I have been thinking about graduations lately (it
seems the thing to do at this time of year.)—and about the graduations I have
been to—probably more than the average person since I was required by the powers
that were to attend the graduations at the high school where I taught for 32
years. I think I missed one, somehow, and I don’t recall why. If I have counted
correctly, I have been to forty high school graduations (including my own and
our daughters’), two college ceremonies, two graduate school, two seminary and
one kindergarten. That’s 47 graduations, which ain’t too bad if you’re
counting.
The worst ceremony was, surprisingly, one of the
seminary ceremonies. You’d think they would have known better. It lasted three
hours (we left after two and a half), and we had to stand in spite of having
tickets. The speaker was Justice Brennan, who went on for 45 minutes. I had
ninth graders who would have made a better speech. You’d think that a Supreme
Court Justice would have more significant things to say than the rambling
incoherence that Justice Brennan favored all of us with. It was worse than the
infamous Rubber Chicken graduation at Robinson High in about 1988. That alleged
ceremony saw a rubber chicken flung bout by the seniors for the better part of
the evening, along with the obligatory beach balls and silly string. There was
also an inflatable woman who surfaced briefly, but she was larger and easier to
snag than the chicken.
After about twenty high school graduations, I realized
that there are conflicting expectations present at a ceremony. The seniors look
on it as sort of a warmup to heavy duty partying. The teachers present expect
the same degree of decorum with 600 plus seniors in a heightened state of
excitement that they have with a class of 25 first-semester sophomores after
lunch. Parents and grandparents are mildly confused by so many 17- and
18-year-olds in one place. Administrators are happy if no one is trampled or
killed and eaten during the proceedings.
I also have a tie for the best graduation ceremony.
One was Alyssa’s kindergarten graduation—the high school class of 1999 was 12
strong, wearing construction paper mortarboards they had made themselves. The
director read “Everything I Need to Know
I Learned in Kindergarten,” which then was circulating in Xeroxed copies, not
printed on everything from coffee cups to diapers as it is now. Each graduate
of the kindergarten received a certificate and a hug from the director and
their teacher, and we all had juice and cookies sitting at tiny tables in
little chairs. It was absolutely charming.
My other favorite ceremony was my graduation from elementary
school, which then extended into seventh grade, a concept which makes me
blanche how. We had a cool teacher, the only man in the school, who later
became my first principal when I started teaching. He divided our school day
into periods and we set up a giant HO train set in the room the week before
Christmas vacation. In the spring, we went outside and played softball for
hours.
Naturally, in the waning days of our seventh grade
careers, we became thoroughly obnoxious. At least I did. I recognize the
phenomenon now as short-timer’s syndrome, a psychological defense mechanism
against the uncertainty of leaving what is familiar. But, as far as we were
concerned, we were headed to eighth grade, intermediate school, and we were far
too cool for words.
Our school chose to honor us with a graduation
during the day. My mother was less then impressed.
“Graduation is for high school,” she opined.
“Now it’s for elementary school,” I returned.
“You should save some things for later,” she said.
“Geez, Mom, it’s only a ceremony. It’s not like I’m
taking up drinking and smoking or anything like that.”
She fixed me with a familiar gaze. “Boys who drink and smoke…”
“Let me guess, Mom—they go to hell, right?”
I was clearly ready to graduate from elementary
school.
My mother did not come to the ceremony as a protest.
It was the only school event I was involved in that she did not attend. There
wasn’t much to it—Miss Brown, our principal, said a few things about striving
and making our school proud of us; Mrs. Woolworth played the piano; we marched
across the stage and got our certificates. And that was it. No refreshment, no
reception, nothing. I think that, for a change, the school didn’t know what to
do with us. So they sent us to recess for the rest of the day—for two hours.
My best friend Mike and I had given up on organized
sports by that time—it was too hot to stand around in the sun and play
softball, so we stood in the shadow of the building and made witty comments about
the kids on the playground.
“Look how little those kids are, Mike,” I said.
“Yeah, and look at those stupid games.”
“That’s right, no more stupid games for us. Soon we’ll
be bush pilots.” We were convinced that the eighth grade consisted of a bush
piloting curriculum we had been eagerly awaiting. This was in spite of being
signed up for English, math, science, shop/music/art, p.e. and French. I
suppose we thought these were code terms for aeronautics and navigation.
We stood there, glad just to contribute our superior
presence to the school. As I looked out across the playground, I felt—nothing.
Well, maybe a small pang at the prospect of not being sure that the lovely
Leigh Stone, the woman of my dreams, would be in any of my classes the next
year. Not that I would admit that to Mike.
I searched for something to say to convey the sense
of superiority that we felt.
“Whatcha doin’?”
For a moment, I didn’t recognize the voice. It was
distinctive, certainly, and vaguely familiar. I just wasn’t expecting it. I
rarely saw our neighbor, Little Georgie, at school, and in six years, he hadn’t
spoken to me on school grounds.
Georgie was, well, different. He was called “slow”
back then. I don’t know what his condition was, but he had a hard time of it.
For the most part, kids ignored him, and a few tortured the poor boy. He best
known for falling into the mill race during the big fourth grade field trip to
Washington’s Grist Mill a few years before. We called him “little” although he
was anything but that.
I wasn’t sure exactly which grade Georgie was in
then. He started in the same grade that I was in and kept up for a few years.
Then he slipped behind, stuck in the fourth grade for several years. I suppose
he was a pioneer in what we now call an ungraded curriculum.
I wasn’t sure what to say, so I said, “Georgie, we
are lordly seventh graders, masters of all we survey.”
“Why?”
Uh oh—he was in one of his “stuck” modes in which he
repeated the same question dozens of times. I knew this, but kept after it
anyhow.
“Because, Georgie, we are graduates of Westmore
Elementary School.”
“Why?”
“Because, Georgie, that is what you do after you’ve
learned everything there is to know.”
Mike sidled off to the basketball court. I think Georgie
made him uncomfortable. Or maybe it was my trying to have a conversation with
him.
“Why?”
I was stumped. I had not more explanations. Then it
occurred to me that Georgie would never graduate from anywhere.
“Georgie,” I said.
“Yeah?”
“Don’t worry about it.”
“OK,” he mumbled. “I won’t…” And he shuffled off.
He never did graduate from elementary school,
dropping out in the fifth grade after repeating it a couple of times. I heard
he joined a motorcycle gang at age 14.
So, maybe there
are some reasons some of us go to more than our share of graduations. It might
be that we are making up for those who never had a graduation.
Alyssa brought home a notice of graduation when she
was nearly finished with sixth grade. She had been quizzing Amy about life in
junior high school—classic questions about being lost and being stuffed into
lockers and being forced to eat unrecognizable food. She was in the high school
advisory group at church. I sent the youth choir director a sympathy card since
she was all his the next fall.
I asked her if she wanted me to come to her
graduation since it was during school. “I can take off,” I said.
“It’s only
creative writing, not a real subject.”
“Oh, don’t bother,” she sniffed. “It will be so lame.”
“Why’s that?” I asked.
“Oh,” she sighed, “Mrs. Jackson will get up and make
some speech about doing our best and making Weems proud of us and the music
teacher will play something dorky on the piano that I could play with one hand
and then we have to stand up and sing the stupid school song…”
“The one you changed the words to?” There was the
official version and the sixth-grade version, which has deliciously devastating
comments about the school and the staff. I suppose I shouldn’t have laughed at
it.
“Yeah, and we’re going to sing the bad words.” This
from a child who walked around the house singing the Barney song as “I love
you/You love me/That’s how we get H.I.V…”
“Wish I could be there…”
“Don’t bother. Elementary school is for losers.”
Some things never change, I suppose. Just the times
and the ages. “I suppose it is, Alyssa,” I said. “I suppose it is.”
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