Graduation
So I'm sitting there, 3rd row to the front, 4th seat over next to Lynn Dwyer in
a graduating class of about 189 people. I've got this paper mache
pizza box bottom on my head with this black curtain around me, technically
termed "the cap and gown". Underneath, I'm wearing a plain dress.
Blue, very simple (in later pictures, I noticed I could see my bra right
through it). The field was muddy, my black patent leather sandals were caked
and my panty hose were itching. Lynn was sitting next to me, half crying, half
giggling about how we got kicked out of commencement practice (never put a half
skip into the commencement march when your principal is on a short fuse).
But, for the first time, I was actually glad to be with the Class of 1987.
I had done everything in my power to become "a part of" in school. My
big downfall, perhaps, was my eagerness. My eagerness is what made me uncool to the rest of seniordom.
I was so desperate to have friends, I'd put in overtime just to get cool people
to look my way. Of, course, no high school student, unless they are at the top,
ever truly thinks they can just be themselves to be cool. It's never that easy.
I had people I hung with, of course; I wasn't an outcast, just a reject, the difference being that an outcast willing goes against
the grain. A reject is forever trying, but not getting it right.
My conscience is what made me stay in the social rut I was in. I was usually
accepted by all the in-crowds at first (I went to three different high
schools), but I never had the heart to treat anyone the way I'd been treated in
high school, junior high or anywhere. I had always sworn that if I ever became
popular, I wouldn't make anyone go through the pain I went through over
heartless social climbers in the halls of academia. But that is how we learn,
usually. By experience and pain.
I did have a few talents that brought me attention. I was a pretty good jumper
in track and field. I even lettered twice. That ego trip came to an end when a
freshman sprinter came and jumped farther than me on one of her bad days.
Then, I also wrote. I was funny. Hell, I was downright obnoxious. But by the
end of Senior Year '87, who really cared? I wasn't ever gonna
deal with these people again, right? So I decided right then and there to stop
caring about who were really my friends. I wrote like crazy. I joked like
crazy. I made uncouth remarks to members of the in-crowds, forsaking friends as
useless. I punched out a girl in Lunch Period B. I threw in the half-skip at
commencement practice. It was the end of an era and who was to say I couldn't?
And that's when they all showed up. All the people I'd been running off with my
overzealousness. A lesson learned from pain and experience.
So, really, I was glad to be a graduating member of Quaker Valley Senior High.
I was glad to be getting on with my life. I was glad as hell to be getting away
from these people who'd had me in tears for the past 4 years. I was glad I had
found out that I was a person with worth, too. I was really glad to have done
that half-skip and gotten away with it.
Around me, there were guys and girls alike who were bawling their eyes out.
They were the kings and queens of our school who had suddenly realized their
rule had come to an end. They were the in between people who had grown up
together as "average kids" and were just sad to see their friends go
and to be going their separate ways. People were hugging each other, promising
to be faithful, promising to write, promising not to
forget.
And then there was me.
I had no boyfriend, no major friendships, no real ties
to my school at all, 'cept a wrinkled letter jacket
and a literary magazine article or two. An open door to the Road of the Future
stood before me.
So what did I do?
I got my diploma, checked to make sure it was the real McCoy, tossed the letter
jacket to my kid brother...then I threw in that half skip like a 17-year-old Doobie Brothers album all the way down the Road, slamming
the door behind me.