Helping or heckling: Solving the case of the missing gum

 I am a WRECK at graduation. Every year, confronted with the ghostly images of former 4th graders who still haunt the halls...their laughter lingering...voices reverberating around my classroom. As I sit there in the auditorium, watching this time-honored ritual that marks their first steps into the world...I am again humbled that I learned more from them than they probably learned from me. 

I am always strangely nervous...attending graduation. Out-of-place in this high school world. A poser. But I am addicted to the surge of pride and excitement I feel when each of my 4th graders crosses the stage...out of the Wardrobe and into Narnia...

"WOO-HOO..."

So, as I waxed philosophic, lost in my reverie...working up the courage I needed to walk through the dark corridors of my quiet school to the auditorium, pulsing with excited energy...a loud, obnoxious voice startled me. "Just let me run to the bathroom and we'll walk down together," my friend Erin hollered down the corridor. I frowned at her and nodded, breathing out a secret sigh of relief.

Ignoring my preference of sitting in the back, Erin quickly ushered us forward to join the teachers already seated in the front. To my surprise, like old Ebenezer, I experienced my first unexpected ghostly encounter...the poised young woman seated to my left was a former 6th grader...lo, all those years ago. I smiled shyly at her...surely she didn't remember me. During a break in the program, though, I couldn't resist, leaning in to whisper a quick description of her incredibly artistic book report diorama project. And magic happened. That beautiful woman turned her slender shoulders to me and disappeared...and my proud 6th grader grinned at me. I got goosebumps.

Erin, immature as always, kept distracting me. We waved at friends, colleagues, and parents in the packed room. We became fixated on our friend Tyler who had the important job of sitting on the stage for the entire program with the appearance of being hypnotically attentive. "He's chewing gum," Erin observed and we were both bitterly disappointed in him. There is no room in the area of public speaking for gum-chewing. Several minutes later though..."Wait...Tyler's not chewing his gum anymore." We (along with the occupants of our row, the row ahead of us AND the row behind us) stared at him creepily to see if we could clock any subtle signs of gum chewing. Nope. "But...he didn't leave the stage," Erin said, nervously. We (the occupants of our row, the row in front of us AND the row behind us) gasped in horror. "He didn't," Erin stated incredulously. "He did," I answered firmly, not surprised at all. I had come to expect such low-brow behavior from him. "I did," Tyler admitted later, confused. "What was I supposed to do with it?" (Our answer was not fit for publication)

My second ghost arrived on stage.

My Isaac...who I once video-taped racing beside and then, behind, my truck when I was supposed to be responsibly picking him up for school...stepped up to the podium to share his Salutatorian speech...pausing to thank Jesus, our Lord and Savior before delivering his remarks. My heart soared. Isaac generously included his classmates in his message...a loving balance of teasing and tribute. He credited his family, the school, his church and the community with his success. And then thanked me and my friend Ellen for our influence in his life. My heart dropped straight into my stomach for this undeserved recognition. Isaac, brilliant, kind, competitive, compassionate, intelligent, self-motivated Isaac, would have succeeded in a bubble. 

Erin and I amused (enraged, annoyed) our row (and the row in front of AND behind us) with our helpful insights and observations. We all craned our necks back to see the large cobweb decorating the catwalk. We admired the defined muscle tone in our friend Michelle's calves. Everyone was mortified by my lack of staff name recognition: "Who's Mr. Mitten?" I asked, delighted that we now, apparently, were employing sock puppets. "Not mitten," Erin corrected in disgust, "Mitton...m-i-t-t-O-n." Ohhhh. We (our row, the row in front AND the row in back) then repeatedly practiced the correct pronunciation of this, unknown to me, staff member: Mitt-tone. Ma-tone. Muh-TONE. Erin then began to keep a mental tally of all of the school personnel mentioned in student biographies of whom I had ZERO awareness. 

Tyler, meanwhile, was doing a commendable job of trying to ignore us as we kept up a constant barrage of up-lifting little waves, thumbs-up gestures, BIG smiles, other subtle hand gestures to keep up his morale. 

We (our row, front row AND back row) had an in-depth discussion on editing as we noticed the marked repetition of the phrase "This graduate..." in the biographies. Over the course of the evening, it began to take on a more sinister tone..."The culprit...the perpetrator...the accused." I also lamented about our alma mater as Erin and Tyler happily belted it out. "Can't we update it?" I begged. We (our row, front row AND back row) formed a committee to meet over the summer to work on re-writes.

And then...it was over. In the blink of an eye...thirteen years sped by.  Seventeen years ago, they were taking their first steps, propelling them from infancy to toddler-hood and on Graduation Day, they walk across that stage, to the cheering of family, friends, and school staff, to mark their first steps to another exciting phase of life. It was a privilege to watch. Just ask our row (along with the front row AND the back row).