GRADUATION VIDEO

(Photo by Pavel Danilyuk)

Mandi, Alex, and I visited my mother over the weekend as a spur-of-the-moment sort of thing. We originally planned to stay home and watch UFC 286, Usman vs. Edwards, but figured that Alex would be get bored and, eventually, irritable being cooped up all day. So, we decided to bring him over to Grandma’s house. She had a decent sized backyard for him to explore, plenty of great food, and, most importantly, a desire to spend as much time with him as possible.

The day went by quickly. The fights weren’t all that good, but we enjoyed each other’s company. Mom spent the majority of her time playing with Alex and was exhausted by the time things were winding down. But, just as we were about to pack, she put on a video of my middle school graduation. The camera whipped around through a crowd of people, racked focused, whipped again, zoomed in. Then, suddenly, there I was: a 14 year-old kid, bowl haircut, lost in a beige suit several sizes too big, with a blue and yellow tie.

“Oh my god! Look at you!” Mandi said.

Mom laughed.

Feeling embarrassed, I shot up off the couch and wandered into the kitchen so that I could watch the remainder of the video out of eye-shot. Funny how vividly I remembered the whole scene that night 26 years ago. The poorly ventilated gymnasium with warped floor tiles in place of hardwood. Row after row of uncomfortable foldout chairs where both eager and apathetic family members sat waiting for the ceremony to commence. The hollow, fabric-covered stage with a single microphone stand at its center wheeled out beneath the basketball hoop.

To be honest though, what I remembered most was being the star of the show. I was one of three valedictorians in my class – the second being my close friend, Chris, and the third I can’t quite recall – and we were each scheduled to give a speech on how God’s teachings would help our graduating class retain their virtue while navigating the treacherous waters of high school. But unlike Chris and the other kid, I was also part of the choir and lead trombonist in the jazz band, and had solos for each scheduled soon thereafter. In my mind, I could still hear the raucous applause once my choir solo – the last of my performances – was completed. In my belly, I could still feel the butterflies of performance anxiety slowly fluttering away. And on my face, I could still see my gratuitous, euphoric smile reflected in the eyes of my family as I walked by, diploma in hand, following the other children down the center aisle and out the door into the cool evening.

But the thing was… standing there in the kitchen, watching the ceremony unfold… I realized I was actually terrible. No. I was worse than terrible. I was average. My eyes were down during most of my speech, and I stuttered quite a bit. My trombone solo was a collection of random notes played at random speeds. I apparently didn’t know what the hell a key was or why I should play in it. And I played so softly, so timidly, and so unforgivably out of tune, I’m surprised the conductor didn’t reach over my music stand and slap the trombone out of my hands. And holy hell, my choir solo was like an avalanche of drunken cats released into rush hour traffic… No, that’s not quite right… I sounded (and looked) more like David Byrne ten minutes after a lobotomy.

Funny how I was so convinced that I had nailed it. But I was young and stupid and naïve, well-insulated in the fantasy bubble my father fashioned for me. I hadn’t yet thought of death, heartbreak, madness. I knew of abuse, those black-hole-nights when our family’s energy didn’t align, and Dad would scream, and Mom would scream, and Dad would break things, and I would scurry off to my room, dive into bed, and listen to the nonsense as it unfolded.

I suppose, in a round–about way, I wasn’t all that surprised. I had already stumbled upon the reality of “average” once Alex was born, when, seemingly overnight, I transformed from an aspiring artist to just another guy with a job and a typewriter. But damn, did that video ever crystallize those years of delusion! Mandi and Mom couldn’t stop laughing. I leaned against the bookcase with my hand loosely held over my eyes as they jeered at me. It was clear to everyone, both past and present, I wasn’t anything special. Too bad I couldn’t tell at that age. Maybe then I could have avoided the ego-centrism of my 20s and 30s, the extent of which I haven’t fully recovered. Perhaps I never will. But all I can do now is shed yet another delusion and, hopefully, become a better person in the process. And that kid in the graduation video, that “star of the show”… I have to put him to bed once and for all. I am what remains of his troubled youth. I am what’s real now. He, on the other hand, had left all those years ago, diploma in hand, out the back door of a sweltering gymnasium, never to be seen again.