The Magic Still Works ... 34 Years Later

by Scott Thompson FR’71
Reprinted from the 40th Anniversary Commemorative

Perhaps it’s the time of year: April, season of hope, freshness, renewal – thanne longen folk to goon on pilgrimages.  Perhaps it’s the time of life: one’s own Middle Ages, when after decades of wandering and adventure a pilgrim begins to long for the places of his youth.

Whatever it is, when I learned that Hisa Kuriyama FR’71 and his wife Joanna were planning to attend the SYA 40-year celebration in Rennes and visit their son Taro FR’05 in April, I jumped at the chance to go along.

It had been on a similar visit of Hisa’s to see Taro in Rennes three months before that I had renewed contact with my French family — the indefatigable, indomitable, unsinkable, unbelievably generous, forgiving and affectionate Le Fevres — after a lapse of more than 30 years.

On the plane back home to Vienna, still flushed with the emotion of those two days in January, I jotted down a few lines:

Prodigal sons and daughters, take note and take heart: you can go home again. I did, almost 34 years after I saw my family for the last time, when the bus pulled out of Rennes with the departing class of Schoolboys Abroad France 1971 on board. I had the best of intentions, truly: to write, to send photos and gifts now and then, to keep up my French, to visit from time to time — in short, to stay connected always. But it got busy, there were distractions, I slacked off, and before I awakened to the fact, the connection had lapsed. The peculiar dynamic of young adult psychology kicked in. Shame. Denial. Complexes galore. Middle-aged adult psychology finished the job, encasing the rot in scar tissue. And thus I remained, resigned to enduring regret.I’m grateful to Hisa for rousing me from my inertia (no easy task even under the best of circumstances). I’m grateful to SYA not only for making it possible to return, but also for actively welcoming even those of us whose long-term donor potential may just about cover the cost of a month’s toilet paper supply at the school.

And I’m especially grateful to the Le Fevre family, whose labor of love has encompassed the staggering number of 38 American sons and daughters, and who have not forgotten or blurred the memory of any of us. Many of my fellow reunioneers will testify to the vision of Mme. Le Fevre at the gala dinner on April 8, clutching her master list of American sons and seeking out any classmates of the  disparus who might be able to give her news of them.

I became aware a long time ago that my experience in Rennes had become a kind of karmic node in my life. All these years later, I still find it working in and through me, vigorously shaping who I am and what I do. Why it was so difficult at first for me to go back, I’m still trying to figure out. Was I afraid of breaking the spell, shattering the creative enchantment of memory? Or was I just feeling guilty about my shabby conduct? Beats me.

And the fact is, I don’t care about figuring it out any more. The magic still works, and the lesson my French family exemplifies of constancy, devotion, and the unlimited value of the person gives me a lot to reflect on. I’m even working on it myself: my French niece (i.e., daughter of my French sister) came to visit us in Vienna last month.

And if you’ll please excuse me, my wife is asking that I pitch in to help prepare the guest room for my French parents, who will be arriving shortly.

We still have a lot of catching up to do.