Editor’s Note: The SJO Daily was granted permission to attend one graduation ceremony of the four school districts we cover: Heritage, St. Joseph-Ogden, Oakwood and Mahomet-Seymour. We went to capture a visual record of graduation, as newspapers do annually. Those photos are shared here. The written account is published to capture the sentiment that cannot be captured through pictures. Our team understands and respects the reasons we could not be at other graduations, and know that this account is being experienced and felt everywhere.
By Dani Tietz
dani@sjodaily.com
It was the first time she graduated.
Sure, her kindergarten teacher helped to make a big deal about moving onto the next grade, and her eighth-grade year ended with a celebration as she moved onto high school, but this was the first time that she stood in cap and gown, honors cords draped around her neck.
Her parents stood nervously beside her as she received instructions on how long she needed to wear her mask and where she needed to stand as her picture was taken. Her dad asked if they would be able to get a family picture, too; this was the first and only daughter that would graduate from high school and the weight of the moment was not lost on him.
While their daughter waited for the minute hand on the clock to strike :30, the parents went ahead to learn where they could stand while they watched the moment they had envisioned 18 years ago.
The gymnasium was empty, mostly. The superintendent, principal and school board president stood on the stage, while a woman moving an iPad stood near the top of the three-point line on the basketball court, ready to videotape each student as they came into the gymnasium.
This graduation wasn’t a show, but the Heritage School District did what they could to add tradition to the ceremony. The girl’s name lit up on the scoreboard, white letters on a red background, and Pomp and Circumstance began to play over the speakers as she walked towards the stage.
For each graduate, the ceremony was not rehearsed. Each adult took their time to provide prompts and countdowns as the student moved from one point to the next. She stopped at the corner of the basketball court to have her photo taken, she climbed the steps to walk across the stage where her name was read. The school superintendent, her former principal, made note of her accomplishment, not over the loudspeaker, but just loud enough to hear.
She grabbed her diploma from the table, and the crowd, seven people, including her parents, clapped for her. She walked down the steps to her left and paused again at the bottom. The principal counted down from three, and the girl brought her tassel from the right side to the left before walking back out of the gymnasium where she laid a few of her honor cords to rest in a cardboard box.
The 15-minute slot did not leave time for her to visit with friends; by the time one graduate walked into the building, the other graduate had already left. Administrators committed to three-days, their entire weekend, to make sure all 38 graduates were recognized (31 participated in the ceremony), and that their family members were able to be by their side.
In pictures, the ceremony may seem stark, a shell of something that brings so much joy to a community each year. But the quaint setting showcased an intimacy and care that high school graduates should remember for years to come.
It was the first time administrators had imagined a ceremony to honor each young adult individually. It’s not something we document well, the nervousness and weight that goes into the moments to capture life’s transitions. This district could have chosen to go another way; they could have postponed their ceremony, they could have had graduates drive through the parking lot, they could have asked parents to stay home and brought in groups of students, they could have had the students walk in, grab their diploma and walk out.
Instead, they focused on the little touches that matter: the name in lights, the tradition of music, the conversations of what’s next, the acknowledgment of until next time.
That’s the touch that can be seen. Then they considered those touches that are unseen and unspoken; moments that happened 18 years ago, like a man holding his baby daughter in the middle of the night. He walked barefoot across the carpeted floor, his right arm across his chest, and his hand under her bottom, the fingers on his left hand holding up her head.
He brushed his lips across the baby’s fuzzy hair, feeling like the moment would last forever. The thought, just like the 20 minutes he took putting the baby back to sleep, were fleeting, though. He knew there was work to be done: the baby needed to be fed and put to sleep, she would soon teethe, then crawl, speak, then write, go to school, then play games, ride a bike, then drive a car, move from school to school, then graduate.
Maybe the child would grow up to be like her father, the boy who loved to study books and married his high school sweetheart. Or maybe she would be like her mother, someone who stood up for the rights of others and brought flowers to those who were sick. No matter who this child is, or no matter how she grows into the arms that shoot out like rockets when she is surprised, the father knows that he will be right there beside her.
It had been 18 years, a lifetime and a blink. The lines around his mouth showed the patience he gave his child. The way he raised his brow changed in response to every smile he’d given when he made an excuse as to why he had not emptied the dishwasher.
He was no longer able to glide across the floor with his child in his arms, instead her hand fit perfectly inside his as they walked up to the door of the only high school experience she had ever known.
This is, after all, their moment.
