I haven’t been to a high school graduation for many years. I used to attend regularly. As a school trustee for some fifteen years, it was part of the job. Of course, I watched my own children graduate—except the father of this young man who was already employed and had to miss the event. But it’s all a long time ago.
Two days ago, I watched this young man receive his diploma and be recognized for his accomplishments. Very proud of you, Blake.
The ceremony itself hasn’t changed much over the years. It’s a rite of passage that’s a repository of every cliché for a hopeful future, and they were all there: the challenges already faced and overcome, the journey unfolding ahead, the tangled path toward an unknown destination, the doors opening—mountains to climb and the rivers to cross. Old. Stale. And yet.
And yet, those fresh young faces (since we’re talking clichés) beamed with the pride of accomplishment and the anticipation of a future that we grandparents have come to look toward with some measure of fear. They bounded onto the stage to receive diplomas and awards, turned and smiled as parents and grandparents snapped photos, and acknowledged the cheers and applause of their fellow classmates. It was all new again.
For the moment, questions about what the future of this troubled world holds for those young adults were swallowed up by the familiar clichés. And I was grateful for them.
Within moments of returning from the event, I was reading Patrick deWitt’s French Exit, and came upon this definition of a cliché: “A story so fine and thrilling that it’s grown old in its hopeful telling.”
Its hopeful telling and retelling.