(no subject)
Cap and Frown
So, it’s finally here, in the proximate distance, taunting me - my graduation. Like I have any idea what I’m supposed to do afterwards. I guess I’m sort of lucky, though, because my father has totally hijacked the event and made it his own, and it could be me sorting through all those added dates and deadlines.
“But Christopher, it’s your graduation, of course you have to go,” he explains exasperatedly. “And, so does the family,” he adds, a hurried-through afterthought I am sure he had hoped I’d miss.
“But why do I have to invite the family? It’s not like they want to sit through some boring ceremony in the middle of a crowded campus in Friday afternoon dolor, either. I’m sure they’d like to avoid going as much I wanted to for theirs, so really we’re doing them a favor. It’s out of courtesy that I don’t want to invite them.”
He pauses for a second, but then continues. “Of course the family wants to go,” he responds mechanically. That’s the problem with things like graduations, or weddings, or ceremonies - it’s always your closest friends and relatives who push them on you. Why is some socially-prescribed ceremony the only way to usher in life’s milestones? I see it as a dreadful thing that I’ll never be able to be an irresponsible teenager again, why would I want to celebrate it by listening to some torturously long speech by a generic, C-list icon and eating store-bought cake that’s way too sugary?
“Yes, Christopher, you’ll think it was a good idea. How big is your head?” he asks.
“How big is my head?” I repeat incredulously. “What are you doing, making sure my ego can fit through the gates of hell?”
“Christopher,” he exclaims, “I’m trying to order your cap and gown! Now seriously, go measure your head for a second.”
And I’m apparently not doing “a graduation,” I’m doing several - my dad keeps the actual number a rough estimate so I can’t make alternate plans on those days - that I have to attend. Isn’t one enough? Not so, he tries to make me understand - like sands through the hourglass, these are the days of my life. Apparently, I’ll look back on them with fondness. Though, if it’s how I imagine it, the only contemplation I’ll do of this event in my future is where precisely to go back in the past with my time machine and kidnap myself to prevent me from having to go.
Instead, though, I did the next best thing - told my highly forgetful, sometimes irresponsible father that if he was going to make me go to the ceremony (ceremonies?), he would deal with its every detail. So, I don’t even read the e-mails I get from the school, I just forward them to him. I gave him my student login and password, and he’s now the one checking the website for updated information. He must spend the greater part of his day looking at it, perhaps choosing one afternoon to peruse the honors I could be eligible for and another buying me a yearbook without my picture in it.
And he thinks I read about these things! “What do you mean, you don’t know about Phi Beta Kappa?” he spits, stunned. “It’s only one of the best things you can have on your diploma! It’s a huge honor, I just can’t believe you haven’t heard of it. And of course you’re going to the induction.”
“Why does it matter what it says on my diploma,” I retort offhandedly, “I’m just going to laminate it and use it as a placemat, anyway, so I don’t care whether Phi Tappa Crappa wants to mark on it.”
This always makes him mad, since he definitely views it as some sacred parchment that could never be defiled so greatly as with my touch. But, I mean, it already will have my name on it. But I guess that’s the funniest part about all of it - the entire graduation has my name on it, but like my diploma, I’m the only one who doesn’t want to be involved with it and doesn’t care that deeply for it. To me, it’s one big cliché.
Whoever had the brilliant idea that wearing funny, polyester robes and paying lord knows how much for parking is a nostalgic way to mark the event should be voted off the island. All this added, unnecessary stress doesn’t mean anything to me, except that I can’t go out the weekend of my birthday at all (not that I don’t appreciate the distraction, but…). I’m basically doomed to realize that my youth is in fast retreat - after all, it goes pre-school, grade school, middle school, high school, college, and then a long stretch of nothing. It’s like driving to Las Vegas, and I’m at the stretch of road where even the Joshua trees don’t grow. All I have is death and adult pampers to look forward to.
There’s this child prodigy I’ve befriended at UCLA. He’s only 14. I sort of want to give him advice on stuff when he needs it, which really means I want to mold him into a tinier, younger version of myself. And I want to warn him to enjoy the time he has as a carefree kid, to eat popsicles and do the things you can’t do when you’re older, like wear t-shirts and behave egomaniacally. I want to take him under my wing and protect him from the ravages of time, like any good parent would.
Though naturally, when it occurs, I expect to go to the graduation.
So, it’s finally here, in the proximate distance, taunting me - my graduation. Like I have any idea what I’m supposed to do afterwards. I guess I’m sort of lucky, though, because my father has totally hijacked the event and made it his own, and it could be me sorting through all those added dates and deadlines.
“But Christopher, it’s your graduation, of course you have to go,” he explains exasperatedly. “And, so does the family,” he adds, a hurried-through afterthought I am sure he had hoped I’d miss.
“But why do I have to invite the family? It’s not like they want to sit through some boring ceremony in the middle of a crowded campus in Friday afternoon dolor, either. I’m sure they’d like to avoid going as much I wanted to for theirs, so really we’re doing them a favor. It’s out of courtesy that I don’t want to invite them.”
He pauses for a second, but then continues. “Of course the family wants to go,” he responds mechanically. That’s the problem with things like graduations, or weddings, or ceremonies - it’s always your closest friends and relatives who push them on you. Why is some socially-prescribed ceremony the only way to usher in life’s milestones? I see it as a dreadful thing that I’ll never be able to be an irresponsible teenager again, why would I want to celebrate it by listening to some torturously long speech by a generic, C-list icon and eating store-bought cake that’s way too sugary?
“Yes, Christopher, you’ll think it was a good idea. How big is your head?” he asks.
“How big is my head?” I repeat incredulously. “What are you doing, making sure my ego can fit through the gates of hell?”
“Christopher,” he exclaims, “I’m trying to order your cap and gown! Now seriously, go measure your head for a second.”
And I’m apparently not doing “a graduation,” I’m doing several - my dad keeps the actual number a rough estimate so I can’t make alternate plans on those days - that I have to attend. Isn’t one enough? Not so, he tries to make me understand - like sands through the hourglass, these are the days of my life. Apparently, I’ll look back on them with fondness. Though, if it’s how I imagine it, the only contemplation I’ll do of this event in my future is where precisely to go back in the past with my time machine and kidnap myself to prevent me from having to go.
Instead, though, I did the next best thing - told my highly forgetful, sometimes irresponsible father that if he was going to make me go to the ceremony (ceremonies?), he would deal with its every detail. So, I don’t even read the e-mails I get from the school, I just forward them to him. I gave him my student login and password, and he’s now the one checking the website for updated information. He must spend the greater part of his day looking at it, perhaps choosing one afternoon to peruse the honors I could be eligible for and another buying me a yearbook without my picture in it.
And he thinks I read about these things! “What do you mean, you don’t know about Phi Beta Kappa?” he spits, stunned. “It’s only one of the best things you can have on your diploma! It’s a huge honor, I just can’t believe you haven’t heard of it. And of course you’re going to the induction.”
“Why does it matter what it says on my diploma,” I retort offhandedly, “I’m just going to laminate it and use it as a placemat, anyway, so I don’t care whether Phi Tappa Crappa wants to mark on it.”
This always makes him mad, since he definitely views it as some sacred parchment that could never be defiled so greatly as with my touch. But, I mean, it already will have my name on it. But I guess that’s the funniest part about all of it - the entire graduation has my name on it, but like my diploma, I’m the only one who doesn’t want to be involved with it and doesn’t care that deeply for it. To me, it’s one big cliché.
Whoever had the brilliant idea that wearing funny, polyester robes and paying lord knows how much for parking is a nostalgic way to mark the event should be voted off the island. All this added, unnecessary stress doesn’t mean anything to me, except that I can’t go out the weekend of my birthday at all (not that I don’t appreciate the distraction, but…). I’m basically doomed to realize that my youth is in fast retreat - after all, it goes pre-school, grade school, middle school, high school, college, and then a long stretch of nothing. It’s like driving to Las Vegas, and I’m at the stretch of road where even the Joshua trees don’t grow. All I have is death and adult pampers to look forward to.
There’s this child prodigy I’ve befriended at UCLA. He’s only 14. I sort of want to give him advice on stuff when he needs it, which really means I want to mold him into a tinier, younger version of myself. And I want to warn him to enjoy the time he has as a carefree kid, to eat popsicles and do the things you can’t do when you’re older, like wear t-shirts and behave egomaniacally. I want to take him under my wing and protect him from the ravages of time, like any good parent would.
Though naturally, when it occurs, I expect to go to the graduation.