Daron's Guitar Chronicles Volume 12

1055 Ghost of a Texas Ladies Man

Ghost of a Texas Ladies Man

The next day was Courtney's graduation ceremony. You know how people in Hollywood use the word "film" instead of "movie"? People in academia–at least in Boston– don't use the word graduation. They use the word "commencement."

I'd never really thought about it before, until I saw and heard the word a hundred times in those two days, that "commencement" means the beginning of something and not the end. It's not the culmination that's being celebrated, it's the beginning of the rest of your life.

And sure, some of these baby birds didn't look ready to be kicked out of the nest. But the energy in that room, a 3,000-plus seat venue, felt to me like the whole class of graduation-robed kids was ready to take off like a giant mass of black crows. The ceremony was pretty dull in that the speaker was a Massachusetts state senator, a guy named Ed Markey who I confess I knew nothing about, and the main ceremony consisted of reading off a numbingly long list of the names of the graduates as they shook hands with the deans and got their diplomas. But I spent the entire thing jittery and on edge because there was so much energy in the room.

They went alphabetically and had a system for staging each group to keep them in order. The graduates spent most of their time sitting in their seats, and then their whole row would get up to go and file over to the side of the stage.

As Court's row got up, Claire gasped. She was wearing the Dillard's dress and a small, vintage-y looking hat. "Oh, my baby girl!"

I hadn't even realized it was her row until then, but as I looked, my sister turned and waved in our general direction. She waved toward two other spots, too, like maybe she was covering her bases and wasn't sure where we were, or maybe like she was just waving to her adoring public?

"I mean," Claire said, even though I hadn't said anything, "she really is my baby girl. I really mean that."

"You can probably get away with calling her that. I can't."

"She's just so young! She's younger than most of her classmates, did you know that?"

"Some of them took longer than usual to finish."

"And she took shorter than usual, didn't she?"

I made a non-commital noise. I wasn't really sure how many total years it was for Court when you added where she'd been before, but I did know that with summer courses she was able to pack three academic years' worth of classes into two calendar years.

Court edged closer to the stage. I kept having trouble picking her out because she was in the same black gown and hat as everyone else and she hadn't done anything like added a masking tape message to her mortarboard. (Some read "Hi Mom" or "Thanks Mom & Dad" or "Hire Me!") But Claire didn't seem to have any trouble keeping track of her. She gasped again when Court went up the stairs to the stage with another, higher-pitched, "Oh my baby girl!"

Court shook hands with various administrators and took the leather folder with her diploma in it, and paused for a photo from the pro photographer who was darting back and forth across the stage like snipers might be in the area but he was determined to get that Pulitzer-winning shot anyway.

"Is it true the diplomas aren't really in the folders?" a female voice behind us asked.

"Can you imagine the nightmare if they get them mixed up?" another woman answered.

The midgle-aged guy beside me, who I'd been pretty much ignoring, turned around to say, "I'm sure the diplomas are in the folders."

"What makes you think that?" one of the women challenged.