I'm a senior class sponsor at my high school, and I teach five classes of senior English, so when all those guys and gals--that I've spent five days a week with for the past ten months, and some I've even taught for three years--graduate this Friday night, I'm going to be watching people I know almost as well as I know my close friends walk across that stage, wearing proudly their maroon caps and gowns, to grab that diploma cover and come back to their seats only to then throw their maroon caps high up in the air and walk to a breakout room and take off their gown and hug their family, and most of them will disappear from my life forever.
I'll try and congratulate the ones I see, and the response I'll get will be a smile and a nod. They won't say thank you. They won't say goodbye. I've listened to their worries and fears, I've seen them cry, I've consoled, I've offered praise and encouragement, I've written letters of recommendation, I've given them second and third and fourth chances at learning and passing, I've ignored countless curses and shows of disrespect and public displays of affection, and I've made sure they've enrolled in college.
You know how I'll feel when they walk out that breakout room with real diploma finally in hand, smiling 'cause they never have to see me again? Elated! I'll be almost as ready to be away from them as they are of me. If I shed a tear, it'll be because I'll have to pack up the caps and gowns that I'll later have to take back to the school--after all the other teachers are through for the year--while everyone else is enjoying the smorgasboard of culinary delights laid out for them in the convention center. They'll be smiling and eating, and I'll be sweating.
I'll be glad, though. I'll be tired, but I'll be relieved. If I had the energy at the time (and I won't), then I'd go out with my pal Foot Foot and cut a rug somewhere.
Why so happy? Is it because I hate these kids? No, I love many of them. I've been close friends with a handful. I've a few who discussed NFL football with me every Monday and college football with me every Friday. I've a couple/three with whom I discussed drumming and rock music. I've a select few who talked religion and politics with me on an honest and deep level. Heck, they've all listened intently to my ghost stories, and they've all laughed at at least half of my jokes. Why would I be so keen to rid myself of people like this, people who think I'm pretty cool and a halfway decent fellow?
They're teenagers, that's why.
The teenage mind is literally configured differently than adult minds. Teenagers make stupid decisions because they're teenagers. It's not just some old adage, some truism; it's a scientific fact.
Oh, some of the mistakes they make, and oh, some of the choices they, uh, choose. Why oh why didn't you sign up before the deadline? Why oh why do you still date that guy? Why oh why didn't you tell your mother where you were going? Why oh why didn't you verify the truth before you hit her? Why oh why didn't you set your alarm clock so that you wouldn't miss the ACT? Why oh why didn't you give your boyfriend's switchblade (that you confiscated from him for fear of what he'd do with it) to your teacher or principal as soon as you got to school that day? Why oh why oh why oh why?
Too much drama is the reason I'm glad I don't have to see these friends** of mine ever again. They break my heart. They remind me of the stupid decisions I used to make. Their geekiness reminds me of my geekiness. Their failed attempts at romance remind me of mine. All in all, they remind me of high school.*
I didn't like high school very much. Now, I had some great friends, and the last three years of high school were much better than the first three, but I look back upon those days with very little fondness. In fact, I believe I've only gone back inside that building twice: once was when I substitued before I began teaching fulltime, and the second was for a job interview to teach fulltime (mercy, what was I thinking, teaching at a place I--more often than not--loathed) before I began teaching fulltime. I don't care to ever go back again.
I do, though--figuratively. Not as often as I used to (as my years away have, thankfully, now grown greater than my years there), but still, every year, just about every week, I'm reminded of me being a teenager, and I don't like to be reminded of that. I didn't know who I was then; I didn't have a clue. I, therefore, wasn't confident.
I know who I am now, and I (for the most part) like who I am. I like being a father and a husband and a goofy yet demanding teacher and a son and a DJ and a drummer. I'm all, and I contain multitudes, and I've a separate place for each one, and I can put them all together seamlessly. I know who I am.
From August to May, though, the further the school year marches, the more and more I'm reminded of a time when I didn't, and the more and more I'm ready for those memories to walk out that door with the graduates. I'm ready to toss them into the air, and I'm ready to celebrate.
What in the world does all this have to do with Feist's "1234"? She feels the same way. She's matured, and she's talking to someone who hasn't yet, to someone who's having a difficult time relinquishing from her teenage hopes. She speaks of not being able to go back, of the fruitlessness of it, of the stupidity of the drama, of celebrating who you are now.
She's feeling some of those nostalgiac fears and worries, too, but she recognizes that fact, and with that recognition comes freedom. With that freedom, comes jubilant celebration, and that feeling of unbridled joy, of personal independence from the past, of relishing the individual, builds and builds throughout the song. "1234" starts with simple banjo plucking and softly-sung vocals, but it climaxes with the most exhuberant commemoration of any folk-pop song in the history of folk-pop songs, with Feist's sandpaper whispery wisps in that follow-the-bouncing-ball melody grown into a full-blown and full-throated yawp of unadulterated happiness that seemingly lasts forever, the Penny Lane trumpets blaring, the barrelhouse piano rolling and tumbling, the drummer marching across the snare, the confetti flying, the caps in the air, the parents applauding, the cameras flashing, and then, right before the end, she dials it all back to next-to-nothing, the graduates out of the room, while she and the rest of the senior sponsors sit and quietly much on the remaining scraps of chicken tenders and pineapple, the party going on without them.
They're much the better for it. All of them.
It's all pomp and circumstance anyway.
NOTES
*Don't say it. I know.
**In all honesty--and, just so you know, I hate being all honest--I will miss a few of them. Overall, I enjoyed teaching this year's class better than any since, oh, 2001. I didn't have to turn in any behavior referrals this year. I wrote a handful, but thankfully the offending students seeing my writing of the referrals was enough of a deterrent to cause them to behave better. I felt myself with these kids this year and often I felt like I was almost communicating with adults. Sometimes--with a few of these students--I was, these few individuals (and they know who they are) had maturity and intelligence levels easily the match for a good number of the people with whom I normally come in contact.
For those few students whom I've come to closely befriend: don't be a stranger. Drop by the house sometime. I promise not to make you write (though Foot Foot will make you watch the slide show of family photos--just a warning).
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