45th Reunion

Yesterday was homecoming and my 45th high school class reunion. The class of ’80, the first desegregated class to matriculate through the Evanston Public School District. When we began our educational journey as five- and six-year-olds, we couldn’t comprehend the significance of it. There was no ceremonial welcome, no assembly to tell us why it mattered, no acknowledgement that we were special.

Black kids were bussed disproportionately from their neighborhoods, something that was later determined to have an adverse effect on those children—and many more over generations to follow—but that’s a story for another day. I walked less than the length of a football field to the front door of Central School. I don’t remember the first day of school. I know Mom, having three little girls at home, charged my god-sister with the task of getting me to school as a responsible fifth grader.

In our small kindergarten class, we became the first iteration of DEI. We were Black, white, Jews, Gentiles, Protestants, and Catholics (I wonder why Dr. King didn’t mention Christians?). I can almost name all of us, but three names stand out: Benji Gibert and Lacretia Bailey—both have passed on—and Claudia Wolf, the little blond girl with cat-eye glasses. I couldn’t tell you who stood to my right alphabetically, lined up in front of me on the way to recess or assembly, but it was Claudia to my left and behind me when we filed out of the room.

Last night, we—the great experiment of desegregation—reconvened to celebrate the achievement of surviving, and dare I say thriving, in a process we may not have recognized as monumental. Forty-five years later, diversity in Black and white (did anybody notice no other races were represented?). We recalled and remembered, laughed and smiled, played catch-up. We memorialized those who’ve departed since our last gathering, talked about pending retirement, kids, and family, all the customary small talk, and assembled for the obligatory group picture.

Highlights for me include hanging out with Andy Morrison—even though he blew me off for the tailgate and the game, he made up for it with great conversation and by sharing a fantastic bottle of Calumet Farm Bourbon.

And talking to Claudia, realizing that if we had been a year older, we would not have been part of this unique experience called desegregation. We would not have been allowed to stand next to each other or sit in the same row during assemblies. Her parents made the choice to move to Evanston and to a more progressive, diverse community.

What sometimes looks and feels like Evanston now suffers from what I call “drive-by” diversity. What you would have seen in that room last night were people who remember what made E-town special over 50 years ago.