Not My People

As I write this post, I am sitting in a lounge outside the music department at a small university. I bring B here once a week for saxophone lessons. There's a decent jazz ensemble that rehearses nearby - it sets a nice mood for the place. I have a half an hour to kill while B sharpens his reed skills.

Few things make me feel older than hanging around a college campus. It's a feeling different than visiting an elementary or high school. I'm fine going to those places. Usually, when I'm there it's for some function that includes other parents. Plenty of peers close enough to my age group to make me feel right at home.

But college is different. I think somewhere deep in my psyche there's still a piece of me that identifies with this group. "These are my people," it whispers. "We belong here." At first glance, I can almost believe it. As I watch a group skitter to night class, laden with monster backpacks I can recall doing the same thing. But that was a long time ago. Today, I couldn't skitter if I tried and the thought of sitting through a night class gives me hives. Last week I listened in as a group tried to come up with the name of one of those old musicians. You know, he sang folk songs and played guitar and harmonica. He was originally from Minnesota, somewhere up north, maybe. They never did come up with a name.

So, here I sit, feeling old. But, I'm okay with it. These are not my people. They are my people's children.