The Wednesday before Thanksgiving is the biggest bar night of the year, far surpassing New Year's Eve, as every home-from-college senior (and junior ... and some crafty sophomores) flood into the local bars whose insides they used to covet from the coffee shop across the street. It is there that we now drink, some to keep high school memories at bay, others to dredge them up and most to get a healthy dose of both. We fake enjoy accidentally running into old nemeses, and sometimes we even feign complete ignorance of each other's presence. But by the time 2 a.m. rolls around, who are we trying to kid? We all knew we were going to be here. Tomorrow is Thanksgiving. Where else would we be?
Thomas Wolfe says you can't go home again. This is false -- I was there last week, and it honestly left me wondering the opposite: Can you ever not go home? Obviously, you can physically stay away from the place you've left, but once you set foot on your old stomping grounds, will you ever actually refrain from stomping?
True, I did learn a few new tricks this Thanksgiving eve. For one, I discovered that all the bars I was too afraid to even attempt to enter in high school don't card me now that I have the proper identification. I learned that if your mom is your D.D., make sure to check outside the car before exiting (friends don't let friends drive drunk, but they also don't let them get caught climbing out of their moms' metallic minivans in stilettos by a crowd of nemeses from another life).
Despite all my new fun facts about drinking -- legally -- in the suburbs of Cleveland (scintillating, I know), things still felt pretty much the same, and I began to wonder: Is high school ever really over?
I still went out with the same friends, except now instead of trying on each other's clothes we tried each other's beers and shared cigarettes instead of lip gloss. Other than the advent of Lady Gaga, are things really that different? I mean, the same seniors from when I was a freshman still thought it was funny to tease me about my name (Jessie. Why that is funny I will never know). The same girls hung on to the same guys, the same people were phony, and the same creepy older dudes tried to get in with the same "younger crowd." I still had that brief urge to make out with my ex-boyfriend, and my best friend still had that overwhelming urge to slap hers. I still ate too much too late at night and felt sick. My mom still tsk-tsked when I walked in at 3:30 a.m. It was all classic high school.
The whole week, launched by that all-too-familiar reunion night, left me feeling disoriented and confused. Perhaps it was the turkey, but something just didn't sit right. Weren't we all supposed to have grown and changed so much while we were away? Aren't we supposed to be the people we have become instead of the people we were? Why do I still harbor resentment and lust (sometimes simultaneously) towards various figures from my past?
I don't have the answer, but I do know this: There is a reason most people don't go to their five-year reunions. When it comes to home, we are not yet that far gone. We still can go home, and we still do, and it's dangerous to overestimate how much we've changed. We may have remolded ourselves at college, but the new shape of who we've become hasn't quite hardened yet, and until it does (if it ever does), we have to know that we are slaves to our environment. If last Wednesday night is any indication, high school really doesn't end, as long as we keep it going. Just how long will we keep it going? Who knows?
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Jessie Borkan is a senior majoring in psychology. She can be reached at Jessie.Borkan@Tufts.edu.
