Today I heard the words I've been waiting to hear all year from my graduating senior: "I just wrote my last essay for Mrs. Simmons!" Just kidding. Of course, every parent is waiting for that moment when her child's name is called and he receives his diploma and a handshake from the school principal. That moment will arrive on Sunday.
But today is still a day for celebration. It was Greg's absolute last day of high school classes. The rest of the week will be filled with celebrations, awards ceremonies, and graduation practice, but today is the first step across the threshold.
I think I remember my own "last day of high school" better than I do the graduation ceremony or any other graduation activities. It was the most liberating feeling, walking out the front door of the school, knowing that it was the last time I would walk through those doors as a student. Like Greg did today when he arrived "home from school" for the last time, I felt like high-fiving everyone. That is, until I opened my flute case and found it empty! A frantic phone call to the school alerted the band director to the alleged theft. Within minutes he called back to say that he had found my flute -- hidden at the very back of a deep shelf in the instrument storage room. My euphoria at leaving school for the last time was short-lived, as I returned to the building to collect my flute.
To this day, I have no idea who took my flute out of its case and hid it in the deepest recesses of the shelves in the storage room. Was it a prank? Did the thief hide the flute, planning to return for it later? I'll never know. But the event cast a pall on my otherwise perfect "last day." Moreover, it left a bad taste in my mouth about high school in general. Not hard to do -- I didn't enjoy high school. I mostly viewed it as something to be merely tolerated on my way to something better. My high school years began promisingly at Patton Jr. High School, Ft. Leavenworth, Kansas. I had the great fortune to spend 6th through 9th grade in one of the best school districts in the country. Even better, it was populated by military kids like me; I had no difficulty fitting in. Unfortunately, things went downhill from there.
I spent one miserable year at Leavenworth High School, where I discovered an undercurrent of hostility against Army brats. In the insulated environment of Ft. Leavenworth (basically a self-sustaining small town), I had been blissfully unaware of this phenomenon. Sophomore year, it smacked me in the face. As if it weren't obvious enough by the disdainful looks, this negative attitude toward "brats" was confirmed by an anonymous editorial condemning the military lifestyle and characterizing military dependents as a bunch of snobs. It was a relief, then, to move to Kansas City.
The downside, though, was enrolling in my third school (make that third high school) in as many years. My dad left the Army and joined a private optometry practice in Kansas City, Kansas. My last two years of high school were spent at Washington High, where I made only a handful of friends. Most of the kids had known each other since kindergarten; by the time I got to know people, we were graduating. I've never been to a high school class reunion, and I have no intention of ever attending one. Mostly, I have only a vague memory of my last two years of high school (no, I wasn't drunk or on drugs!). I felt like I was in a holding pattern; I had no real connection to the place or the people. The very few times I have actually encountered anyone from my graduating class, I honestly couldn't remember them. Their faces and names didn't register. Why torture myself (and others) staring blankly at name tags, trying desperately to place them? Besides, I'd probably spend the entire reunion wondering which one of them stole my flute on the last day of school!
I think Greg has had a better high school experience than I did. Still, he's had his share of disappointments, and he's ready to move on. He doesn't romanticize high school; he understands that the best is yet to come. He's been telling us all year that he can't wait to move on to the next phase of his life. As of today, one foot is out the door. Ah, that lighter-than-air, carefree feeling! If only I could put it into words. Well, I think "I just wrote my last essay for Mrs. Simmons!" says it all. Don't you?
I spent one miserable year at Leavenworth High School, where I discovered an undercurrent of hostility against Army brats. In the insulated environment of Ft. Leavenworth (basically a self-sustaining small town), I had been blissfully unaware of this phenomenon. Sophomore year, it smacked me in the face. As if it weren't obvious enough by the disdainful looks, this negative attitude toward "brats" was confirmed by an anonymous editorial condemning the military lifestyle and characterizing military dependents as a bunch of snobs. It was a relief, then, to move to Kansas City.
The downside, though, was enrolling in my third school (make that third high school) in as many years. My dad left the Army and joined a private optometry practice in Kansas City, Kansas. My last two years of high school were spent at Washington High, where I made only a handful of friends. Most of the kids had known each other since kindergarten; by the time I got to know people, we were graduating. I've never been to a high school class reunion, and I have no intention of ever attending one. Mostly, I have only a vague memory of my last two years of high school (no, I wasn't drunk or on drugs!). I felt like I was in a holding pattern; I had no real connection to the place or the people. The very few times I have actually encountered anyone from my graduating class, I honestly couldn't remember them. Their faces and names didn't register. Why torture myself (and others) staring blankly at name tags, trying desperately to place them? Besides, I'd probably spend the entire reunion wondering which one of them stole my flute on the last day of school!
I think Greg has had a better high school experience than I did. Still, he's had his share of disappointments, and he's ready to move on. He doesn't romanticize high school; he understands that the best is yet to come. He's been telling us all year that he can't wait to move on to the next phase of his life. As of today, one foot is out the door. Ah, that lighter-than-air, carefree feeling! If only I could put it into words. Well, I think "I just wrote my last essay for Mrs. Simmons!" says it all. Don't you?
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