A time has come once again about which I’ve written before (here, here, and here) when young men and women will don traditional attire and sit to hear their classmates and other speak before their names are called, they receive a piece of paper, and cast uncomfortable hats into the air, set to a tune by Elgar. Indeed, in the town where I live, as in most of those surrounding, tonight marks high school graduation, something with which I have had and still have a fraught relationship; even collegiate graduations, many of which happened in the last two weeks, are somewhat awkward for me. I try not to begrudge those celebrating now such joy as they have of it; I know my experiences are atypical, and I know that most of my problems have been of my own making, and neither of those is a reason to vent spleen at others whose offense against me is nothing more than being happy at something in which I could not find joy and cannot look back upon without vexation.

I suppose I will have to get over myself about high school graduations, as with many other things. My daughter, Ms. 8, has just completed her sixth grade year. She is far more at ease with her classmates than I was with mine (again, it’s my fault; I distanced myself, and I’ve encouraged Ms. 8 to avoid doing such), far more engaged in the life of her school than I was (while I share having been a bandsman with her, I was never an athlete, but she will be so, and was a little cheerleader for years), and far more part of her broader community than I was (she’s already been volunteering at the local public library for some months, in addition to being in a local church’s youth group and the local Girl Scout troop). If matters continue as they have been, and I do not see much reason if any that they would not, she will not have nearly the hangups that I did and do; she will not likely turn away from taking part in the end-of-year ceremonies in which many set much store (although the option remains open to her). And because I love and support my daughter, I will, of course, attend her graduation (provided I make it so long; one never does know).

Curmudgeon though I am, stolid and staid though I remain, I do not want to be the cause of Ms. 8’s problems. I do not want her happiness marred by my ongoing lack of the same, at least not more than can be helped. I want better for her…and, admittedly, I don’t want worse for those walking their stages tonight. For me, twenty-six years ago or thereabouts, it was the first time of several; I had three more (so far? I might still go back again). For many of them, it will be the only time, and I should not, I try not to, begrudge them their celebrations, their chances to feel special for an evening. And so I join many others in wishing good luck to the high school class of 2026, as well as the hope that its members will not need it!

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