The Introvert Reflects

Anticipating his college reunion, the HP wrote on these pages last month: “Fifty years! Whatever happened to them all?” Now that the reunion is over, some reflections come to mind.

First among them is the realization that I feel younger than most of my classmates look. (Others will undoubtedly say the same of me.) We are all grayer, more wrinkled, hard to remember. Thank goodness for name tags!

Second, the town has shrunk. As a student, it was a big deal to walk from campus to “downtown” Greencastle – after all, that was eight or ten blocks away! And we would never have thought to walk ¾ mile to the cemetery where my grandparents and brother are now buried. But I made each of these treks on reunion weekend and thought little of it. Having lived in eight other states at more than 20 different addresses since graduation, my world is larger and the old haunts proportionally smaller.

Third, it was nice to see fellow alumni and recall some fun times. But despite what some might say, those years were not “the best days of our lives.” How sad it would be to think that my best days were fifty years ago. No, the best days of my life are now. I’m flourishing today, thriving, enjoying every moment. I’ve let go of the past and face the future with confidence and joy. That’s why for me a little reminiscing goes a long way.

The Main Takeaway

Here lies the main lesson learned at the reunion weekend: apropos of his epithet, the Hermit Philosopher is not very good at socializing. His inner introvert tires quickly when overstimulated by glad-handing and chit chat. Extroverted personalities are energized by others; we introverts get drained. We’re not shy, necessarily, but we cherish quiet space and “companionable silence.” That’s why a few of the reunion activities tested the HP’s social skills nearly to the breaking point.

For example, a large tent on the main campus lawn served as the venue for some all-alumni buffet meals and after-dinner speeches. In addition to being crowded with hundreds of guests, the tent (sans any fans, of course) managed quite well to contain Indiana’s famous heat and humidity. And it housed swarms of gnats that buzzed around the food, flew at your face, and drowned in your drink glass. Having lived in those conditions most of his life, the HP really didn’t need them again, and he found it a challenge to have a meaningful conversation or listen to speakers while shooing away flying insects. Under such conditions, his little introvert batteries discharged quickly.

Another meal event was held indoors, thankfully, but it too was a buffet and was preceded by a seemingly interminable cocktail hour. The HP doesn’t make small talk well – especially when his stomach is growling – so he got a little “hangry.” Thank goodness for air conditioning or the scene might have gotten ugly.

The reunion reminded me that we introverts can handle socializing only in small amounts lest we overdose. Instead of cocktail chitchat, we usually prefer deep conversations with one or two close friends. After crowded parties – which we can force ourselves to attend – we often need quiet time, time to think, “alone time.” When we don’t have the energy for further interaction, when we need to turn inward and reflect on things, we hope friends and family will give us permission. Prodding us to talk and "come out of your shell" will only make us feel self-conscious.

The HP and others like him will never be the most popular people in the room. We won’t be the “life of the party,” the ones who turn heads when they enter the room. In fact, in a large group you might not notice us at all. But if you can love and accept us as we are even though our introverted quirks don’t make sense to you, you’re making our lives happier.

Thanks for listening. I'm going back to my room now. 😊

It Wasn’t Such a Great Year

In the mid-1960s, Frank Sinatra sang “The September of My Years” —

♫ ♫   One day you turn around and it's summer

Next day you turn around and it's fall

And the springs and the winters of a lifetime

Whatever happened to them all?   ♫ ♫

    

I’m recalling this lyric because in a few weeks I’ll be attending my fifty-year college reunion. Fifty years! Whatever happened to them all?

I remember my father and grandfather of five decades ago. They attended the same college as I, graduating thirty and sixty years before me respectively, so 1968 marked a milestone year for them as well. And though it was an honor to have three generations at homecoming together, I was a little put off by how ancient they and their classmates were.

Now, even though I haven’t changed a bit since graduation, I’m one of the ancients. I’ll go back, see my classmates, and wonder, “Who are all these old people? And why can’t I remember their names?”

These musings led me to few not-so-fond memories of 1968:

January — the “Tet offensive” escalates the conflict in Vietnam, and Walter Cronkite says the war is “mired in stalemate.” (It continued for another seven years).

February — an American army officer tells a reporter “it became necessary to destroy the town in order to save it.” This becomes a catchphrase for opponents of the war.

April — Martin Luther King, Jr. is assassinated in Memphis, and riots follow in more than 100 U.S. cities.

June — Robert F. Kennedy is assassinated in Los Angeles during the presidential campaign. 

August — Riots and mayhem surround the Democratic national convention in Chicago. Strongman mayor Richard J. Daley tells the media that the protesters were responsible, not the police. “The policeman isn't there to create disorder; the policeman is there to preserve disorder,” he says.

October — With raised fists during the medal ceremony, Olympians Tommy Smith and John Carlos protest violence against African Americans. (Fifty years later we’re still dealing with that issue. “Plus ça change, plus c’est la même chose.”)

December — North Korea releases the crew of the USS Pueblo but keeps the ship; the Navy personnel had been held captive since January.

The year wasn’t all bad, of course. I turned 21, got appointed to the Navy JAG Corps (thereby avoiding enemy fire in Southeast Asia), and moved to St. Louis, my birthplace, which had always been the “big city” to me while living in small-town Indiana.

Still and all, it wasn’t such a fun time. And with apologies to Sinatra’s “It Was a Very Good Year,” a new lyric won’t leave my brain: 

♫ ♫   When I was twenty-one

It was an unhappy year

It was an unhappy year for draft-age boys

Who went off to war

Their lives came undone

When I was twenty-one.   ♫ ♫