When I graduated from college I felt much differently sitting with my classmates; I wished I had put something distinct on so that my parents could find me sitting on the floor of the Devaney Center among the tons of other Arts & Sciences students, but in high school I had apparently found myself too cool to be a part of the message. I didn’t feel the need to make myself stand out at my high school graduation. There was only one me among the 22 other graduates there.
At one point during the ceremony most of us trooped up on stage to join the choir to sing “I Hope You Dance,” by Lee Ann Womack. This was highly amusing, since the school had been founded by a Baptist church, and these particular Baptists did not want, much less hope, for anyone to dance. In fact, it was part of the teachers’ contracts: no playing cards, no drinking, and no dancing. Me and a younger friend of mine (who was cool enough that I promoted her to the status of “honorary senior”) would giggle about it, singing, “I hope you coreograph” at each other.
Our speaker was the former guidance counselor/track and volleyball coach. She looked at each of us and told something that she remembered about us. The school had a policy that anyone who played two sports would not have to take a gym class. That had sounded pretty good to me at the time, but then I didn’t enjoy cross country and I didn’t like track, though it was better than having to play basketball in gym class. These days, if a strong spring breeze blows past me, I inhale deeply and remember the time I almost missed running the 800 because I was on the other side of the track playing the new card game Young Jedi with Scott.
They called for the last time over the loudspeaker, and I looked up. “Wait, did they just call for the 800?” He nodded serenely, and I half fell off the bleachers, sending cards flying everywhere (sorry, Scott), and leaped down onto the track, flying across the middle of it while trying to pull off the athletic pants I was wearing over my uniform and change into my other pair of shoes at the same time. I barely made it to the starting line on time, huffing and puffing like I’d already run 800 meters at a sprint. I probably should have just taken gym class.
The valedictorian and salutatorian spoke, but I couldn’t tell you what they said. I could tell you about them, though. They were two of the people I was closest to in high school. I spent hours with each of them both at school and outside of school, and tons of time on the phone. I can remember giggling with Carolyn, making up sayings like, “over the phone, horses are actually cows.” And James taught me so many things. That day I told him, “I’m sorry,” but what I should have said was, “Thank you for being my best friend.” I don’t need to remember what they said at graduation; I wouldn’t be who I am today without them.
The best part of the graduation ceremony was when we got our diplomas. Not just because “we’re done with high school, woo,” but because it was also our senior prank. The first person to cross the stage handed the principal a small round container. He looked a bit confused, but went ahead and read out the next person’s name. The next person handed him a cat toy: a fuzzy catnip mouse. Even more befuddled, he went ahead and opened up the container and tossed the mouse in. By the fifteenth person it had become a ritual for him: accept mouse, toss mouse in bowl, give diploma, smile and shake hands, call next person. It went on the same until the very last person crossed the stage to get her diploma. Karla handed the principal an actual live mouse. He dropped it on the podium in surprise, but luckily it didn’t get away. To this day, I can’t remember the look on his face or the grin on Karla’s without giggling.
Congratulations on making it 10 years, class of 2002. We are the coolest.
What fun to read your memories, Tricia! The class of 2002 was definitely the coolest! :)
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