I went to two high school graduations this past week.
The first was for my grandson's graduation. There were 1200 graduates. The Valedictorian and the Salutatorian were given only 2.5 minutes to give their speeches. There was a silly song on two ukuleles about almost not graduating. There was a Jumbotron and lots of teens flashing their muscles, their hang ten signage, and their flippant attitudes. Reverence was missing and when a student plunged into the flowers at the base of the podium, spilling water and creating a safety hazard, I wondered if it was done on purpose. Public education seemed to be losing respect for itself.
My high school graduation included 75 seniors. Salutatorian and valedictorian gave beautiful, reflective speeches that paid respect to their peers, teachers, and parents. Each graduate had the audience's full attention and a photo was taken with the principal and the dean. The traditional hymn Come Thou Fount of Every Blessing was sung at the conclusion; alumni was invited to sing along.
I felt edified.
Yet, there is one memory above all that will stay with me.
Previously, a student had decided that she would share her personal journey with all her family who were coming from neighboring and more distant states to celebrate her graduation. For years she had kept quiet about her sexual preference when the subject came up.
She was determined to tell Grandparents, cousins, aunts and uncles that she was a lesbian.
I greeted her on my way into the auditorium. I told her I was proud of her, and then she reminded me that she was most nervous for her planned reveal.
"Are you sure this is the time?" I asked.
"Yes." She was determined. No loving advice or caution was going to change her mind. She continued on explaining again, all the reason why it had to finally be done.
I listened. And then I was filled with overwhelming love and compassion for her journey. My eyes welled with tears. "You are brave. I will be thinking of you." I held her close, then moved on.
I may not see her or hear from her ever again. Or one day I may get an email, or she will drop into room 147 unexpectedly. I will shout out her name and embrace her and we will try to catch up, in a surface conversation about all the good things that she is planning for and doing. But too soon, I will have to start class, or hurry home for an appointment or to pick up a grandchild.
Almost everyday, we spend time teaching, learning, bonding with precious students. Then poof, in the turnover of a minute, they are gone.
But they never leave.
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