Dear Class of 1995:

Hours before attempting to write this class letter I awoke in the night, ripped from the thralls of a strange and yet extremely decipherable dream: 

Kenyon College. Spring, 1992. First floor, Mather Hall. 4 a.m. The moon hung in the silly, little vertical window like a dagger, slowly waning. There was a thumping in my chest. Love or panic? Maybe both? Nope, just panic. Why? Term papers. Due. Due. Due. All due. Doomsday arrives in triplicate for those with extraordinary procrastinatory powers. And will they even let me stay? 

Oh, and there’s a certain improv comedy show coming up in which I must be absolutely funny. Or die. Or both. Before the entire student body. And I’ve yet to learn my lines … and there are none! It’s improv. On-the-spot make believe. Not dissimilar to, you know, life! But can I do it? Or fail. Make them all laugh? I want to. I truly do. And how do I get from this catastrophic night to that one? I cannot yet see a path. 

So, instead, alone in the night, somewhere on earth, in a corner of a dorm room, with the moon descending, I break into a cold sweat. 

But I hear my voice say: “I’m so lucky just to be here!” 

My words float upward and hit the fireproof ceiling. I hear them resounding and know it’s true. But, I think, certainly, I can do better at being here while I’m here, even if the words never seem to line up on the page the way I wish they could. 

Yet, then, without warning, I need to use a VAX machine so badly. The desire to type something–anything–is overwhelming. I need a VAX terminal and I need one now! 

There’s no one in the Mather hallway but me. And I’m in motion. The cinder block walls look soft. I pass by the doorways where my new friends sleep. I feel tremendous gratitude for them and for the bonds we share. I may be the only one in this hall, I think to myself, but I’m never truly alone. 

The door to Mather flings open and it’s no longer night. The most radiant, stunning Kenyon morning stands to greet me. It wraps my soul in warmth and heals me. I breathe and exhale the fresh air that surrounds me. It feels so good to be at Kenyon. 
 
A group of morning people pass by. We smile. How much better at writing term papers are they than I?

And just then, without warning, there are papers in my arms. Term papers! I see title pages with words like “Kant” and “Misanthrope” and then the name Sigmund Freud, which I immediately choose to disregard for reasons I will ignore for now. 

But, then on the top of them, there is something else that makes me feel so good. It’s a small Super-8mm film reel. A 50-footer, black and white, just like the stock I had been shooting that year at Kenyon (in place of a term paper for History of Film). The reel itself evokes a strong sense of belonging. It’s like a time machine in my arms. 

I wake up 30 years later! Portland, Oregon. Spring 2022. My home. 7:30 AM. Another Spring morning in a very different time. Watching the ruby red sun rising above the Pacific northwest, I think about writing something funny to you, my dear classmates, then something serious. Then I giggle to myself. And think about this: 

Twenty-seven years since our graduation in 1995 and as we approach the age of 50, I think it’s more important than ever to remember our connections to one another and the common culture we share. 

Remember how hopeful and empowered we felt second semester freshman year (or any semester at Kenyon for that matter)? As we look to our strong bonds, we can carry the gifts we gave to one another then forward to today. We can lift one another up now as we did then. And we should. Why? Because we can. 

Memories persist in us flowing like river currents. Confounding both logic and time, they graciously accommodate our whimsy. The act of remembering, brings us right back to the inspiration and delight of youth. Sometimes, they emerge from the heart and mind with such ease and grace it's hard to imagine that the bonds we share will ever fade. 

My dear classmates, not knowing what the future may bring, we can hold more tightly to one another. Now, more than ever, choose love. Practice it the way we did at Kenyon. 

We have love to give. And it will be there for us. Let's celebrate our bonds, our shared culture, and let’s be happy and healthy, together. 
 
David Bee 

Kenyon Class of 1995

P.S. Scroll down for class notes.