The first Friday in June started out with that dreaded, meteorological, summer trio–hazy, hot, and humid. Although I am a winter girl through and through, I was happy for anything that kept graduation outside. Showers that had been predicted for the early morning hours of Saturday kept moving up in the forecast. By midmorning, my mom and I headed out to find 25 disposable ponchos, which I admit, I was buying partially with the hope that they would be a magic, stop-the-rain dance. Clear ponchos were not to be found, we learned, because of the Taylor Swift rain show two weeks earlier. So we settled for as many red as we could find (red is our school’s color), mixed with some neon blue and green. I welcomed the busyness of the task—the ability not to give my mind time to slow down and consider what was coming up that evening: My first born, Zack, the boy that had made me a mama 18 years ago, would walk across the stage and receive his high school diploma.
It wasn’t until the college decision had been made—on April 30, waiting until the 11th hour, in true Zack style—that I was overcome with the realization that This. Was. It. This decision marked the beginning of his young adult life, which was both incredibly exciting and breathtakingly sad. My time in the central orbit of his life was winding down. I had moved through all of the preceding senior events—awards night, prom—with mostly joy at his excitement, but a tinge of sadness and some tears brushed quickly away at the realization that with each event, he was closer to moving on to his own life.
So here we were, graduation day. After securing enough ponchos for two families of graduating seniors and their adoring grandparents, we took the graduate to lunch. We enjoyed his stories of his friends’ split on whether or not they could pull off a summer camping trip. In Iceland. I watched him in a different way, savoring the smile, the brightness in his eyes, as he talked about this life he was pursuing independent of his father and me, his brothers. Hearing in his voice, that despite his assertion that he and his friends should embark on an adventure on the east coast rather than an international vacation, he had an excitement that he and his friends could plan something on their own. Without the adults that had shepherded them through to this point.
When we left lunch, we all commented on the clearness of the sky, shared a collective disbelief that it could possibly rain, while each of us quietly checked the forecast and saw the rain start time was now 3 pm. And thunder and lightning were forecast. We arrived home. Zack got ready, I made him put a rain poncho in his back pocket. I drove him to the school. The sight of his classmates in their bright red caps and gowns made my eyes misty. I resolved not to cry. Yet. I hugged him, said I loved him, and watched him walk into the high school for what I thought was the last time. I sat in the car for a minute, willing myself not to cry. I saw familiar faces, groups of kids, walking up the sidewalk into the building. I wondered how it was possible that these young people could have grown so quickly. As Mary Louise Kelly has reminded us, It. Goes. So. Fast.
I drove home and went upstairs to my bedroom. I sat on my bed and had a moment to reflect. In just over two hours, my son, my first baby, would graduate from high school. It might be raining or the oppressive heat that has become more normative with climate change may hang on. Whatever the weather outside, the weather in my heart promised to be equally unpredictable. A swell of enormous pride in this boy, who like most children, faced his share of challenges to get to this place in his 18 years. A well of tears that the baby I held so tenderly, who burst my heart wide open and inspired a depth of love I didn’t previously know was possible, is now a young man on the cusp of experiencing the world largely on his own. A wave of gratitude for all the people who helped him make it to this day. The friends who have provided the fun and joy and support that every child needs and deserves. The adults who watched over him when I couldn’t, who held him in their hearts when life was hard and unfair, who beamed with joy and pride when he accomplished big things, who made him feel loved, accepted, and celebrated. The teachers and directors and mentors who saw something in him and helped him follow his wonderings, perform his heart out on stage, and collaborate as part of a team that makes robots that can throw balls and balance cones. He wouldn’t be who he is without all of these people. And while thank you doesn’t fall easily out of his mouth, I say it like a prayer every night. A shower of love for this boy, this life, that has gifted me so much in just 18 years.
So now, it was time to put on my social face and get downstairs. Gather up the grandparents, make a rain plan (because we only had three tickets if the ceremony had to be moved inside), and head out to watch Zack graduate.
We decided to get there early to secure good seats on the field. We were thrilled to snag the only unreserved seats with an excellent view of the stage. The front that we were hoping would miss us had brought a cool breeze and the temperatures had dropped to near summer perfection. We chatted with families near us, the buzz of excitement all around. And then, the sea of red—the graduating class of 2023—marched by twos onto the field. We saw Zack, all smiles, walking in and cheered loudly. I felt such a fullness, a deep sense of accomplishment for this boy. I could hear the small little voice of Zack at 3 years old. Hear the sadness and anger of some particularly hard times in late elementary school before we moved him to the public school. See the brightness in his eyes when he toured the middle school in 6th grade and we both agreed he could start that January. The confidence in his voice when he took the stage as the lead in a musical the summer before COVID. The thrill in his eyes during a robotics competition when his team had won. All of this—the highs, the lows, the in-betweens of a young life—brought him to this night. And I felt it all.
The speeches started, city and school leaders, the valedictorian. The presentation of honors and distinctions by the vice principals—which was punctuated by some thunder claps that we all hoped were far away and would pass by us without going over us. Then a bolt of lightning. But still, the vice principals kept on. We were all there with them, perhaps believing our collective desire to keep the rain away would form a protective bubble over Fred Green Field. Then, a few drops of rain, enough to reach for my purse and pull out the ponchos I had stored there. We had maybe 30 seconds before the sky opened up and sheets of rain suddenly came down. My husband, Dana, yelled to me that he would walk the grandparents to the car. I nodded agreement, grabbed our younger son’s hand, and started running toward the school. We watched the graduates rush off the field to the gym, the chorus and band following suit and running to get cover.
The ponchos did their job. We stopped halfway to the gym under an awning with some teachers and city officials. Most of those folks were drenched: hair dripping water, clothes thoroughly soaked through. But everyone was smiling. Many were laughing. There was a collective sense of adventure, of pushing through this setback. We all wished each other luck in the next rush to the school building. I grabbed my son’s hand again, we put our heads down and ran through puddles, rain pelting our faces.
We made it to the school building. We removed our ponchos and shook off some rain before heading into the auditorium. We found seats quickly, saving one for Dana. The mood in the auditorium was electric. People were packed in, lining the walls, sitting on the floor. We started talking to the family next to us, joking how this class’s entire high school experience had been marked by COVID. Rain? Thunder? Lightning? You just roll with it. They had learned perseverance and flexibility. Nothing would take this night from them. Not after they had missed so many performances. Competitions. Games. Matches. Meets. Proms. Classes. Class trips. Exchange programs. Nights out with friends. These kids had already lost so much to COVID. A downpour was nothing.
The house lights went down, stage lights went up, and the Class of 2023 proceeded into the auditorium. Everyone was on their feet, cheering, clapping, such excitement for these kids. These kids who had been through so much and had made it to this night. I felt so much collective pride for each and every student. The energy didn’t wane as all 223 members of the class marched in. I brushed away tears. But these weren’t the tears of sadness and my own loss as a mother that I had anticipated. No, these were tears of joy. Tears for the beauty of resilience and grit and the deep satisfaction of arriving at the pinnacle of the mountain after climbing for hours, maybe even days. Tears for the hope and promise that these young people represent. Tears for the reminder that despite all the ugliness of the past seven years, here was community. Here was collective joy. Here was celebration. Here was the best of humanity gathered in one place, coming together to honor and commemorate our students, our future, our hope. And that was almost more than my heart could hold. But also, exactly what I needed to feel, see, hear, and remember.
The ceremony continued. The honors were read out. A student got up to give her speech about coming into our wealthy, predominantly white suburb as a student of color from the city through the METCO program. It was heartfelt and moving. And then, the lights flickered and the power went out. The house lights came back on, but the sound system was down. And so another scramble started, by a handful of people this time, to get the sound system up and running. Power was out across our small city. A back-up generator would allow the ceremony to continue, with much less light and a modified sound system. But nothing would hamper the spirits of the Class of 2023 and their devoted and adoring friends, families, teachers, and administrators. The MHS Chorus (bass section lead by my middle child) pulled the ceremony back into motion singing Kelly Clarkson’s Breakaway in an auditorium lit up by cell phone flashlights, while several administrators and public works staff worked to get the back-up sound going. The lyrics felt written for this moment. Huge smiles broke across the senior class members of the MHS Chorus as they sang “Grew up in a small town and when the rain would fall down…” You could feel how intensely they resonated with the chorus:
I'll spread my wings and I'll learn how to fly
I'll do what it takes 'til I touch the sky
And I'll make a wish, take a chance, make a change and breakaway
Out of the darkness and into the sun
But I won't forget all the ones that I love
I'll take a risk, take a chance, make a change and breakaway
by Louis Mathis / Marcus Mathis
And then, the night continued. The principal punctuated the feeling of collective community in that space by reminding the graduates that what was most important in their lives was their ability to touch other people, to be kind, to keep each other well. I cried again. And once again, it was not sadness that brought me to tears. It was listening to my sons’ principal speak words that were like a cooling salve to the divisiveness and meanness that had infiltrated even our city during COVID. It was knowing that the leadership in the high school was not drilling into students the importance of discipline, respect, and obedience that I heard 30 years ago as a high school student. No, instead he was speaking of the importance of caring about your neighbors, about helping each other to do well; that the measure of your success is not your salary, your car, or even your job title, but how you treat those around you.
I had anticipated a night that would mark for me, the end of an era of parenting and the beginning of my son’s young adulthood. I had anticipated a lot of loss mixed in with the sense of accomplishment and excitement for Zack.
I had experienced a community coming together to celebrate and commemorate our youth, the promise of the next generation. I had felt the swell of deep joy, pride, accomplishment, and achievement that comes after facing and triumphing through adversity and challenge. I felt a deep sense of connection to this community of people who were here to celebrate their student, to acknowledge the 18 years that had come before this moment. I felt tremendous gratitude and love for the students, staff, administrators, parents, adults, and others who had worked for this day to come. I exhaled and felt, for the first time in the long years of COVID and even before that, that maybe, just maybe, we will come out of this okay.
Photo and video credit: Kristi Bach
Love