Nothing has changed. I drove up the familiar street leading to my boarding school, kids on their bikes dodging traffic, cars lining the sidewalks, stores open but empty. The smell of greasy american-italian food wafting from Little Italy's Restaurant (where the kids who call it lovingly Little It's, smoke pot out back). I made a left off of the main street onto a tiny, winding road that lead me up hill. The Hill. The place which haunted my dreams literalkly for years after I left, an omen, according to old doctor of philosophy and former Hill boy himself, that I would someday come back and teach. Maybe he was right. Who knows.
It looked just as it did in my dreams, in my memory. I parked my car in a far corner, and stepped out. I walked up the hill further, and looked out over the quad. It was all there, still, frozen in time, not even in my time or my past but in 1851 time, so old you could almost see it in black and white, faded sepia and grey. I walked on the path that I had walked many years ago, pausing for a moment to see my name among hundreds, faded and dusty, carved into the brick pathway. The mysterious sun dial, the old, heavy trees, the new buildings, the old dorms, all looked exactly the same, flooding me with memories of the first time in my life when I realized I was part of something greater.
The tunnel underneath the chapel, an ancient hiding place for those boys who wanted to escape. Escape what, exactly? (Priviledge of being at a boarding school, I suppose. Oh we never really know how good we've got it. So existential Camus would be proud, oh how a priviledge can bind you into a hellish prison and then, within that prison, ultimately realize how free you are. ) Initials and symbols painted onto the narrow, curved ceiling, so dark that the only way to pass was with candle or flashlight. We always preferred the candle though. And the big wooden door at the end of the tunnel that we thought would never come, that would lead us into the forgotten underbelly of the old, towering chapel. There we would gather, under the guidance of the most shy, pensive and illuminated master of literature. There we would sit and read poetry for hours to each other, inhailing the dusty cobwebbed air and speaking words of our idols. I couldn't believe he had approved of our little group, consisting of only 4 people, who wanted to connect with history, and write it all down. But when we asked him to be our supervisor, his face lit up with big grin and he said so happily, so emphatically that we took two steps backward: "Cool."
I wanted to see if the tunnel was still there, but a line was forming outside the chapel. A long black, navy and grey line, murmering and shifting under the hot sun. Men in navy blue jackets, girls in dark colors dresses and skirts, I joined them all to pay respects to the master who had touched each of our lives. It was strange to go to a funeral alone, to join in a line of people already paired off, either with friends or significant others or parents, but somehow fitting. So beneath the half-hearted shade of the massive and ancient tree outside the doorway, I stood in silence, reflecting on the past four years of my life, hoping no one would ask me what I had accomplished.
The organ began and the procession of people slowly shuffled inside. "Jessi!!" I heard in a voice so familiar and loving. (No one has called me Jessi since high school, a conscious decision on my part, silly, thinking "Jessica" would make me sound more adultlike, yet sadly was always shortened to "Jess" now to be the name I give myself, even though it is not how I see myself.) I turned to see a dear old friend sitting in the pew to my left. Bright hazel eyes and dark brown hair, she looked exactly the same. My dear little adventuring Courtney, who left the traditional path of college to travel the world and study religion and anthropology first hand, who had lived in cities and tiny villages all over the world, who occasionally would send an email or a picture of her dressed in traditional attire, with women and children so beautiful that I could scarcely believe they truly existed.
"Sit! Sientate" she ordered, giggling, moving to make room. I practically leapt into her arms with a small yelp, startling the somber procession behind me. "Have you seen Meg?" "Yes, no, wait there she is!! Oh Meg! Over here!" Meg, stunning large green eyes, big shy smile, turned towards us and joined us too and the three of us sat and waited, glowing.
The service was a whirlwind of memories and stories of that master of literature, the quiet man with a big, encouraging smile. Certainly, there were people crying, and when the choir sang our school hymn, my body became electric with goosebumps. That same magnetic pulling feeling, the feeling of finally being a part of something big and important, of a community where although I didn't exactly fit in, I was accepted. We sang the same songs as we did when we were young, and it was so good to finally hear Courtney's voice again next to me. When the chaplin rose to give some words about our master's character, and made a small remark about his famed unexpectidly ecsatic "Cool!" response, the walls echoed with Courtney's laughter. She laughed, and then the rest of the congregation laughed. She laughed through it all and stopped suddenly, grabbed my hand, smiling and said "It's OK. He's here. He's here laughing too."
We left the service in typical boarding school style: orderly, yet incredibly inefficient, row by row in single file lines, shaking hands with the Headmaster and his wife. Courtney, Meg and I met up underneath a tree, and began weaving through the massive crowd of people, Courtney running up to those I swear I've never seen before and saying loudly "Hey! I know you!" and giving hugs and kisses and laughter. Meg and I walked together, watching her, slightly bewildered but amused.
We sat at white linen tabelcloths surrounded by flowers in the infamous headmasters garden (a place full of memories from a hundred years ago of boys sneaking off to the bushes with their girlfriends from home. A tradition which, much to campus police's amusement, is still carried on to this day.)Courtney: "It's not sad, you know" Meg: "It's a little sad" Me: "Yes it's a little sad. I can't believe it." Courtney: "I just felt him there. Did you feel it?" Me: "Definitely. I heard him laughing." Courtney: "Is it terrible I'm not sad? After so many deaths in the passing months (note: our beloved little school had experienced many deaths in the years since our matriculation) I'm just not afraid of it anymore." Me: "I've just accepted it as another change in life." Meg and Courtney : "Yes!"
We sat there, under the blazing sun for hours, and slowly but surely our table began to fill up with familiar faces. I, shocked to see that people remembered my name, and to ask about my brother (Oh, so he is going to be a musician after all. I knew it.) When I told them about my upcoming travels, the opportunity surprised them, the project itself, however, did not. The strange thing about my time at The Hill was that my future as a writer was never even a question. It was hardly up for discussion. It was as if "becoming" a writer was a silly statement- I was already a writer, I simply needed to practice and develop my craft.
I walked into the student union building, down large wooden steps into a big open room. I walked past large flat screen tvs (and shook my head, these kids nowadays don't know how good they've got it!)and stopped infront of the mail center. my eyes fluttered over the numbers until I found my old box.
It was the winter of 2002, right before the holiday break. The snow piled up in thick white woolen blankets. Third form girls squealing as sixth form boys chased them outside to "whitewash" them (a somewhat right of passage tradition in which the youngest members of the community are attacked by the older members and buried beneath piles of snow. It's simultaneously hilarious and awful.) I pulled out the tiny silver key of my mailbox and opened the door. A book wrapped in plain brown paper stared back at me. Strange. I pulled it out and opened it. "Rhyme's Reason". I smiled. But who was it from? There was no note, no card, nothing. I placed it into my bag. Later that night, in the warmth of my room, I opened the book and began to read. As I turned the first pages, there, scrawled in black inky script, was a message:
Happy Holidays, from Poets Dead and Alive.
I could hear him laughing.
