It's So Hard to Say Good-bye to Yesterday

It was 15 years ago today that I entered the Montoursville High School gymnasium in my royal blue cap and gown, ready to move on to the next phase of my life. After my senior year, I was a mix of emotions, and graduating symbolized a lot more than just getting a diploma.

I remember being so excited about being a senior after watching the previous classes leave. It seemed that being part of the senior class would be fun and full of activity. Each class had their Class Day: all the seniors wore white, performed in skits poking fun at their time at MHS, showcased a slide show and then sung their class song. While it could bring tears and the reminder that the graduating class was really leaving Montoursville, I still looked forward to the event. When the class of ’96 graduated, it was our time to shine.

And then Flight 800 happened.

Summer trips to Mexico for the Spanish Club were routine, but the French Club hadn’t travelled to France during our time at the high school. On July 17, 1996, 16 students and their 5 adult chaperones left for Paris aboard TWA Flight 800 from JFK Airport. A few of my friends were part of this trip, and to say they were excited was an understatement. But the plane crashed minutes after takeoff, killing all 230 passengers. Some say this is how the “real world” came to Montoursville: a rude awakening for a town of 5,000. We lost six members of our class, and words can’t even explain the profound loss of so many youth. As one of my closest friends, Monica Weaver, perished in that horrific incident, I was extremely saddened that someone I had grown very close to over our junior year would not be around for the fun senior year we were anticipating. My cousin (and one of my best friends) graduated in June and would head off to college in the fall, and while a couple of my other best friends and my boyfriend were still in school, they were in classes below me. Monica was that one friend I was going to spend so much time with, and she was gone. This inevitably changed the course of my senior year.

The first day of school was unlike any other, and while the events of the summer were still fresh in everyone’s mind, it seemed to me that people were moving on. I ended up taking a step back as this was the day that Monica’s body was identified—the last of the Montoursville group. As we got further into the year, I felt as if people were forgetting. A foolish assessment, but I was sad a lot more than I let on, and I just didn’t feel that anyone felt the same. My friend Erin (a junior) and I grew close over the year because we had both lost very close friends, and she originally was supposed to go on that fateful trip. That friendship was positive for the both of us, and while we are in different phases of our lives and live far apart, we can pick up the phone after a couple months and ease into conversation to this day. I think the bond developed out of the loss of friends truly cemented our friendship.

In Psychology class, we had to complete a project, and a lot of people sent surveys around the school to collect data on a certain subject. I chose to do my report on Flight 800 and how the student population was affected by the tragedy. I saw that the effect on a lot of people, whether they were friends with someone or not, was greater than I expected. However, my report went missing from the blackboard in the Psych room. I have no clue what happened to it, and I was disappointed not to have that piece. But being the pack rat I was (am), I saved the surveys with all of my other Flight 800 memorabilia.

My senior year still had some bright spots, and I tried to make the most of it by spending time with friends, my boyfriend, participating in “Guys and Dolls”, and enjoying the school dances and prom. I do believe people seemed a bit friendlier that year, and that was a positive result of such a terrible tragedy.

I would have to say that the happiest and saddest day was Class Day. It was a little strange to see all the members of my class dressed in white, but as we waited outside the auditorium that beautiful June day, a rainbow formed around the sun. Was it a sign? We liked to think it was. We all carried white roses tied with blue and gold ribbon, and as we entered the auditorium to Rusted Root’s “Send Me on My Way”, each of us made our way to the stage to drop off our roses in memoriam of our classmates lost. This was mentioned at the introduction of Class Day, and after a brief moment of silence, the show was underway. With two hilarious sketches, “wills” from the seniors to other classmates or people in other classes, people named “most likely to…” or “class (ditz, yuppie, mooch, fill in the blank)”, we got to the good part: the slide show. Set to music, a majority of kids in my class had a specific snippet of a song played for them, describing their personality, or name. (For instance, some Jeremys in my class had “Jeremy” by Pearl Jam. Obviously.) Some were flattering, others not so much. Mine was “Supermodel” by Jill Sobule… and to this day I’m still not sure why, since it should’ve been the “Hokey Pokey”, referencing my maiden name Polk.

After lots of photos of our class, the screen flashed blue with the words “In Memory of Flight 800.” The auditorium grew silent. A photo montage of the six members of our class, Jessica Aikey, Jordan Bower, Amanda Karschner, Kim Rogers, Monica Weaver and Wendy Wolfson, was set to “One Sweet Day” by Mariah Carey and Boyz II Men. To see their baby and childhood pictures on the screen immediately set me off in tears. Near the end, I was surprised to see myself in a photo with Jess and Kim from about 8^th grade, and then when a photo of Monica and I flashed on the screen from the last day of our junior year, I could hardly take it. After the slide show ended, you could have heard a pin drop (if it weren’t for those of us crying) until loud, clear applause broke through the silence.

Then it was time to take the stage to sing our class song, “These Are Days” by 10,000 Maniacs (which I hated before that… but now hold dear for sentimental reasons). I was a wreck but pulled myself together to enjoy the moment. The juniors sang us the Beatles’ version of “With a Little Help From My Friends” (and adding on “Hit the Road Jack” at the end—we poked some fun at their class that day as we thought they were a little more favored by the faculty).

I heard some people from my class were going to take the roses up to the cemetery where our classmates were laid to rest. I knew I couldn’t go up there as I rarely visited the cemetery that year. But as I drove out of the high school parking lot and saw my classmates up on the hill, I turned up the road towards them. Arriving up there, seeing my classmates arm in arm, each group of friends by the headstone of their dearest friend, crying… I realized I was not alone in my grief nearly 11 months after the incident. I sat in front of Monica’s grave, sobbing, while a couple of my friends consoled me. We started talking about Flight 800, our friends lost, our senior year, saying good-bye, and before we knew it, there were only five of us left up on that hill. One of my friends commented that he never realized how hard it would be to say good-bye.

Two days later would be our final farewell to MHS at graduation. We were stuck indoors as we were told the football field had just been re-sodded (or whatever you do to keep football fields nice), but we were all pretty much convinced that the administration did not want us outside due to a media frenzy over our class being the first to graduate after Flight 800. We didn’t think it was going to be a big deal for the media. But wouldn’t you know it? When we pulled in to the parking lot, there were cameras lined up the street. I heard one classmate went as far to unplug some of them.

It was a fitting ceremony; the top three guys in our class spoke about our time at MHS, Flight 800 was not forgotten, but yet the living were much celebrated. Soon we were lined up to receive our diplomas. When my name was called, I learned I was also receiving the Monica M. Weaver Memorial Award. It seemed surreal to be receiving an award in honor of the friend who I expected would be receiving her diploma with me, so it was a bittersweet moment. After our row got their diplomas, I looked inside the shell and nearly panicked when I did not see my diploma. My friend next to me whispered that we would get them after we turned in our caps and gowns, remember? Must not have been paying attention to that one. Alas I had to have one more stupid moment before I left school.

The six in our class that died on Flight 800 received their diplomas posthumously. I could not imagine being in our class president’s shoes as she had to read those six names, each responded to with thunderous applause.

Thirteen years from the time (most of us) started Kindergarten in 1984, and it was over just like that. And now 15 years have flown by! I find it hard to swallow that so much time has passed, and yet sometimes, I don’t feel any different than I did back then. I would like to think I’m a little bit cooler than I was, but in reality, probably not. While I had no serious career ambitions (and that is how one ends up a pharmacy technician!), I knew more than anything I wanted to get married and be a mom. Well, I certainly filled in that blank, just not in a way I ever expected.

Some people look back on their high school days with pain, some look back in laughter, some look back in regret, and some look back to reminisce. I can say that I do all of those. My senior year truly encompassed all of those emotions. In some aspects, I was glad to leave, but for awhile, I did have a hard time letting go. I figured someday I would settle back in Montoursville, but it was not meant to be. I view that as a good thing for me—I needed to get away and move on. While the path I traveled was a bit crooked and unconventional, I am grateful to be living in State College now. Far enough away, but close enough that we can still enjoy a visit (and that my parents can come and see their grandchildren). I am thankful for the life I had in Montoursville, but even more so that my narrow teenage eyes have been able to see greater things than I imagined possible as I left Montoursville High School for the last time.