Sukie Kim (want to see a photo of Maureen and Sukie?) stops by, and so does Diana Luke, Joel's wonderful, giving piano teacher. Later Ceasura's mother, Judythe, whom I've never met before, arrives, and I'm astonished that she looks so young -- apparently in her twenties. But Maureen says "No, she's fortytwo. I know she looks young. I hate her!" Judythe is fast-talking and dynamic. Her hair sticks up straight, held up by mousse. She talks about her job -- she's working as an ECG technician at the veterans' hospital -- and about how difficult it is to meet men.

I am pretty much in the trance I generally get into at social gatherings, and this one seems a little stranger than most. I'm the father here, but since I've had nothing to do with getting all this celebration together I feel extraneous. As I watch Joel opening his cards and presents I feel as though I'm at a bar mitzvah -- people giving presents, mostly gifts of money, to the new graduate. We never did things like this when I was growing up.

Diana Luke, Joel's piano teacher, telling Joel she hopes he won't stop playing the piano. She and her husband and kids were about to leave Iowa City for a military stint in Germany, and the following day there was a combination going-away party and baby shower for her at the Preucil School. I went there after stopping by Greg and Sara's party with a copy of Pat the Bunny for the child she was expecting. Afterwards I went home and felt lost and forlorn. It seemed as though my fathering years were over, and they left a hole in my life.

From a letter to Maria Bona:
The graduation ceremony that night, at Hancher auditorium. All the graduates were in red rayon caps and gowns. I should have thought to get there early, but I wasn't thinking, and got to Hancher around quarter to eight, and by then the only spaces available were way up at the top of the balcony. At the openhouse in the morning somebody said how sad it would be, how sad we would feel, how sad it always was no matter how much you thought you were prepared for it, the Elgar Pomp and Circumstance march. And you know that in general I get sad at the drop of a hat. But we were so far away that I was too busy squinting to feel sad. It was like watching the ceremonies on a small- screen television. Presumably the graduates marched up the center aisles of Hancher, but they didn't enter my field of vision till they got to the stage. "Is that Joel? That looks sort of like Joel, doesn't it?" "I don't know," Alice said, "I think he was going to be wearing black pants, wasn't he? And it's in alphabetical order, isn't it, so it wouldn't be him yet."

Orion, Joel, and Unity after Joel and Orion's graduation. Close friends ever since daycare.

They marched onto the stage from both sides and sat in seats on the stage. I didn't recognize anybody. Then all the students on the stage turned their folding chairs around and faced the rear and the lights went down and there was a slide show with musical accompaniment, various rock songs piped in and so on. I got the idea that the slide show was going to show every member of the class of ninetyone at least once, but from where I sat I couldn't recognize any of them. The loudest cheers and whoops seemed to come when certain longhaired guys appeared on the screen. A few flashes in the darkness as people tried to take photos of the slides on the screen -- which of course the flashes would obliterate and render totally white. Not a single face did I recognize, but there was a general feeling of living in the time of Homo audiovisualensis. The people in the slides seemed formed by images they had seen in the media. By ads saying, "Guys, it doesn't get any better than this," and so on. After a few hundred slides the lights came back up and the graduates turned their folding chairs around and the president of the class, Jamie Schweser, got up to present the speaker. I had never heard of Jamie Schweser, but at the openhouse that morning Joel said that at the prom Jamie (this is a male we're talking about) dressed in a formal gown and his date came in a tuxedo. Most of his introduction of the speaker was a reading of "The Giving Tree," by Shel Silverstein. I've seen it before, but when I heard it read out loud, in these circumstances -- all these young people taking one more step outward in the tiny, brief journey of existence -- it seemed like the finest and truest piece of writing I had ever heard. Tears ran down under my glasses. I wished that I could write something as good and moving and true as that little fable. Then there was a talk by a social studies instructor whom Joel really liked, Dale Hibbs, who has evidently been a member of the Iowa legislature and also apparently used to be a member of a motorcycle gang. A guy who tells his classes "Let's rumble," and whose grade-point average at his own highschool graduation was one point eight. . . . And then the parade of people in red gowns across the stage, being given handshakes and diplomas. . . . And then that is it, and it feels as though there ought to be something more, a big drunken party with all the parents and all the graduates. I hung around for a few more minutes while Harold took photos of Joel with his grandparents, with his aunt, with Alex, with Maureen, with me, and so on (and through everything it is as though I am elsewhere, not quite there, not quite participating -- floating above the crowd in an out-of-body experience or something), and then went home with Alice.

Tom with Joel and Alex after the ceremonies. Yes, there are tears in all these human rituals of ours. We come together so briefly. We are apart so long.

[Nota bene: This page, like all the others in this site, is in progress. Please let me know if you find anything false, misleading, offensive, or intrusive to your privacy. Let me know too if there's a photo or something in the text that should be removed or something that should be added. I have not set up this site primarily for my own sake but for my family and friends -- and I welcome all corrections, additions, and suggestions about how to improve it!]

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Copyright © 1999 T. N. R. Rogers. All rights reserved. Last revised 18 aug 99.