I don’t do reunions.  I heard a few years back that my elementary school was having a 10 or 15 year reunion or something, I worked overtime that weekend.  When my 15 year reunion for my high school came up, I was out of state.  There was a reunion in 2004 of the guys who I worked Woodstock ‘99 with, and I avoided that one too.  I don’t do reunions.

It really has nothing to do with the people who would be there.  Sure there were some asses in elementary school and high school, but I can ignore them today just as I ignored them then.  There were some really cool people too.  The guys I worked with were all cool, so there really shouldn’t be an issue there.  It’s really about me and the fact that I have no desire to try to fill them in on 5, 10, or 15 years in under thirty seconds. 

Because THAT‘s what they’re all going to do… ask ME what I’ve been doing. 

Hell, I have trouble describing what I’m doing in the moment in 140 characters or less… how am I going to encapsulate 5 years?  10 years?  15 years?  And honestly it isn’t like I’ll be any better… because I’d end up asking THEM the same question!

Right.  I’ll just avoid it.  That strategy has worked pretty damn well for me… until now.

Back in my late teens/early twenties I used to belong to a Young Adult CCD (Confraternity of Christian Doctrine) group.  It was a co-ed group that would meet every Wednesday night in the gymnasium of the local church.  The group was lead by a man (who in the interest of protecting his real life identity will be known forthwith in complete ambiguity as John) that had done this sort of education for years and yet it was unlike any sort of religious instruction I had ever received.  Normally there was a homily of sorts, a religious tie in, a group discussion, and then the session would close in a circle of hand holding prayer with a three wick candle… each wick being representative of a member of the group who had traveled ahead of us to the other side.

It served as sort of a bridge class in learning how to live in the present world with the laws and rules developed from two millenia before.  There was also a high value placed on tolerance of those who were different, which is something organized religious instruction in Catholic institutions conveniently seemed to overlook.  Being Catholic, or for that matter being a Christian, was not a requirement for membership… nor was any specific skin color, sexual orientation, or economic status (which is kind of odd for a group using a Crusaders’ Cross as its emblem).  The biggest requirement was that you had to be a minimum age which disqualified you from regular CCD classes.  A willingness to listen to what was being said regardless of who was saying it and to think about what was being said wasn’t even a requirement, but it was something that would enrich the experience if you did.  From his stool in the circle, John readily admitted before the group that there were times when his faith was challenged, that there were times when doubt was cast upon his beliefs, and there were times when questioning the religion that should not be questioned penetrated deeply into his thoughts.  John‘s lessons were not about shaping your life to fulfill religious edicts.  They were about living as an everyday human with religion.

As a group, there was a yearly retreat that we would go on.  Going on retreat was not an automatic right… it was by invitation.  I know when most people think of religious retreats they think of brown monk robes and chanting from the bell tower.  Well, the retreat house we usually went to did indeed have a bell tower… but I assure you there was no Gregorian chanting going on.  Every retreat weekend had a theme and there were sessions called to order by the ringing of a bell.  During the day the sessions generally led to activities we did as a whole or broken up into smaller groups with our peers acting as group leaders.  Night time generally had one session and then it turned into a big slumber party with some people who you were close to and some people who you weren’t close to but would be closer by the end of your time there.  Retreats could also be heavy philosophical and spiritual journeys in their own right as well. 

Such was the case with the retreat known as Touch The Pain. 

While I would like to say it was April 1994, the accuracy of my recollection relies on the fact that coming home from that weekend was when I learned that Kurt Cobain had taken his own life.  So Touch The Pain started out like any normal retreat.  We were the only group using the retreat house with the exception of a 4-6 group of young men who were there doing volunteer work in grounds maintenance in preparation for the upcoming summer season.  Friday there were the usual “ice breaker” classes, and then some slightly deeper sessions before a night of laughter, frolicking, praying to radiators, and making use of a certain couch that Gil Grissom would undoubtedly have a field day with. 

Saturday the morning sessions continued including a group poster making session, where everyone in a group would contribute something personal and meaningful.  The posters were then presented by each group to the wholeness and displayed prominently in the chapel.  There was of course a lunch, some free time, and the afternoon classes that focused on the actual physical aspects of crucifixion.  The detail was gruesome, somewhat nauseating, and perhaps not the best choice before dinner… but eh, whatever.  Dinner of course was always a jolly event with the possibility of a spontaneous food fight breaking out.  Following dinner was some more free time to wander about, play some ping pong, play some…

… the bell rang.  Violently.  Everyone was told to report to the chapel immediately.  Upon entering the chapel we were agasp.  The posters our groups had so personally created… had been defaced with graffiti and ripped to shreds that were now littering the front of the chapel.  We had been vandalized!  Now to be honest, it seemed a little suspect to me since nothing else in the chapel had been disturbed in such a manner, but the girls were crying, the boys were pissed, and someone had to pay!  Who could it be???  Everyone’s emotions were out in the open, overlapping like waves on the sand during a hurricane, and whipping the wholeness into a frenzy.  Over the crying and hysteria someone shouted to, “Get the niggas!” Oh yeah, those 4-6 guys doing charity maintenance work?  They happened to be black.  As soon as that happened, the door to the chapel was slammed shut to keep everyone inside before it became a typical Christian Crusading lynch mob… and the truth was revealed before anything spiraled out of control.

It was John.

Specifically, like Don Corleone giving hit orders to his Capos, John had instructed a small ensemble of group leaders to sneak into the chapel during dinner and wreak havoc on the posters… which they did very very very well.  For the members of the group there was the sudden sense of a great betrayal coupled with the anxiety of being in crisis with no clear way out.  And pain.  There was pain.  Plenty of pain as evidenced by the caterwauling hysterics of both group members and the now guilt laden group leaders who had performed this atrocity.  As for me? 

I was more meh about it than anything else.

I knew something wasn’t right when I walked into the chapel.  Looking at the graffiti on the posters I knew it wasn’t the black guys, because they actually did know how to do true graffiti art (one of them showed me his sketchbook with some work because we got to talking over some free time outside) and this was just black spray painted scrawl (and I would later tell one of my friends who had actually done that deed, “You need to stop graffiting like a white chick”).  In the end, yeah the posters were destroyed… but they were just cardboard so to me it wasn’t that big of a deal no matter what I had put into or onto them.  Looking back on it now, I should have known right then and there that a film career wasn’t for me… but hindsight is 20/20 and all that.

Not surprisingly the weekend was considered a rousing success in terms of living up to its name, Touch The Pain.  After a cooling off period everyone in their own way forgave or made peace with John, because we’re Christians and that’s what Christians do and all that.  In the end we walked away having learned lessons about trusting, loyalty, subconscious prejudice, living with pain, and forgiveness.  I stopped going to the group about a year or two after that.  Life was busy between school and work with time becoming a commodity instead of an abundant resource which slowed my attendance.  Then at some point there was some sort of drama, and after that I really just couldn’t be bothered with it.  It was the kind of thing that meant the world then… and you can look back fondly on now after having truly been touched by pain.

I still on occasion would see people from that group.  In fact, my partner for the first year on the job as an EMT was a member of it and my current Friday night vollie partner KC was also a member.  I’ve seen some other people here and there on occasion… I saw one in a pizzeria I used to frequent in the old neighborhood… another one I extricated from her car when she was in an accident… and yet another one I met outside the voting place on Election Day morning in 2001.  That last meeting, on Election Day, was the last I had actually heard about the group still going.  At some point after that I presume it closed down.

Why do I make this presumption?

Because tonight Poppy and I will be attending a reunion of this very same group.  Remember how I don’t do reunions?  Yeah.  I’m really not doing too well avoiding this one… for some reason (I still can’t remember why) I told KC I would go… and he apparently told a few other people… so if I don’t show, it’ll make him look bad.  At least that’s what he says.  Did I mention that this Christian reunion is at a local bar?  Hell, it can’t be all bad then… and while the candle may not fit the decor, the stool will blend right in.

So tonight I will break my no reunion rule.  I will go and Touch The Pint with a group of people I haven’t seen in years, in memory of a time in my life when we shared both the good and bad our lives offered together.  I will go and when people ask me about what I’ve been doing…

… I’m going to tell them the best 140 Character or less comment left on this blog post.  So now you tell me because I think I’ve said plenty here… when they ask… in 140 characters or less… what should I tell them???