Grad to see you

Last year I went to a graduation ceremony in Portland, where I heard a girl belt out a rendition of Fleetwood Mac’s “Don’t Stop” that could blow the hubcaps off an armored car. And I mean that in a good way.

It definitely constituted that graduation’s “memorable moment,” although to be fair, my perspective on the whole event was fairly broad; I was there to shoot photos and write a story about it, which is an odd phenomenon when you’re at an event that holds special emotional resonance for people. It’s kind of like sitting in on a random person’s birthday party at the local bowling alley: You can watch, but no one knows why you’re there, and chances are you’re not getting any cake.

But having donned the cap and gown myself once upon a time – back when neon pants were still considered socially acceptable – I could feel myself pleasantly moved by the moment, which is a tough admission for a man to make. Men aren’t supposed to be moved by things that aren’t small children or dogs. It’s one of those unspoken Rules of Dudeness, right between “Never cry at movies” and “I can lift this heavy thing myself.”

Covering graduations can be a pain in the tookus logistically, but it’s nice to have the reminder of why people consider it an important event. If you’re not the parent of a child graduating from high school, sometimes that perspective can be lost; amidst the din of daily life, from work to social engagements to reruns of “Thunder Cats,” it’s easy to forget why you once considered it the most important day of your life.

It’s a function of time, I think, which makes jaded bastards of us all, to one extent or another. Gradually, high school graduation becomes superseded by a steady parade of increasingly important landmarks: College graduations, weddings, that time you saw Stephen King at the supermarket and he turned into a bat and flew away. You know, life. Saying goodbye to high school classmates and teachers, and oftentimes hometowns and states, starts to feel less like a watershed moment and more like something that just kinda happened to you once, like that long-ago Christmas when your uncle Earl drank too much eggnog and peed on the tree. Thanks a lot, Earl.

Being back in that environment is a bittersweet jolt of nostalgia.

Let’s take a trip in the Wayback Machine, shall we? Cue bloopy time-travel noises.

The year was 2000, I was wearing a cap and gown, and I had a full head of hair, all things that are no longer true. It was nearing sunset when we took our seats on the football field and started listening to speeches; it was one of those dramatic evenings when the sun starts to melt like candlewax over the treeline and stains the sky Garfield-orange. That’s a detail I remember much more clearly than the speeches themselves, which ranged in topic from “what a journey” to “can you believe we made it?” It’s tempting to criticize graduation speeches until you realize there are only so many directions they can take. Although I’d love to experience a surreal moment where a brave valedictorian dedicates an entire five minutes to the breeding habits of the African bonobo.

After an interminably long speech by former Senator Olympia Snowe, whose remarks have since been bottled and distilled into high-grade horse tranquilizer, Leslie Eastman took the stage. Eastman was a god amongst men. I took his Current World Problems class as a junior and knew I was in the presence of greatness when he finished his lecture early and let us watch episodes from the first season of “Family Guy.” I don’t remember the details of his speech – no one ever does – but I remember it was almost shockingly short. He came, he killed, and he left – much to the cheering approval of his mostly-male fan club, who couldn’t wait to be done with the ceremony so they drive around town with their windows down and make loud whooping noises. Many of them still do this.

But while a few memories remain, none stand out so vividly as that of caps being flung into the air by a knot of smiling kids, nervous and excited and unequivocally happy. The more life you live, the more moments like that get crowded out by a crush of practical realities, from paying the bills to convincing your family it’s time to start inviting Earl to Christmas again. It’s helpful to remember the importance of a high school graduation: It’s the last time we walk the tightrope with nets. The end of the innocence, as Don Henley would call it.

A line in “Don’t Stop” proclaims that “yesterday’s gone,” except that’s not exactly true, is it? While you can’t change the past, you also can’t escape it – we’re the sum of all our yesterdays, to some extent. The trick is to use the past to provide the present with context; then when the future comes you’ll know what hell to do with it. And if you followed all that, then you are entitled to a butterscotch cookie and a hearty congratulations.

Graduations are often the fulcrums on which life turns. So when a senior stands at the podium and speaks about how momentous the day is, those tempted to roll their eyes will be missing something profound: That in many ways, it’s true.