The graduation ceremony for the class of 2012 left me stunned, in an over-stimulated sort of way. The Wilshire Ebell Theatre was charming, and the kids all played their parts well (okay, most of them played their parts well). But, good lord, the circus / zoo / NBA finals atmosphere didn't feel right at all and frankly, left me feeling out of sorts.
I'd spent the day telling my students about regalia, explaining sleeve lengths, hoods, velvet trims, and various cap types. I explained that these were all important symbols, as old as Oxford, signifying academic achievements of which wearers are justifiably proud.
They smiled. They listened politely. Cristian tried to don my hood. I chased him away and told him if he didn't turn in his research paper, he'd never make it to the twelfth grade. He grinned.
In retrospect, I bet they were all thinking that I'm a stuffy old lady. That's certainly how I felt 10 hours later when I filed into the Ebell, bringing up the rear of the class.
Blowhorns? Posters the size of whiteboards? Giant teddy bears? Screaming, whistling moms and dads in satin and sequins? Grandmothers standing in their seats to get a better view? Thighs and boobs busting out all over the place?
Not what I'd expected.
But, then again, was anything about L.A. what I'd expected? If I learned anything this year, surely I learned this: put down my frown and open my arms.
The next morning, I was sitting at my computer, one eye on my book inventory and the other on my kids, as they chatted and passed around my yearbook. I noticed my class size kept diminishing. I'd started with 30 or so students, but every time I glanced up, it seemed that half life equations were affecting my student population. When the last few stragglers jumped up and said, "We're going to the auditorium," my grumpiness from the night before flooded right back in. I ran after them, prepping my "Get back to class!" yell, when Leron, our school watchdog, caught me at the door and offered to take care of matters. I lamely followed him into the auditorium ... to be greeted by 120 screaming kids waving enormous bouquets of flowers and posters literally the size of, yes, whiteboards.
A lot more fun when the hoopla is for me.
I was so touched, I can't think of the day without tears. I was telling my mother-in-law about it yesterday, and I kept having to pause as my voice caught in my throat. I think I was most shocked by the enormous breakfast spread, complete with made-to-order pancake and scrambled eggs stations and a cake topped by an edible sticker of my face. I think I was most touched by the dozen or so kids who sang, accompanied by Vanessa and Oscar on guitars, a song that was something about me changing the world one child at a time. I think I was most overwhelmed by the video of student after student explaining why they'd miss me (and griping at Mr. Forbes for taking me away). I think I was most delighted by the merengue dance lessons. I think I was most exhausted, when about four hours after the party started, a dozen or so of my boys brought in the second round of food, this time pizza, Cheetos, and cookies.
Several times during the year, I tried to take my kids' pictures. I figured they'd jump into poses a la Charlie's Angels, just like my former students, but I was puzzled when my Camino kids hid their faces behind their arms or turned away or even fled the room. I couldn't understand because they are so gorgeous and funny. But I quickly learned to tread lightly with a camera.
During my party? When I got out my camera for one last try, they proudly stood next me, a bit stiff, yes, but all smiles and giggles. Some of them had to be coaxed with a side-poke or two, and some of their faces are unrecognizable from slap-happy laughter. But they did not hide.
The song they sang had a line that said, "I hope you are as proud of me as I am of you."
Never ... no, not ever ... have I been more so.
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