Trust Me On This
Trust Me On This
Remember in High School, that girl, woman at your school that you couldn’t take your eyes off of? No one could, and like it or not, everyone saw her the way you did. Parents, teachers, the principal and every single boy or man in the school. I fault no one on this point. She was a natural scene-stealer, like a cardinal on the branch of a leafless tree.
Today, I heard that she died.
A vision of her walking down the main hall of our tiny high school materialized.
Close your eyes and take a minute to find that woman in the mental keepsakes of your coming-of-age years. That’s what I’m doing right now. I’m remembering her, but not for reasons that are immediate or obvious.
Although I don’t recall her often, it’s easy to flip her image in front of all the others of the last, …so many years. I’m in this memory too. I can’t think of her and not recall myself during that time. It’s my point of view, after all. I see her through the scrim of how I saw myself.
[Tweet “Although I don’t recall her often, it’s easy to flip her image in front of all the others of the last, …so many years. I’m in this memory too. I can’t think of her and not recall myself during that time. It’s my point of view, after all. I see her through the scrim of how I saw myself.”]
If I were a director in a film, I’d shoot a scene to illustrate our differences. There’d be a wide shot of her sitting on her bed, wearing cutoffs, a halter top. She’d be concentrating on the same Seventeen Magazine Quiz: Do You Have Charisma? A close-up of her score. Cut to me across town, taking the same quiz on a flowered bedspread. White cream moustache bleach under my nose, my eyes fluttering from the ammonium odor.
Our score on the informative, ultra-scientific quiz is the same because she doesn’t see herself like I see her. And I’m all too aware of how people see me.
In sixth grade, my family moved from New Jersey, one hour outside of New York City, to the Upper Peninsula of Michigan and one hour away from a JC Penney. I was a dark, bushy-haired pre-pubescent east coast kid dropped into a mining town in the woods populated by blond-haired, blue-eyed northern Europeans.
She was a year or two older than me, and we rode the same bus to school. I got on first, and ten minutes later, she always and forever entered the vehicle and found me with her smile.
It makes me cry thinking about the generosity of that move.
Picture it, would you? Star Basketball and Track athlete. Trumpet player. Cheerleader- a trope, sure, but it’s true. Her boyfriend wore white Tiger shoes (Google them) and had tight, faded rockstar jeans, and nobody could ski like him.
She’d climb the few stairs onto the bus, grab that silver pole attached to the first seat and swing into the aisle with confidence that all would go as planned. And it did until later in her life. I’d heard bits of things. A struggle with addiction, they say.
She’d plunk herself down in the seat next to me and talk. She liked my hair, she said, which absolutely was a kindness.
Year after year, we sat together on the bus until she graduated. And then, my boyfriend got a driver’s license and picked me up at my front door.
I hadn’t seen her since graduation.
Here’s what I came to say. She had a kind of charisma that you cannot fake. And her body was what one would call a boom’n system. But when I heard the news, it wasn’t her appearance that pushed ahead to be recalled. No, and trust me on this. I recall her eyes finding mine in the hall and on the bus; her smile was meant for me.
And I remember she shut down the voice in my head that said, ‘You don’t belong here.’
Immortality is the memory of how you make people feel. You can trust me on this.
xo Ann
Wow! What a beautiful piece. Thank you for sharing it.
It makes me cry. Struggling myself my own aging and memories. What is this life for?
Life is for how we make others feel. That is our legacy. And, I’m certain, from this note alone, that you’ve made people feel wonderful.
So true! Damn you’re good. Diane was definitely like that. I didn’t know about the greeting on the bus. Makes me smile.
Me too. I miss those years.
“She was a natural scene-stealer, like a cardinal on the branch of a leafless tree.” My God, what an incredible image and sentence. Your writing is gorgeous. Thank you.
Oh, Anneke, Thank you so much. What a wonderful thing to say. xoAnn
I had that same friend. Your post made me cry. I’m going to call her today.
Corlea,
Oh I’m so glad. I cried writing this. xo
II cried when I read your post I had that same friend . I’m going to call her.
A lovely personal paean to the misattributed wisdom: “People will forget what you said, forget what you did, but they will never forget how you made them feel.” During your school bus chats, did she give you any sense of how you made her feel?
Yeah, you gotta love Maya Angelou.
I bet I never thought of that. I was too focused on everything else.
Wow Ann. I see this so perfectly the way you describe it. I’m sad to hear she passed.
Beautiful memory.
Thanks Karen. I wished I told her all of this before she passed.
She knew, Ann! That is why she gravitated toward you!❤️. She was such a loyal, true friend!
That made me cry Susan.
Dammit!! Your talent is overwhelming.
xoxoxoxoxo What can anyone say but thank you. xo
Thanks for bringing us back to those days, Ann. I’m sure we all squirmed at the recollection of adolescent imperfection. Not everyone was blessed with the grace of a generous stranger, but it’s a reminder that we never run out of opportunities to make someone feel special. Thanks for doing that with your writings, Ann.
Thank you Ann, thank you so much. 🙂
Wow, made me cry, and reminisce of riding the bus and people like Dianne. She was a gem, even in her last years she was a shining star. She loved the lord and he shined in her! She was one I connected with and will never forget. Your writing is beautiful.
Rebecca,
I so wish I’d kept in touch. I’m so glad you felt I got it right.
Thank you for detailing, eloquently. At CSS, your ‘joie de vivre’ deposited the same assurance into the minds of those who had the privilege of calling you friend. A sense of belonging…important.
Oh my gosh, thank you. What a lovely thing to write. xoxox
This made me think back on those days. My strongest memories of so many years ago are simply vague memories of how particular people made me feel. I can only hope that memories others have of me from back then and later in life are warm, positive memories. That’s assuming there are any memories as I worked hard at staying under the radar in high school.
Greg, I can tell you with certainty that you have seeded many loving memories.
I’m sure people saw you.
Absolutely beautiful. The writer in me appreciates the beauty in those few ending words that give the reader so much about the characters (you and your friend). And the girl in me feels for young you, the new girl in town with the frizzy hair. Ah, the trials and tribulations of girlhood. I’m so glad for you to have had her on the bus with you all those years ago. Hold tight to your tender memories.
Linda, you’re making me cry. And that’s wonderful. Thank you for your kindness.
I LOVE this, Ann! She would get the biggest kick reading this. She was truly a gem, as are YOU! It doesn’t surprise me at all that she chose to sit next to you on the bus!
Beautiful. And what a lovely way to remember her and her impact.
Thank you, I wrote it as soon as I heard.
What a wonderful memory. If only we could see ourselves through others’ eyes.
One of your better essays by far. It touched me and took me back in time, too. I knew that girl, too. I hope you submit this essay to other venues, magazines, etc. This essay inspires me to remember to write with such poignancy and honesty, too.
That is high praise, Christine. Thank you and I should look around for places to submit. Thanks for the nudge.
What a lovely tribute! I was lucky to have a friend like her, too. I was fortunate to let her know how much her friendship meant when we reconnected at our 50th HS Reunion.
Oh, I’m so glad you had that chance. I’m really sorry that I didn’t reach out. I didn’t know how much her loss affected me until we lost her.
Beautiful story (and writing). May she rest in peace.
Thank you Teresa. 🙂
Your words are so beautiful.
So sorry for the loss of your high school friend.
Thank you Denise 🙂
I’m not crying, you’re crying! Okay, yes indeed I’m crying. This essay touched me to the core. We can all relate. Whether we were you on that bus, her on that bus, or one of the other kids, we’ve all been on that bus and felt all the feelings as awkward teenagers trying to fit in. I love that her legacy is giving you that big, welcoming smile, and letting you know you belonged. Beautiful.
I’m crying!!
Thank you and thank you for saying so.
I love this.
My favorite line: White cream moustache bleach under my nose, my eyes fluttering from the ammonium odor.
Ha. Well, you know it’s true. hahah
love love love this. and there are still people out there like that. and we still need them now and again.
awwww thanks Kelly. We do need them. I really needed her.
What a sweet and moving essay. My best friend – yes, from the same hometown as Ann – sent it to me. When I heard weeks ago of the death of the fun live wire she wrote about, I posted on a memorial page that one could not help but remember her, charismatic as she indeed was.
The reason for this reply is not only to vouch for the veracity of how Ann described the deceased, but to state how impressed I am by the profound and enlightened take she brought to that woman’s life.
On a personal note, however, were it not for the Quasimodo complex from which I suffered in my youth, it would not have been the subject of “Trust Me On This” for whom I mustered the courage to ask out. It would have been Ann. And you know I’m sincere because she can’t fire me.
Oh Bill,
You charmer you. And you have your own way with words. I love the Quasimodo complex. We all suffered from it didn’t we? And no, I can’t fire you. Nor would I. 🙂
To use a contemporary turn of phrase.: Mic drop! As someone who walked those same halls and classrooms, gymnasiums and buses, there was a charisma around this person. Her persona was larger than life and then she moved on…and then passed quietly. A fitting recollection that’s extraordinarily well composed.
Thank you Eric. I really appreciate this. I’m sorry that she’s gone.
Lovely piece. Thank you,
Thank you Nancy!!
I just was given this beautiful tribute of my sister, Ann, thank you… I can’t explain how I miss her…reading your words just filled my heart with joy because that is what she was all about…she always found a way to make you feel good & special about yourself… she loved unconditionally…thank you for such a special tribute to her…my little sister, Diane, with her big smile & huge laugh will be missed every day until our fantastic reunion one day soon!!!
Marlane,
I’m so glad you thought so. I was worried I might not get it right for the family. I’m so glad you saw Diane in this. I only wish I’d written this for her before.
Much love.
I was your husband 38 years and I knew that girl on the bus very well . I was so fortunate to see that scene Play out 1000 times. She definitely had her way people feel comfortable and the kids just love her thank you again
I’m so glad this reached you. I’m so very sorry for your loss. She meant so much to me. Thank you for loving her.
I wish I’d written this soon.
Well said, Ann❤️
Thanks John. 🙂
A lovely thing small towns do is All School Reunions every five years.
At the last one where I live I saw a woman much as you describe your friend, a Santa Lucia girl in Lutheran parlance.
What struck me wasn’t her, but the conversation she was having. She didn’t in any way match the man she was talking to. By talking to I mean laughing; smiling, equal partners in a duel of wits next to a picnic table. As elegant as she was in dress and demeanor, he was equally rough. Bad haircut, ratty clothes, an unshaven face no woman looked at twice, and boots that looked like they had mud on them, but it wasn’t.
They were two childhood friends proving such friendships are the most precious commodity in the world.
I’m glad you remember with fondness not what your busmate said, but how she made your feel. Few things are ever better than that.
Yes, this. I think of the Maya Angelou quote: “I’ve learned that people will forget what you said, people will forget what you did, but people will never forget how you made them feel.” quite often. There is more truth to this than most people realize.
You obviously learned from your HS friend because you are gifted at making people feel special. Myself included. Thank you for that.
Yes, its so true, bestie. And you do the same for me.