Graduation Ceremony Creates Wistfulness about Endings

Every year at the end of the school year I get wistful. I say goodbye to three classes of senior students and watch them leave the classroom environment where they have spent most of their lives. It is the end an era for both of us.

This year at graduation I was more nostalgic than usual. I watched some of my first students, who were sophomores in my English II in the fall of 2008 when I began teaching at my alma mater, walk across the stage to receive their diplomas. As I complete my third year of teaching, I felt as if it were an end to a chapter in my life as well.

This May also makes 19 years since I received my high school diploma and embarked into the world of higher education. Next year I will attend my 20-year high school reunion. I have to face it: like everyone else who lives long enough, I am getting old.

As I sat in the seat amongst my colleagues on the floor Thursday night, all of us arrayed in our black gowns and hoods befitting the formal occasion, I thought back to that night I graduated in 1992.

It was a rough time emotionally for me. My father, who suffered from heart disease all of my life, had died nine days before I graduated. When the graduates’ parents were called to stand, my mother had to stand alone. Graduation ceremonies always take me back to that time in my life. Those two events are forever inextricably linked.

I also thought at graduation about how I now sit in the same seat of those who made an immense difference in my life. I had some wonderful teachers who cared about me and helped me to grow and become the person I am today.  

My senior English teacher, Ms. Vicki Flowers—who is now my colleague—was one of those people. I remember that she always told us that growing up was the hardest thing she ever had to do. I am reminded of the quote by the American poet E.E. Cummings: “It takes courage to grow up and become who you really are.”

My journalism teacher, George Souders, was another person who changed the course of my life. George, as many of us called him even then, taught me to think and see in a new perspective. Primarily an art teacher, George didn’t just dance to the beat of his own drummer; he had his own marching band. They all, of course, would have worn tropical shirts and paint-stained paints, just as George always did. I consider myself fortunate still to remain friends with him today.

I thought, too, about my high school principal. Dr. David Hurst who cam e to McNairy Central High School the year I started there as a freshman.  Dr. Hurst was an excellent principal, as he had a great rapport with faculty and students alike.

He was very generous to Mr. Souders’ journalism class. At that time, an era that preceded desktop publishing and extensive use of the Internet, our journalism class had one little Apple Macintosh computer to type our articles for paste-up. However, we had no printer. Dr. Hurst allowed us to network the computer to his printer, and we were welcomed to come into his office any time as long as the door was open in order to retrieve our printouts.

He was very supportive of my interest in writing. One of my English teachers had asked to read a book of poems I had put together on my own, and she passed it along to our assistant principal, who then allowed Dr. Hurst to read it.

When he called me into his office one day, I had no idea what I might have done wrong. I found out quickly that he wanted simply to commend me and encourage me in pursuing writing. He was that sort of principal, always positive and inspiring.

I saw Dr. Hurst this March when I went on vacation to Arizona, where he now lives. The nineteen years that have passed in the time I last saw him seem like only days. On the way to his house, I felt as if I were going to attend a high school reunion. My palms were sweaty, and I tried to conjure in my mind how he might look now.

Upon arrival, he greeted me with a hug. It felt as if I had gone back in time. We both look a little different now, but the rapport was the same as always. Spending the evening with him and his wife Lisa was nice, as we all reminisced together.

Dr. Hurst, who acknowledged me as his “colleague” now, shared some humorous stories about his time as principal that he would never have shared with me when I was his student. I found out that he, too, is interested in writing, and so we may share some online critiques of each other’s writing. I have to admit that I still feel a little uncomfortable calling him “David.”

As we get older and have more experiences, those sorts of occasions are what help soften the melancholy of endings. Everything must end—but it is always followed by a beginning. Being able to revisit and reconnect with those who have shaped the person you have become—even though that chapter of your life in which they were involved is long gone—is to be cherished.

 Me with my former high school principal, Dr. David Hurst