Name Tag: Reunion II

A reunion sequel.

Jun 19, 2026

I wrote Reunion the week before mine in a sort of fever-dream state. I wrote it the way I wrote when I was a teenager: a song on repeat that evoked a specific mood I wanted to capture, eyes closed, listening over and over until the words just flowed out of me in a trance state. I wrote by hand, in a journal, just like I used to.

Then I turned the poem into a longer Substack, my first one. A few kind friends shared my essay anonymously on the Class Reunion Facebook page, and quite a few people ended up reading it. But the thing was, I hadn’t actually attended the reunion yet.

Name Tag: Reunion II is what I wrote after I attended 3 days of a remarkable milestone reunion, where I saw old friends, made some new ones, and, as you’ll see in the poem, had a few conversations I won’t soon forget. The poem is an attempt to capture some of those emotions after I’ve had some time to reflect.

I wrote this reunion sequel from the perspective of the name tag because of another piece of “ornamental camouflage” I’d worn through those same gates almost thirty years earlier. A star-cross I designed and wore my entire freshman year. Putting it on made me feel a sense of uniqueness and something approaching pride in my mixed identity. The name tag at the reunion gave me some of those same feelings. While this poem is ultra-personal, perhaps some of the ideas may feel universal.

Name Tag: Reunion II

I waited for you, and finally you picked me up
and draped me over your neck, hanging loose
like the star-cross you wore
when you first walked through those old gates,
ornamental uniqueness, but camouflage nonetheless.

And the first person I saw, the first person
you met before you both knew you’d end up in the same place,
the familiar face, the smile the same but framed by
a graying beard, but I only got a quick glimpse of you
and your close-cropped hair was dust covered in snow.

We marched, me, you and your roommate,
toward the river courtyard, and I watched the smiles
and heard them fondly say our name.

I listened to the stories, compressed
and edited, but you asked the most questions.
You always did.

You saw a woman. Time touched her too.
But you saw that beautiful girl you knew since
you were children in the brightness of her eyes.
She was still there. Did she also see you as a boy,
even for a moment? You thanked her for her kindness
to that past self, and you saw those same eyes
turn into Central Park puddles.

Is it possible our truest selves can be brought back to life
by a simple rewind?

You wound your watch to truth, and you saw
a couple people glance down at that ice-blue
face, and change the way they looked at you
ever so slightly. You taught me so well how to
read faces. I know you were so good you sometimes
had to turn away when you saw lies like
neon. I understand, why
you always liked the darkness.

You put me on each day, so many friendly faces,
so few lies, why was everyone so honest,
and only in the details and the questions did you hear
the cracks, a divorce, a lost job, a parent you knew
on their way, or gone.

I wish I could have seen your face those nights.
I think you lied once.
But it’s so hard to tell just by your voice.

On the second night you heard someone say
that they’re surprised to see you because they
thought you’d be in prison by now. And I heard you
ask why? I wish you hadn’t done that.

You spent your entire childhood with bars on those
project windows. And you fucking escaped.

You walked outside with a woman you met the
first week of school, and you both spilled your
sufferings. I heard you
say you’re not the same since you were stalked
and robbed, and I heard
the pain of her son struggling with a single mom
just like you. Look what happened
when you sat outside, away from the crowd.

You both understood how hard it was,
every regret, your shared shame. But that
same person shared your poem widely, and
helped you find the strength to not stay anonymous.

I heard every friendly greeting, saw every
joyful smile. And I felt you hesitate
whether to save me or toss me in the trash.
Some of them needed me, and some did not.