Twentieth college reunion!

I’m just back from my twentieth college reunion. TWENTIETH! I cannot even get over that. College feels like a lifetime ago and it feels like yesterday. I feel 42 and I feel 18. I have an almost-teenager and I myself am leaving my teens behind.  

Most of my dearest friends and I have returned to Northwestern for every fifth-year reunion since 1998, but this year’s was the best. I don’t know that I can explain why but it certainly doesn’t hurt that everyone is doing so well. What a joy to watch your friends grow into such successes- in their careers and marriages, as parents, as hobbyists, as adults.

We have all settled into ourselves for the most part, and that, too, is a joy to see and to experience. So many of the concerns of our teens and twenties are immaterial now- figured out, left behind, small relative to things since.

What remains are the sorts of friendships you can only, in my opinion/experience, forge in college. In late nights laughing and talking in cramped rooms in somewhat dingy dorms. In too many beers and cookies and study sessions and heartbreaks. Through too many parties and concerts and all-nighters and the library stacks. That I made on the fourth floor of Bobb-McCulloch, in the Sargent dining hall, in Delta Gamma and in parties at Delt and Fiji. In so many classrooms and bad grades and good ones, in sesame bagels with cream cheese and raspberry jam, in rollerblading along the shores of Lake Michigan.

Then and now (above and below)…

This past weekend, as we visited old haunts, bought new NU t-shirts to replace our worn ones, partied but also went to bed earlier than we once did (except for Alli who retains the ability to stay out until 4am), all the connections we all made so long ago--twenty-four years ago for those of us who met freshman year--proved as viable as ever. Minus some quotidian details, we were good friends who’d simply not seen each other for a while. 20+-year history with others, especially those who’ve experienced such formative years alongside you, is a hell of a relational scaffold.  

I was not academically prepared for Northwestern but I was capable, and I’m so glad I pushed myself to rise to the (somewhat terrifying) occasion and quickly learn so much of what I should have been provided in high school. I did miserably my freshman year- both because of my relative lack of prep but also because I focused primarily on my social life. And while I’m sorry to have squandered a year of classes at an incredible school, I wouldn’t trade for the world the education I got beyond the lecture halls: in those dorms, at those parties, during the long talks and rollerblades and trips to Chicago. In those moments, I shed the many limitations I felt in high school and became an unrefined version of the truest me. It was and remains a thrill, the greatest gift. I wish everyone had such a four-year watershed experience.

In my work with prospective college freshmen today, I respect their school choices completely, but I do urge them to think deeply about why they’re applying where they are. What do they love, or think they love? Who do they hope to surround themselves with? Is the environment of each school truly one in which they feel they can be challenged and thrive?

I urge them to study hard but also to play hard. To cut themselves some break and breathe deeply and embrace more than academics with abandon. I have never once regretted doing just that. My friends don’t either. And we are fuller and richer for it.

Kofi

When Tom and I met, we quickly established that the daily need for excellent coffee was something we had in common. It was early in our tenure that we discussed the insult to coffee that is a commercial Bunn hot plate and pot.

I was living in a small studio apartment on the Upper East Side and to lessen the deleterious impact of daily Starbucks on my limited income mostly drank coffee that I made with my stovetop moka pot. He was a consultant in DC and could afford to buy his morning cappuccino but wished for the convenience and quality of a good home espresso machine. Also, Tom hates to overspend, and a daily Starbucks is really just that.

We met in May of 2004, and by December, Tom was pretty sure we were each other's one. So for Christmas, he gave me the present he'd sort of been wanting to give himself, figuring we'd both benefit from and love it: a Rancilio espresso maker and a Nuova Simonelli grinder (in a darling cherry red because the red one was on sale; see above point about overspending). 

We set them up on an old breakfast table chair from my parents' early years in a corner of my tiny kitchen. The placement required us to squat while grinding the beans and brewing the espresso, but the coffee was delicious, and we both loved this promise of a future together. 

In 2004, Kofi Annan was Secretary-General of the UN. Can you picture him? What a wonderful man with such a wonderful, kindly face. He and his UN team won the Nobel Peace Prize in 2001; Annan was celebrated for "having revitalized the UN and for having given priority to human rights." 

Tom and I both admired Annan and for some reason that now escapes me, other than that the word and name sound vaguely similar, took to calling our coffee, Kofi or Kofi Annan. "Would you make me a Kofi?" "Oh, I'd just love some Kofi Annan right now." 

When Annan retired in 2006, we would address each other as Secretary Ban (Annan's successor) in requesting Kofi. I can't tell you how many times I've texted Tom from bed: "Secty Ban, may I request Kofi?" It's been harder to update to Secretary Guterres (who took over for Ban at the end of 2016) because his name is longer, but we try to keep current. Always, there is Kofi. The shorthand brings a smile to early mornings, a nod to all we've created and enjoyed together over the years. It also serves as connective tissue during the harder times, the dark spots of marriage that weave through the years too.

When Mr. Annan died yesterday, I felt deeply sad. Sad for the loss of a fine diplomat who spent his life trying to make the world better and more peaceful. Sad that he had to watch America pull out of the UN Human Rights Council and act in such ugly and bigoted fashion. I imagine Mr. Annan was disheartened by what he saw happening, that he thought back to being in New York on September 11 (as I was) and remembered how at first this country came together in unity and with kindness. Sad that a daily part of my life was in some way gone.

I saw the news yesterday morning as I struggled to wake up. One eye open, I tapped my phone to check the time and saw the alert that Kofi was gone. I texted Tom, "Kofi died. :(" 

"What? Oh, the real Kofi." Half asleep too, he'd thought I meant our espresso maker.

"But he will live on in our kitchen."

Yes he will. In peace, dear sir.

The banjo and Mister Rogers

Despite my lack of musical ability and deep musical knowledge, I have always loved stringed instruments and any great choral group. I spent years falling asleep to George Winston's piano, have never met a double bass I didn't love, and nearly fall to pieces when I hear Ode to Joy sung properly.

Tom's grandfather and also one of his first cousins were/are professional musicians, and we rather hoped some of that ability would make its presence known in our kids. From an early age, Jack seemed he very might well have gotten the gene. By four he'd asked for a piano, washboard, accordion, and recorder. At five, he pleaded to take violin lessons, and regularly wished to visit our local music store to sit with the guitars and banjos. 

Violin didn't last, but his interest in music has (he vetoed any choral involvement to my chagrin, however), and for the past eighteen months or so, he's taken saxophone lessons. Sometime during the past year, he added piano, and seems to love and have facility with both. 

One of the best surprises about the summer camp the boys went to was the strong musical tradition, including the space made for and celebration of current campers and counselors who play and sing. The farewell ceremony included not a few performances of all manner of size and instrument, all of which were moving.

Both kids really enjoyed that aspect of their summer experience, and Jack came home with a serious desire to take up the banjo. Ol's counselor played and was such a wonderful, kind inspiration and friend to both boys, so I imagine that's where this fire was sparked. I arranged for a trial lesson and told J he had to choose between sax and banjo as three instruments was one too many for now. 

I think he's a string kid at heart because it was ultimately no decision at all, and he has not stopped strumming his new beauty (for which he is paying a full quarter!) since it came home. The banjo is so cool, and I am just loving this new soundtrack. 

I simply must beseech you to see Won't You Be My Neighbor? if you haven't already. A documentary about Mister Rogers, it is so very moving and dear. The kids and I saw it today (they loved it too), and I cried four times. I didn't clearly recall watching the show as a child, but seeing King Friday XIII and Daniel Striped Tiger and Lady Elaine brought back such clear images of them from my past. I imagine Fred Rogers would be so dismayed by the state of our country today, so sad at the devolution of general kindness and conversation and hearing and listening. It's a really fine film. I hope you see it.