forthcoming graduates and into the Quadrangle, applauding each other all the while. My class walks between the graduates and I see them looking at us, trying to see themselves in a decade just as I did 10 years ago. For everyone, but particularly for them, we are a walking mural. This procession paints the unvarnished time line of a woman's life. As a female you are reminded of the young woman you once were and you are presented with the old woman that, with the grace of God, you will become. Your life falls away behind you and stretches ahead into the distance. The possibilities and the realities of life are laid out before you and there is no turning away from its bittersweet truth.

And finally. The sum of us together is much more than the individual. The fact of three thousand of us, plus as many parents, children, peers, families and friends, professors and mentors gathered in one place, at one time, to celebrate women, believing in women, being present because of women is indescribable. The rest fades away. This is what reunion is about.


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