Pomp, Circumstance, Silly String
Pete, Cassie, and I traveled to Indiana this past weekend for Pete's niece's high school graduation. It had been a long time since I'd been to one of those. It was much as one remembers these things to be, only this one somehow even more so, probably because of its midwestern-small-town spin. For maximum authentic feel, it was held in the high school gym, with family members thronging the bleachers all around.
It seemed a little unsporting to me, but Pete's brother-in-law (my brother-in-law-in-law?) went a couple hours early and put down blankets along one bench to reserve seats for us. He was far from the only one doing this, though, so I guess it's accepted practice. Besides which, his 89-year-old mother (she'd have you believe that she's 90, but don't be fooled--her birthday's not until July) was there for the occasion, so it did make sense to get spots that didn't require too terribly much climbing. (She could by all rights have sat in the "special needs" seating down on the gym floor in the section behind the graduating class, but I doubt her pride would allow such a thing.)
Our little family unit definitely tipped its hand as out-of-town city slickers by wearing a suit and pumps, a jacket and tie, and a smocked dress with tights and mary janes, respectively. (We had wondered about dress code, but figured we'd err on the side of formality, which seemed safer, since at least it shows a respect for the occasion.) At the other end of the spectrum were a good number of people in shorts, and my favorite--a guy in boots, Wranglers, a straw cowboy hat, and a navy blue t-shirt with big red letters spelling "Redneck Bass Fishing" and a cartoon of some dopey-looking guys setting off an explosion in a lake and sending dead fish flying through the air.
The graduating class were in royal blue nylon robes and matching mortar boards with headpieces that puckered in an unflattering way on all but the largest, roundest heads. The regalia was more complicated than I generally associate with high school: the top 15% of the class had gold tassels on their caps (the rest had blue and white), and there were 4 different kinds of cords that could hang around a graduate's neck, denoting participation in selected activities (honor society, naturally, but also debate, drama, and one other I'm forgetting--interestingly, there were no athletics-related indicators). Almost all of the girls had long hair, though one I noticed did have her ends dyed blood red, and another had facial piercings, which went a bit oddly with the Jackie O-style large-pearl choker she wore for the occasion.
The speeches (class president, salutatorian, valedictorian, principal, superintendent) were blessedly quite brief, and just exactly what you would expect. They were, in fact, so utterly unsurprising, that I actually felt a little... surprised. I know that the high school graduation speech is not really a genre that tends to inspire much in the way of originality, but I guess I thought that one of them would have a little something, some small spark. I was wrong. Each of the five speakers seemed to have taken the average of all high school graduation speeches ever given and moved the words around on the page just enough to each give his/her own version of the self-same thing. I guess it was impressive, in its own way. One couldn't help but notice, though, that the salutatorian's speech was, embarrrassingly, not consistently grammatically sound (which I can't help but take a bit personally, as a blot on the reputation of high school salutatorians everywhere).
Then there was the calling of the 330-odd names of the graduates (a few Audreys, which I found striking). It was a very white group, with maybe 1 or 2 each of Black and Latino kids. Enough so that you couldn't say it was an "all-white" school, but not even really racially diverse enough for, say, a McDonald's commercial. The social class mix was much broader, though, from the sleek and glossy children of successful midwestern businessmen to the resolutely working class kids (some with seemingly the very same haircuts as the working class kids in my high school class). There were the obligatory introductory pleas to hold applause until everyone's name had been called, and the pleas were roundly ignored as per protocol. I myself could have done without the sporadic sounding of airhorns, but I guess the high school graduation of certain 18-year-olds just calls for very high-decibel celebration.
It seemed like had it had been forever, and we weren't even to the end of the M's yet. The bleacher was getting very hard underbutt (despite the blanket Pete's brother-in-law laid down), and Cassie was getting distinctly antsy. She wanted milk, and I'd forgotten to bring her sippy cup. She'd drawn quietly with colored pencils, and then sat staring blankly for a while (she was tired--travel always messes up her sleep). Now she was really ready for this to be over, and I absolutely didn't blame her. We managed to eke a few more minutes out with the colored pencils, but they only got us through the P's. Pete pointed out that with so few Jews, the alphabet gets front-heavy, so that being at the P's wasn't so bad because there weren't any Sugarmans or Weinsteins or Zuckermans to come after. Even so, I was relieved that when I finally pulled out a bag of Wheat Thins (I'd been saving them as long as I could so she wouldn't get even thirstier), they kept her happy all the way to the Z's.
It was too bad that Cassie was so glazed and cranky and exhausted by the end, because otherwise I think she would have enjoyed the graduates' final eruption, once the last name was called, with cheers and silly string and assorted small projectiles. They didn't throw their hats in the air--though they looked for a moment like they really wanted to--and made do with one lone beach ball bouncing around as they prepared for the recessional.
And finally it was over, and we were slowly filing out of the gym. Back to Pete's sister and brother-in-law's house for a weekend of full-on sun-dappled suburban lounging (great green swaths of soft lawns, big old trees, a dozen royal blue beachballs ("Class of 2005" in red on the sides) scudding in the gentle breeze across the lilypad-shaped swimming pool in the back yard). There were acres of food, including some enthralling aioli and perhaps the best vanilla ice cream I've ever tasted, and I ate until I was sore, and watched Cassie harrass the poor ants and pill-bugs and tried to keep her away from the pool's edge. We saw our dear friend James, who lives only a couple hours away and who had driven down to hang out with us a little, and he and Cassie enjoyed each other a good deal.
I'm kind of glad to be back at home, though. Back where life is stressful and the apartment is a pit o' chaos and the litterbox stinks but we need to get more cat litter before I can change it. I don't know. It's home.
It seemed a little unsporting to me, but Pete's brother-in-law (my brother-in-law-in-law?) went a couple hours early and put down blankets along one bench to reserve seats for us. He was far from the only one doing this, though, so I guess it's accepted practice. Besides which, his 89-year-old mother (she'd have you believe that she's 90, but don't be fooled--her birthday's not until July) was there for the occasion, so it did make sense to get spots that didn't require too terribly much climbing. (She could by all rights have sat in the "special needs" seating down on the gym floor in the section behind the graduating class, but I doubt her pride would allow such a thing.)
Our little family unit definitely tipped its hand as out-of-town city slickers by wearing a suit and pumps, a jacket and tie, and a smocked dress with tights and mary janes, respectively. (We had wondered about dress code, but figured we'd err on the side of formality, which seemed safer, since at least it shows a respect for the occasion.) At the other end of the spectrum were a good number of people in shorts, and my favorite--a guy in boots, Wranglers, a straw cowboy hat, and a navy blue t-shirt with big red letters spelling "Redneck Bass Fishing" and a cartoon of some dopey-looking guys setting off an explosion in a lake and sending dead fish flying through the air.
The graduating class were in royal blue nylon robes and matching mortar boards with headpieces that puckered in an unflattering way on all but the largest, roundest heads. The regalia was more complicated than I generally associate with high school: the top 15% of the class had gold tassels on their caps (the rest had blue and white), and there were 4 different kinds of cords that could hang around a graduate's neck, denoting participation in selected activities (honor society, naturally, but also debate, drama, and one other I'm forgetting--interestingly, there were no athletics-related indicators). Almost all of the girls had long hair, though one I noticed did have her ends dyed blood red, and another had facial piercings, which went a bit oddly with the Jackie O-style large-pearl choker she wore for the occasion.
The speeches (class president, salutatorian, valedictorian, principal, superintendent) were blessedly quite brief, and just exactly what you would expect. They were, in fact, so utterly unsurprising, that I actually felt a little... surprised. I know that the high school graduation speech is not really a genre that tends to inspire much in the way of originality, but I guess I thought that one of them would have a little something, some small spark. I was wrong. Each of the five speakers seemed to have taken the average of all high school graduation speeches ever given and moved the words around on the page just enough to each give his/her own version of the self-same thing. I guess it was impressive, in its own way. One couldn't help but notice, though, that the salutatorian's speech was, embarrrassingly, not consistently grammatically sound (which I can't help but take a bit personally, as a blot on the reputation of high school salutatorians everywhere).
Then there was the calling of the 330-odd names of the graduates (a few Audreys, which I found striking). It was a very white group, with maybe 1 or 2 each of Black and Latino kids. Enough so that you couldn't say it was an "all-white" school, but not even really racially diverse enough for, say, a McDonald's commercial. The social class mix was much broader, though, from the sleek and glossy children of successful midwestern businessmen to the resolutely working class kids (some with seemingly the very same haircuts as the working class kids in my high school class). There were the obligatory introductory pleas to hold applause until everyone's name had been called, and the pleas were roundly ignored as per protocol. I myself could have done without the sporadic sounding of airhorns, but I guess the high school graduation of certain 18-year-olds just calls for very high-decibel celebration.
It seemed like had it had been forever, and we weren't even to the end of the M's yet. The bleacher was getting very hard underbutt (despite the blanket Pete's brother-in-law laid down), and Cassie was getting distinctly antsy. She wanted milk, and I'd forgotten to bring her sippy cup. She'd drawn quietly with colored pencils, and then sat staring blankly for a while (she was tired--travel always messes up her sleep). Now she was really ready for this to be over, and I absolutely didn't blame her. We managed to eke a few more minutes out with the colored pencils, but they only got us through the P's. Pete pointed out that with so few Jews, the alphabet gets front-heavy, so that being at the P's wasn't so bad because there weren't any Sugarmans or Weinsteins or Zuckermans to come after. Even so, I was relieved that when I finally pulled out a bag of Wheat Thins (I'd been saving them as long as I could so she wouldn't get even thirstier), they kept her happy all the way to the Z's.
It was too bad that Cassie was so glazed and cranky and exhausted by the end, because otherwise I think she would have enjoyed the graduates' final eruption, once the last name was called, with cheers and silly string and assorted small projectiles. They didn't throw their hats in the air--though they looked for a moment like they really wanted to--and made do with one lone beach ball bouncing around as they prepared for the recessional.
And finally it was over, and we were slowly filing out of the gym. Back to Pete's sister and brother-in-law's house for a weekend of full-on sun-dappled suburban lounging (great green swaths of soft lawns, big old trees, a dozen royal blue beachballs ("Class of 2005" in red on the sides) scudding in the gentle breeze across the lilypad-shaped swimming pool in the back yard). There were acres of food, including some enthralling aioli and perhaps the best vanilla ice cream I've ever tasted, and I ate until I was sore, and watched Cassie harrass the poor ants and pill-bugs and tried to keep her away from the pool's edge. We saw our dear friend James, who lives only a couple hours away and who had driven down to hang out with us a little, and he and Cassie enjoyed each other a good deal.
I'm kind of glad to be back at home, though. Back where life is stressful and the apartment is a pit o' chaos and the litterbox stinks but we need to get more cat litter before I can change it. I don't know. It's home.
posted by Rosie Bonner at 1:22 PM
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