3 Mulligans

Traffic slowed down as we approached the high school and I could see a line of cars leading through the parking lot. The whole thing looked like what precedes the Academy Awards ceremony. A constant stream of families shuffled toward the school entrance. Cameras flashed taking multiple shots of students from every conceivable angle. I couldn’t believe how people were dressed and how they looked, especially the girls. The run on hair products and makeup at local stores must have left shelves empty. This was how our community recognized – and promoted – 8th Grade Graduation, that important scholastic milestone.

As we inched passed the greeters and ticket-takers to reach the auditorium’s foyer, I witnessed behavior from parents that made me feel embarrassed to share their same zip code. Frantically communicating on cell phones, their common concern was where they could get the best shot. How’s the balcony look? What about the angle? Is the backlighting better up there? What about the main aisle? Entrance? Stairs? Stage? There was so much mayhem and yelling it felt like I had been dropped onto the floor of the New York Stock Exchange. Once inside the auditorium there were few seats left. As it was, Simeon had to sit on a folding chair.

Before the ceremony the audience was shown pictures of students on a theater-sized screen. But after the screen disappeared and the lights kicked up we heard the start of “Pomp and Circumstance” – the 27-minute version. Any shorter and it wouldn’t have been long enough for all 253 students to walk down the aisle and take a seat on stage. And every time two more students appeared back at the entrance, another set of parents rushed in to get more pictures.

My eighth grade graduation was a little different. Scheduled during a school day as another boring assembly, it took place in the hot stuffy gym without parents or visitors. Mrs. Braden gave her speech on citizenship, the same one she read every year. “Citizenship. What is Citizenship?” Then it was over.

On stage Cassielle looked poised, confident and eager to start high school, but I wondered what was really going through that mind of hers. The next day I asked, “Did it signify anything or mean anything to you, the ceremony?” When she said it meant nothing to her I wasn’t even tempted to fake my way through another speech about “turning points” and “new beginnings.” She already heard plenty of that while waiting patiently for the whole thing to end.

I was waiting in the car for my son when I decided to turn on the radio. “Oh, it won’t kill me,” I thought, and there’s even a chance of hearing something I’d like. After scanning several stations I landed on one whose music sounded interesting, so I kept it there. After the song finished there was a long pause before anyone started talking and I looked forward to catching the name of the artist, the album, the song, and the call letters of the station. But what I ended up hearing was the voice of a 5-year-old attempting to read Shakespeare with a mouthful of peanut butter. Pausing in all the wrong spots, no inflection whatsoever, stumbling over words, way too quiet – I was surprised to have understood “listener-supported” and “Madison,” but caught nothing more. Then, the music continued, so I kept listening. When Simeon got in the car he asked, “What’s this?” “I’m not sure,” I said. “Let’s see if we can find out,” knowing we didn’t stand a chance. After the song ended we were met with more dead air and eventually that same annoying voice. When the equivalent of one sentence dribbled out of the announcer’s mouth Simeon jammed his finger on the power button and yelled, “Man, what’s his problem!”

If given the opportunity to broadcast music that, for once, was stimulating, why wouldn’t you care enough to make sure listeners understood what it was? We were reliving that scene from Ghost World, where Steve Buscemi lashes out at the DJ’s voice coming from his own car radio, only this was worse. I can at least understand over-caffeinated rock DJs, even if their delivery is like “being jabbed in the face.”