Graduation Day

Sunshine all over the American Riviera, sea glittering sapphire, roses in bloom, grapes hanging heavy on the vine.

It’s graduation day for hundreds, sixth grade to junior high, junior high to high school, high school to college. White chairs in neat rows on the grass in Peabody Stadium. Anticipation for the march in cap and gown, for one’s name to be announced over the PA system, for the cheer to rise up from friends and family, anticipation for the next step, for the beginning of the road, for the class trip to Disneyland, anticipation for the long days of a carefree summer, for liberation from mom and dad, duty and convention, rules, restrictions.

Mylar balloons, still and video cameras ready to go, house full of relatives all itching to freeze the moment in time, something the kids can’t yet understand. Hold onto to seventeen, eighteen, fleeting youth and unbridled optimism, that sense of invulnerability, as long as you possibly can. Listen to Lady Gaga, respect your youth, be yourself, love who you are. Don’t listen to the old farts yet; they had their shot – now it’s your turn. Claim your inheritance no matter how minor. Play, goof off, slip into a new identity every other week, sing at the top of your range, trace your beloved’s footprints in the sand. Sleep under the stars as often as possible. Skip stones across lake or stream, jump in puddles, eat pancakes for dinner.

The world is out there, waiting for you. You’ll find no shortage of windmills to tilt at, though take the road anyway, see where it leads, leave home and come back, run to stay in place, chase whatever mirage makes you happy. The world is patient, time masquerades as an ally when you’re young and your heart is invincible and your teeth are white and your skin is supple.

Read the great philosophers, read billboards, read comic books, read and save every fortune from every fortune cookie; plant flowers; swim naked; ride your bicycle with no hands; party all night; remember mother’s birthday.

Milestones and markers, signs and portents, omens and premonitions. Claim it. Own it. Your turn and time, Generation Now, speeding through the galaxy, where the fake, the staged and the contrived might be more real than the real thing. Find out, return to tell the tale, conjure a memory of places you’ve never been.

What did Paul Simon say? “Every generation throws a hero up the pop chart.”

It’s evening now and a gusty wind asserts itself, whipping across the empty stadium, where the white chairs are folded and stacked; the graduates have scattered.