Revisionist History

The other night I had the most vivid dream. In my somnolent state I was a high school junior, assessing whether another year at the Isidore Newman School was in my best interest. I surveyed the cast of characters with whom I’d been laboring since kindergarten and determined that four, maybe five, were candidates to be life-long friends. Glancing over at the greener pasture of The Louise S. McGehee School I saw a tightly knit group of women who would be BFFs forever. As this reel played out, I was preparing to tell my parents of my decision. During the night I’d awaken enough to remind myself that I was in my 70’s, too old to be a high school junior. Then I’d sink back into the dream’s story line.

It was a pleasant reverie on what might have been. But in the morning light I reflected on the likelihood that I could have pulled off such a transition. I doubt that at 17 I’d have had the wisdom to realize McGehee’s peer group was a better fit than my notorious mean-girl class at Newman. By that time I was locked in on finishing what I had started at Newman, like a recruit’s ambition to complete boot camp.

Regardless of my wishes, no one would have listened to my opinion. Over-controlled child that I was, I was disallowed from making my own decisions for all of childhood — and beyond. I never pursued a course other than acquiescence. To paraphrase Donald J. Trump, my parents “had all the cards.”

Assuming that a transfer would have led to a happily-forever-after life would also be a leap. I might not have been comfortable with the multi-generational New Orleanians at McGehee. My parents, after all, were transplants to New Orleans and assiduous in not encroaching on the aristocracy’s territory. They would have conveyed that self-consciousness to me. The forever friendships might have evaded me, even there. The alternative was to stay at Newman and feel like an “other” for not being Jewish. Or, in the new setting, I may have been so comfortable that I would have failed to develop sensitivity for others outside of McGehee’s tight circle.

I’m not sure why, in my non-waking hours, my mind wants to rewrite my history. Surely the voyage through my life has not been all smooth sailing. I’d guess no one’s has been. But in surveying the course it’s taken, I’d say the challenging parts of my life have accrued to gifts of empathy and insight that have benefited my later years.

I do believe the Lord gave us free will. (Biggest mistake, God!) But I can also see in the doodle that is my life’s story, how circumstances link together, one building on another. It feels as if a divine hand has been sketching it all along - early challenges yield later gains, longstanding perspectives persist, strength grows, one’s personality becomes a caricature of itself. There’s no turning back, no do-overs. There’s just the chance to be thankful for what turned out to be a pretty darned good existence after all.