Have you ever heard someone's name mentioned by perfect strangers, maybe read it in the newspaper, or a magazine, and thought to yourself, startled, "I know that person!" Ever since I moved back to the Bay Area it seems to happen all the time. It happened a couple of months ago when I picked up a copy of Town&Country magazine and saw a photo of my old high school chum Gordy Sondland. It happens rather frequently when I read Leah Garchik's column for the SF Chronicle because she occasionally quotes my ex-boyfriend Simon Agree along with rather more current pals Candi Strecker and Bruce Townley. And it happened tonight when I got home from work and finally got around to reading Jon Carroll's column which runs on the back page of the Chron's entertainment section.
He mentioned, purely in passing, going to piano concerts by one Diane Hidy. I sat back in my chair feeling slightly stunned for a moment. I went to high school with her. Didn't I? Or was it university? I ran to find my high school yearbooks. It took me a while to locate them as I never bothered unpacking them last time we moved. I don't look at them much, obviously. High school was approximately a geological age ago, and I've long since lost touch with everyone on Mercer Island. But I found the right box, and yanked out my senior yearbook, and started thumbing through it.
May I just say that 1975 was probably the ugliest year of an ugly decade in terms of clothing and hair? I can't believe what we all wore. I can't believe our parents let us leave the house like that. I can't believe the fashions have become popular again, quite honestly, but apparently the urge to wear bellbottoms and skanky little tops just skips a generation before popping up again in a Mendelian fashion every 20 years. Ugh.
Sure enough, I found Diane Hidy's photo. She was a junior when I was a senior. I was slightly surprised to find a long, sweetly earnest note from her at the back of the book. She urged me to be true to myself (a constant theme among the signers of yearbooks, I believe), and said she thought I was in some ways stronger than she was in music because I was so utterly determined to sing in the choir that I was willing to fight for my place there. Me, a stronger musician than a virtuoso pianist? Highly flattering to read even now. And how did she know about choir? Ah, that's right. She was the accompanist, of course. And I was crazy for classical music, utterly besotted with the idea of singing for a living even though no one in my family thought that was a very good idea.
You know the sad history, right? The choir teacher was an asshole who wouldn't let me join because I couldn't sight sing. I was note perfect after one hearing, but he was on a power trip so he kept me out. He did, however, condescendingly consent to let me sit in on the daily practice. If I'd been as lousy as all that he wouldn't have done me any favors at all, so I still believe to this day that he simply enjoyed screwing me over. I never did get to perform with the choir. It just about broke my heart. The funny thing is I'd forgotten that the other students found this almost as baffling as I did. I was something of a cause celebre among the choristers. And here was Diane, telling me she hoped she'd learn to have the same determination to pursue her musical goals because she knew talent was only going to take her so far.
It took her as far as a semi-finalist in the 1985 Van Cliburn competition which I find phenomenally impressive. I found a mention of it on the web when I went looking for some information on her. She is highly regarded as a recording artist and a pedagogue these days. She looks exactly the same, though without the revolting mid-seventies fashions, thank god. I'm almost certain she spent a year at the University of Washington before going on to Juilliard, although I could be wrong about that. I was a music major by then, despite or perhaps because of my perceived persecution in high school choir. I taught myself to sight sing. The day I was admitted to the music school was the absolute happiest moment of my life. I spent all my spare time with pianists and violinists, and I vaguely remember going to a recital of Diane's with some other Chopin aficianados.
I think I'll ask her. She lives in the Bay Area. It shouldn't be too hard to get in touch. If I do, and we spend even a few minutes in pleasant reminiscence, I'll be very pleased. I mildly regret having cut all ties with the island, and yes, I realize this means I'm getting old and sentimental. That's okay, though. By now I barely recognise half the people in my yearbook. The bullies all look like teenagers instead of monsters, and all of the cute boys still look really cute. I'm not about to turn up at a high school reunion, but I think I'd like to rewrite history a little. I was very harsh on myself in those days, being self-absorbed and sure that no one noticed how hard I worked as a singer and an actor. I was wrong, though. Even at the time, I was surprised by the number of people who wanted to sign my yearbook. It would be nice to add some good memories to my collection of mental snapshots of those years. It would be very nice to think of myself as someone who had a little group of unknown admirers who found me funny, and interesting, and possibly even talented.
But then, that's kind of how I feel about all of you. Something keeps you coming back, which surprises and gratifies me. And quite a lot of you have signed my yearbook, I mean guestbook, so I know there are far more strangers than acquaintances keeping up with this performance. I hope this means someday I'll get my photo in a magazine or get mentioned in a newspaper. Then you can say, "I know her! I read her diary!" And the circle will be complete.
The Index
Next Incarnation