1989

For all I know, it may have been there when I first pulled on the pair of HARVARD SUCKS" boxer shorts, but it was definitely visible after I poked my head through my green cotton shirt, the top of its ghostly ectoplasmic head just even with the "89" emblazoned on my chest. I suspected that this ghost was my freshman advisor, a mere spectre of a man who had dematerialized after our first meeting and subsequently vanished from my academic life.

The spirit gave a dismissive snort. "NO. I am the Ghost of Classmates Past. You don't call your friends, you won't write, and yet you call yourself an '89. Follow me." With this the spirit whisked me off in a cloud of smoke smelling strangely like the Green in mid-April. When the smoke cleared I found myself suspended above a laboratory, the spirit hovering supernaturally at my side. I could discern two figures.

"Frank von Hippel and Erich Fischer, recipients of National Science Foundation Fellowships in biology and earth science, respectively," the spirit announced. As I mused sheepishly about my own inability to brominate (or was it iodinize?) anything in Chem 5-6, the researchers dissolved and we were now gazing upon Mike Glickman and Tim Brody, each moving boxes up several flights of stairs and sporting a smile. I was confused and began speaking like Charles Dickens. "Spirit, they bear such burdens, yet they are happy. How can this be?" The spirit huffed self-righteously. "They share an apartment near Columbia Med School, you troll. Some '89s still keep in touch."

As if to reinforce this point, Erin Johns and Fox Tilghman moved into view as we appeared over Arlington, Va. Explained the spirit: "Erin works for an AIDS research company, while Fox drills wells and drives heavy machinery for ICF Technology." Grinning, I responded, "I can dig it." The spirit was not amused.

"The D.C.types really stick together," it continued, as we spied on apartmentmates Tom Flanigan and Matt Malaney, working after-hours at their respective consulting jobs. Strains of mellow rock suddenly pleased my ears; it was Mark Zankel and his guitar at an open-mike night, loosening his tie after a day at Skadaen Arps. "Spirit," I blurted, "How do they have the time, the energy, to stay in touch?"

"Concern and initiative are important as well," the spirit intoned proudly as we left the East for Austin, Tex. Alberto Guerrero, studying at the LBJ School of Public Affairs, was our focus. "Alberto is co-founder of the Hispanic Student Scholarship Initiative, a project which aims to provide scholarship funds for Hispanic U.T. students who in turn serve as tutors in the local bublic school system." At this moment, Alerto was writing excitedly to Hanoverian David Burke of the program's success.

I realized now how much I had been missing by having dropped out of my classmates' lives. Ready to ring up half my address book and write a ream of letters, I stuck out my hand for a farewell shake, forgetting that ectoplasm doesn't have much of a grip. "Spirit, thank you ..." I drew back in surprise: the spirit's hand was as rock-solid as New Hampshire granite. And as I raised my head, I saw that the Ghost of Classmates Past had taken the form of none other than Class Agent Russell Wolff, who was informing me that I hadn't yet paid my Alumni Fund pledge of $50, and didn't I miss Dartmouth ... ?

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