Last Wednesday night, we sat in the bleachers of the Jordan High football stadium and watched my oldest grandson graduate. From our seats on the west side of the stadium we had a stunning view of the Wasatch mountain peaks directly in front of us, so close you could almost touch them. Below on the field were the seated class of 2021, all in maroon robes and mortar board hats.
Speakers from the graduating class represented many types of students: valedictorian and salutarian of course, but also the class president, a cheer leader, and one who hadn’t been sure she would graduate. Three spoke bilingually—a few sentences in English and then saying them again in Spanish. The Principal Wendy Dau regaled us with the many accomplishments of the class.
Everyone spoke of the challenges of the last year, of trying to complete high school in spite of the restrictions caused by Covid—online instruction, cancelled dances, limited sports activities, and just missing being together. They spoke of finding alternatives to what was denied them, of finding workarounds, of triumphing in spite of the difficulties.
In truth, the sound system didn’t work well, and I missed much of the talks, but I got the gist. And I was proud of the speakers and all the graduates. The details of the talks don’t much matter.
What matters is these kids. They have completed thirteen years of formal schooling. For some that is all they get.
While trying to hear the talks, I was diverted by the action on the other half of the football field. Behind the maroon-clad graduates, their little brothers, sisters, nieces and nephews cavorted on the green turf, not even trying to listen to the program. I watched crawling babies; tottering toddlers (one who lost his pants altogether); small brothers playing frisbee; a girl in an orange dress sprinting down the field, long legs reaching; a tween kicking her shoes off, flinging them as far as she could before racing over to retrieve them and do it again.
They were just children, unconcerned with the challenges of life. These kids in maroon robes--they were children too, just the other day. They were babies, then toddlers, kids, tweens, and now—with this rite of passage—now, they are adults. The principal has presented them, the superintendent of the school district has accepted them, and the school board president has certified that these students have earned their diplomas. It’s official. They are now qualified to use the skills and knowledge they have gained to find their way in the wide, wide world.
Will it be enough? They have varying amounts of classroom knowledge—yes. History and math and writing and science. They have completed papers and projects and prepared for exams during late nights and early mornings. But they also have learned social skills, life skills, learned on sports teams and student government, debate teams and drama clubs. They have learned, or I hope they have, the skills to contribute to the world’s work, the skills to be grown up.
They have already faced hard personal challenges. A couple of weeks ago we attended awards night. Jordan High’s mascot is the Beetdiggers. Back in the early days of the town, the school stood among fields of beets, growing a crop for the local beet factory, which turned the sweet vegetable into beet sugar, a common substitute for cane sugar back in the day.
Each scholarship or award was preceded by a description of the sponsors. Almost all the awards were given by alumni, simple people who valued education. We learned of beet farmers and small business owners who struggled through economic hardships, saving money so that their kids could get an education, and then went on saving so that they could help other kids go to college.
Then each presenter went on to share the achievements and challenges of those receiving the awards. Some of the awards went deservingly to excellent students. But many were just as deservingly given to students who had managed to succeed in school and serve others despite great hardships: growing up in foster care, losing a parent, experiencing homelessness.
I thought of that awards night as I sat not quite trying to decipher the garbled amplified talks. I thought of the brief glimpses I was honored to get of the school graduates this year. As each student filed forward to receive a diploma and congratulations, I thought of the many, many stories represented by the maroon-clad young people on the football field. I thought of what they have overcome so far, and what they will face in the future.
After all the talks were over and all the diplomas had been given, parents raced to the field to find their graduates. There were signs of congratulations held aloft and screams of joy. And leis! One grad was covered in so many leis her head was entirely covered.
What a happy, happy time—and rightly so! We found our graduate, beaming with joy—as we all were.
And yet, this is not an ending but a beginning. It is the beginning of adult life. The beginning of work and paying their way and eventually maybe starting a family and raising new little ones who will go on to graduate themselves.
I was talking about the graduation with my son—Sam’s uncle. We spoke of the joy of the graduates and the sense of accomplishment. Mark, shaking his head, remarked, “They think the hard stuff is behind them, but it is really still ahead.”
And there will be hard stuff ahead. And also happiness--all of it mixed together. But that is a story for another day.
For now, it is graduation day, a day to rejoice in accomplishments fulfilled, a time to celebrate the future, a future filled with many-splendored shining possibilities.
