Conflicted

I've heard today that the high school I attended back in Chicago is on the verge of having to close. The school has been in operation for just over 100 years. As distressing as this is to some, I find myself conflicted. More than thirty years have passed since I last walked the hallowed halls, passed the statue of Martin Luther en route to a class, or cheered on the Wildcats at a football or basketball game. For all intents and purposes, this has been a lifetime ago. I'm not an active alumni, having left Chicago for good in 1995. I married my high school sweetheart, got divorced and had no children to carry on the tradition of attending this school nestled into a quiet neighborhood on the north side of Chicago.

Financial difficulties are not uncommon in this day and age. And, I understand that LHSN faces a $1.8 million dollar shortfall with creditors coming due in June.

What does shock me is that once a vibrant parochial school with an average of 1300 students when I attended, now finds itself barely able to foster an enrollment of 300. I can't help but wonder how enrollment could have declined so much; whether it be the rising tuition costs that may have outpriced the common family; a lessening in the quality of education; or losing the support and encouragement of the Lutheran community at large.

It seems that the issues are more than just the amount owed. Without firsthand knowledge I cannot know if the education in this Christian setting is doing its best to prepare students to move forward with their education and be accepted into the best colleges and universities. There is a drive on now from many of those I went to school with to save Luther North. Even though my father went to its predecessor, Luther Institute, and my brothers and I attended four years each, I don't feel an overriding personal connection that would impel me to help save the school; too many unknowns, too many years past.

My memories are alive…making crepe paper flowers to decorate homecoming floats, dissecting frogs in biology, acting on stage for the first time in Moliere's Imaginary Invalid, singing in choirs and traveling around with the elite Luther Singers. I cherish the memories and if Luther High School North should discontinue its existence after the many years, the memories will always be there for me.

Was it all just a F.A.D.?

For a time, I was prolific; a condition that all too often crossed the threshold into sporadic. Now, as evidenced by my absence for months at a time, I have fallen into the ennui-bound realm of nearly non-existent.

Such has been the life cycle of this blog.

At the urging of a friend, I began my observances of life on the now defunct Yahoo!360 as a way to meet people via a medium that afforded itself greater latitude for personal expression. Many of those connections have stayed with me to this more traditional blogging incarnation and the social web of entrapment that is Facebook. They have read my rants with understanding; laughed at my stepping into the horsepiles of absurdity; relished my intelligent discourse on issues of the day (Ok, that was a bit self-indulgent…so sue me).

At the onset, blogging proved itself to be a catalyst for freshening my mind's eye, keeping perspective fresh and new ideas flowing. It spurred action on my long-ago-shelved novel. Dormant characters once again found their voices. My fingers tapped them into renewed and re-energized existence, only to find them tossed aside when faced with distraction.

On Facebook, I found the quest for pithy and obtuse status updates became more important than the emotions and conversations churning inside of me. Now, on a daily basis, I find myself lost in a sea of "friends"—those newly found and those I've re-connected with from the distant past—who more often than not know as little about the "real" me as I do about them. I find myself longing for more and yet powerless to change this reality. It is as if social networking has alchemized into my own personal Kryptonite, sapping the life right out of me.

The inability to scrape beneath the surface has left me bereft. Words barely seep through the sieve of apathy. It feels like I have abandoned my voice. Sent it packing on a cruise through the Parse-ifal Sea, where Word Sharks and Grammarcudas circle in for the kill, attracted to the scent of indifference.

It makes me wonder if the voices that have been screaming for so long to rise up like a revolutionary mob have been nothing more than a F.A.D. (Fraudulent Authorial Dream)? Only time will tell.