Recently, I sat down with my photo albums and my collection of ASM yearbooks, and put this together, knowing that we would all be here today. It's a tribute to all of you, and to those days when we were immortal, and young, and fearless. The pictures made me smile, and laugh, and sometimes cry; They made me remember each of you in turn, but more importantly, they made me remember who we were, the class of 1972.

I learned a lot at ASM; we all did. We learned about love, and caring, and loss. In ninth grade, shortly after my arrival, I watched in horror as the class received the news that Ben Guarneau, a former classmate and friend, had collapsed on the track at Torrejón and died. I was standing near Vivian Gomez at that fateful moment; the look in her eyes, and the sadness and pain in her scream as she fell to the floor will be a poignant and terrible part of me forever. ASM was a place where emotions were as real as homework, and we grew stronger for them.

We all remember the chaotic times on the schoolbuses, buses so different from the yellow rattletraps that kids ride in here. Thy would pull up in the big field to the west of the school, a field that today cradles a new gym and theater, and disgorge their payloads of mayhem on the waiting faculty. With swords drawn, Oeste and Santoro and Fernandez and Jenny Lind would ride herd, ushering the crowd through the administration building and on to lockerland. There, we would retreat into our respective caverns to put away lunches and look for clandestine notes slipped into the air vents of the locker doors.

Locker time was social time, and I have many happy memories of those raucous minutes before class. I well remember the day John Comiskey discovered an apple in his locker, an apple that he had placed there many months before and that was now a candidate for archaeological status. You could smell it in Cleveland. It was also the time to meet boyfriends and girlfriends, and time to catch up on those crucial things that had happened since yesterday.

We were students at a time when history and change were in the making, and the world was a frightening and unpredictable place. From our vantage point on the hill high above Aravaca, we watched as Berkeley writhed and burned and soldiers died in an unknown Asian land. We listened as the music decried the acts of our fathers, and lent half an ear as the new spiritual leaders, the Learys and Rubins and Maos and Hoffmans told us how to rebel, how to change things, how to rip off the society at large.

But we didn't; we listened to the music, listened to Crosby, Stills, Nash and Young tell us that we had a very fine house and that we should treat our parents well, and listened to Creedence down at the corner. We wandered through downtown Madrid and wondered what it really would be like in the year 2525, and played futbolín to the stomping rhythm of Rare Earth and the Archies, as we tried in vain to beat Comiskey and Collins at that game, their game.

We got drunk at Las Cuevas and puked in the gutters, lived for the liter bar at Moncloa, and hung out at the Parque de Atracciones, where we spun around in those infernal cages, rode the pulpo and teleférico and shot bee-bee guns at targets, and drank cañas and ate boquerones and patatas bravas. We partied at the Bikkal farm, and lived our young lives as if there were no tomorrow.

We even created heroes. We listened adoringly as Frank Mann and Humberto Cáncio warbled their way aboard a jet plane hundreds of times over. We had our statesman, Mr. Diaz-Balart, who captivated us with mesmerizing and fiery oratory, and Messrs. Sellmer and Driscoll and Balandrín, whose knowledge of things mathematical bordered on the mystical -- at least, it kept them safe from Villalvazo. We had Quirós and Warfield, whose whimsical and goofy approach to life kept us all smiling.

And what of the teachers who guided us through our years at ASM? We all had our favorites, but some stood out above the others. There was Joanne Haer, whose handling of the ill-fated sweater boycott in 1969 started the trend away from those hated ties and jackets. There was Ernie Belanger, who kept us all hopping, and Emily Villalvazo, who kept us all sweating. There were the language teachers, Santoro and Casariego and Asúnsolo, and those poor science teachers, Diane Wrigley and George Oeste and Anne Hare, all of whom put up with far too much. Pith a frog, indeed.

And who could forget Artistic Pépe, whose home, now the school's infirmary, sat perched at the top of the schoolyard? Or endless games of four-square, senior fashion shows, or Van Wormer's drowning team? Hell, once remembered, how can we forget any of it. Entertainment was our game, and Spain was our playing field. In Segovia, Keith Lessig, Dave Graves, Joe Rodriguez and I crawled half a mile on our bellies across the aqueduct that divides the city, only to discover that the easy drop to the ground was two stories -- on to hay, thank goodness.

Later that same year, Nick, Joe and I traveled to the little town of Bujarrabal where we stayed with an ageless couple, the Ambronas, and learned what life in the pueblo was like. And food! How we filled our teen bellies in that country. We haunted Knight and Squire, Helen's American Pies, and later, Hollywood's. We ate calamares and pulpo and merluza, chorizo and salchichón and morcilla, Paella and Fabada and Ensaladilla Rusa. We drank cañas and cuba libres and granizos, horchata and café sólo and La Casera.

As I think about those years in Aravaca, I find it hard to really put together a single image of how things were. Rather, the memories come in disjointed clusters, like a building rainstorm. First a few drops, then a few more, and before long they're a rushing torrent, arriving faster than I can write them down. The memories are good ones, though, and they fade one into the next, like a running water color. My first camping trip with John Comiskey and David Collins, a journey to Navacerrada where we lived on fabada and chocolate bars. Michael Sellmer arriving at school, the day after he fell asleep under the sunlamp. The trips to San Fermín. A field trip to the Cuenca Modern Art Museum. Soccer games in small dirt fields. The Fusion Festivals, where we marvelled at Ray Manley and Lincoln and José Batlle as they taught Santana a thing or two.

And dare I bring up the love lives of our class, mention those relationships that even today cause us to occasionally pause and smile? They were the weave in the fabric, the tightness to the cloth that made us what we were and made us indestructible. Bob and Susan. David and Robin. Tony and Sue. John and Ana. Steve and Carolyn. Vivian and Mark. Axel and Demmy. Eric and Belén. Mike and Linda. Patty and Don.

We look back over the long, difficult road to where we are today, and the warmth is still there, even though it shimmers in the distant haze of memory. When we graduated, thousands of miles from here and 20 years ago, we knew where we were going. We were coming here, 20 years hence, to be together again. We're different people now, older and wiser; men, we're all heavier, but ladies, you look wonderful.

Those high school days were a long time ago, but even now, they come back to rattle in my head. When I hear Get Ready, my hands start reaching for the futbolín handles. When I hear Crosby, Stills and Nash, I think of Judy Thompson and John Comiskey and Kari Kolstad and all the other folks who made those hot August nights so special. Yes, I even get a little nostalgic when I hear John Denver singing Leaving on a Jet Plane. Just a little, though.

A few months ago, my parents traveled to Spain to visit Mary-Adah Curbera and her husband, and brought back pictures of the school today. Once again, the world has changed, and with it, ASM. Political realities have resulted in the building of a high wall around the school, complete with armed guard post and electric gate. Where the buses once parked there now stands a red brick gymnasium and theater, as well as volleyball courts, more basketball courts and baseball fields. The spindly tree that Kari Kolstad planted for us is now taller than the school and shades the entire front of the administration building. No doubt about it; we left our mark there.

I salute all of you, and extend to you my love, my admiration and my friendship. 20 years ago, we marched in front of the administration building to Pomp and Circumstance, planted a tree, and said tearful goodbyes. Tonight, we say hello again.