P.S. E R S O N A L
T O R Y
COURtESY OF SHAUN GRIFFEN ’75
Another Country Heard From*
*(What my ex-father-in-law used to say whenever one of my kids burped in public.)
by Shaun Griffen ’75
L
akeside magazine arrived today. This must be about the 76th since I graduated in 1975. Once again, we are brilliant, philanthropic, influential, sexy, and profound. Each issue, perhaps five outstanding alums have been spotlighted, so, about 380 super good people since 1975. Let’s say the average graduating class is at least 100 kids. Times 38 years, that’s 3,800 grads. So, that’s 3,420 of us who must fall somewhere between super good and totally evil since 1975. Or at least super good and completely not lived up to our potential — assuming the totally evil wouldn’t get into Lakeside in the first place. Maybe. I wonder how many of us are or have been in jail? Though I jest (in part), every one of those 380 super good people remind me that without Lakeside I would not be the person I am today — let’s call me quirky, playful, curious, hopeful, wondering ... Forty-one years later, I’m still thinking about a question history teacher Dwight Gibb asked as part of my Lakeside application interview: “Do you believe in the death penalty?” It wasn’t the question itself but the fact that he cared to know my opinion that mattered. I was a horribly shy 13-year-old, daughter of an eccentric hippie artist father and an angry, depressed, hardworking mother, raised in large part by my great-grandmother who had moved out a year before, after one too many psychedelic parties and to make room for my dad’s girlfriend. (It’s a long story. It was the ’60s.) I guarded the secret of a sexual
assault and had become quieter with each passing year as the adults in my world seemed to rise in volume. By 13, I was an expert at laying low. It took all four years, but Lakeside made my spirit sing. (I need to interject an apology here for the unholy number of my senior-year renditions of “Chelsea Morning” in the stairwells of Bliss Hall. Damn, those acoustics were good.) On the edge of the closed pages of a paperback dictionary, my senior year I wrote: “Language is love in motion, in action, in bloom.” I’d thumb the pages to make the words ripple with life. I’ve aimed to live true to this credo — as an English teacher in Africa, in a brief stint as a special education teacher, as a freelance writer and editor, and for 18 years as the manager of a psychology practice, learning the grace and peace of mind that comes when we simply listen to each other. Now, in phase 2,653 (approximately) of what I hope and fear is a lifelong reinvention process, I work as a developmental editor, helping others tell the stories that might make their spirits sing. So, over the years, as I read each Lakeside magazine with pride, I can’t help but note that no one writes of how they got married too young and took 13 years and two children to figure out they’d made a big mistake. No one reports having had that affair, or having let another year go by without actually graduating from college. No one’s regaled us with stories of how they made another false start
at a more challenging career. How much it hurt to lose a spouse, or a job, or a bit of our minds. But of course, there must be at least a couple thousand of us with just these stories to tell. Perhaps we’d enjoy a regular “Confessions” feature, in which we ordinary folk could gain recognition for our ongoing battles with codependency, anxiety, or depression; a forum for us regular imperfect humans living bright and beautiful, if complicated and publicly unremarkable, lives. That would be inspiring in a different way, wouldn’t it? All right, I understand this may not be the venue in which to spotlight all the things we haven’t done, or haven’t done quite right. I’d just like to congratulate all of us who are small better people, partly because of our lifelong struggles and partly because of our experience with each other back when the world was new, at the remarkable place that is Lakeside. We learned to change the world, one ordinary, courageous, loving word at a time. ■ Shaun Griffen ’75 welcomes hearing from fellow alumni: s-griffen02@cox.net. Find more about her work at findyourstory.net.
TELLING YOUR STORIES P.S., or Personal Story, is a personal essay written by a Lakeside alum. If you’re interested in contributing a short piece for a future issue, please write us at magazine@lakesideschool.org. In Memoriam, Personal Story
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