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2005-08-03 - 2:50 p.m.

I recently corresponded (via TheFacebook.com, a Generation Y analogue for Friendster) with the younger brother of a girl I went to Saint Ann�s with. He�s starting as a freshman at Brown in the fall. Good choice. Maybe I�ll bequeath him my remaining weed or something (it�s not like I want to carry it across state lines to Chicago).

My high school (K-12 actually; I went from fifth grade on) sends a lot of graduates to Brown. The liberal aesthetic matches well, as does the lack of letter grades (at Brown you can theoretically take all your classes pass/fail, although actually doing so is discouraged and certainly won�t get you into grad school). Don�t get all hyped about no grades in high school. We got long written reports instead, which can illuminate more than a letter grade ever could. For example, in my case they tended to say things like �Geoff is a genius, but a train wreck. Wish he�d show up for class more.�

My first day here, I met a guy on a line wearing a t-shirt that said �Brooklyn�.
�Oh, are you from Brooklyn?�
�No, but I went to school there � Saint Ann�s �02.�
�Wow, I went to Saint Ann�s! I was class of �92.�
�Whoa, �92! That was like a different time!�
Thanks.

My last semester at school here, I had a class with another Saint Ann�s graduate, class of 2004. We bonded over being less-well-off kids from the way outer city going to school downtown with wealthy classmates. I remember desperately trying to lose my deep-Brooklyn accent, which I think I managed to successfully do, although it still comes out occasionally. Yo.

She�s best friends with another friend of mine�s little sister, who I remember being born when we were in sixth grade. I remember being back visiting the school years after I graduated and going to see a favorite teacher. In his classroom was a strangely familiar-looking student. I asked if that was my friend�s little sister. It was and she was now in sixth grade. I started tearing up in an undignified manner and excused myself.

Does the fact that I have classmates twelve years younger make me feel old? Sure. But it�s very good to viscerally know that the Kids continue. There is nothing � nothing � like being 18. Is it the best time of life? Fuck no; the best time of life is tomorrow. But the promise, the hope, the potential of being that age can never be recaptured.

And here�s the dirty secret � it can never be fulfilled. You can become anyone at that point, but you actually end up becoming only one person. Of course, this is a good thing. I meet people older than myself who are in a perpetual holding pattern, caught in Tolstoy�s �snare of preparation�. They have never become anyone and maybe never will at the rate they�re going.

I had a Shakespearian acting teacher at Saint Ann�s (who I believe has since succumbed to Alzheimer�s) who said how glad she was to be teaching Shakespeare to high schoolers. What�s not always remembered is that life spans were shorter in Shakespeare�s time, so Romeo and Juliet were meant to be like 16. She noted that you can recall, but can�t ever truly relive the passion and the intensity felt then.

Thank God, I suppose. An entire society of overgrown hysterical teenagers wouldn�t have gotten us very far. But if we get sadder but wiser with age, there will always be young people with passion and promise who are new and un-jaded. I�m afraid that�s not me anymore, but I�m very happy it�s people I�ve known.

So give it up for the Kids. Beautiful, passionate, intense, believing. I know there are indicators that suggest otherwise, but I�ve often suspected that this college thing is really their world. I feel honored to have spent time in it.

� 2005 Geoff Gladstone

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