For a Moment, I Wanted to Cry.
Graduation Day 2019:
Dylan had little interest in attending his own ceremony, but his parents, brother, aunt and grandparents all wanted to see him graduate. So we got up at dawn, went all the way into downtown Washington, DC during rush hour, and found our seats in the balcony – where most parents were seated – and near the stage.
It was a fiasco getting there, which kept me distracted from feeling anything like “sadness” on a very cloudy morning.
When they played the graduation march, nearly 300 kids streamed into their seating area, traveling from somewhere outside the arena to fill half the floor of a very large auditorium. Dressed in black gowns with orange trim, the procession was organized and neat. Finding Dylan among them was not easy, but I did. And for a moment, I wanted to cry.
While I listened to the speakers, I mostly stared at Dylan, sitting amongst the graduates, relatively attuned to what was going on around him. I imagined that he was thinking about all the years he’d spent with the kids who surrounded him; he probably wasn’t.
The principal mentioned him by name – just his first name, because everyone knew. She thanked him for the wonderful music he gave to them all. I gasped a little, realizing he’d been recognized for the thing he loves most.
I watched people walk across the stage whose names I recognized from Dylan’s kindergarten class, “Emily P” and “Emily A” and “Aliyah W” – whose last names I never knew but who, in kindergarten, had to be identified by initial because of the popularity of their first names.
None of them were five years old anymore.
When Dylan walked across the stage, I was too busy filming to pay much attention. When I watched the video, I noticed that he didn’t get the roars of approval that went to the popular kids – the ones who bullied Dylan in middle school, the ones whose lives probably began and ended in the past six years.
But Dylan’s family and friends cheered as loudly as we could.
The ceremony was just that: a ritual observance. Later that evening, we had a more intimate celebration: a nice dinner where the whole family was loving and kind and funny and sweet. It was a beautiful celebration.
It was impossible not to cry then.
It is impossible to believe that Dylan has graduated from high school. It’s certainly a reality, but it’s just a moment – one, singular moment – in a lifetime of great days, great times, great things Dylan has done and will do.
This summer, I am desperately trying to take each moment one at a time and not be overwhelmed by the inevitable loss. So far, I am failing miserably, frustrating Dylan with my inability to keep it together. But – if nothing else – Graduation Day was one beautiful, treasured moment.