For all the kids who graduated without honors. . .

Please stand to be recognized

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Photo by Baim Hanif on Unsplash

My girls and I developed one of our favorite inside jokes about three years ago when we went to one of my high school voice student’s graduation. Pretty much everyone has experienced at least one graduation ceremony: you guys, they are long AF. Like, longer than a Catholic wedding long.

After about 28 straight minutes of “If you are a member of NHS / Rotary Club / National Merit Scholar / Honors Choir/ Student of the month / Honor Roll / Service Club / Journalism Club. . .” the girls and I were getting restless. And slap happy. So we did what we often do: Take something serious and ruin it with sarcasm and irreverence.

“If you’re a Libra rising, please stand to be recognized,” I whispered to them. “If you’re wearing socks, please stand to be recognized,” one returned. “If you enjoy tacos, please stand to be recognized,” the other replied, “If you have a cat, please stand to be recognized,” I snorted, stifling my laughter. “If you pooped today, please stand to be recognized.”

We were on a roll. We continued our game for approximately, well, we’re still going strong. Please stand to be recognized is one of our favorite things to say.

But all jokes aside, I find graduation season to be downright triggering. It’s poignant for obvious reasons—transitions, life cycles, unfulfilled hopes and dreams, blah blah blah. I posted the following on Facebook yesterday, after finally recovering myself from an absolute emotional gut punch of a week:

“Wednesday was a big day. It was my youngest daughter’s 8th grade continuation, and also kindergarten graduation for the music class students I teach. They chose Rainbow by Kacey Musgraves for their song. If you don't know it, it's beautiful. And poignant. And a little heart-achy. And it was already a big day for me.

My oldest didn't get her 8th grade continuation because of the pandemic. She didn't walk a year ago at graduation because high school was hell. I struggled to keep it together as I sang this song with the kindergartners at their ceremony. And then I went to my 8th grader’s ceremony.

Now, hear me out. Some of you will accuse me of special snowflakes participation award vibes. But I have mixed feelings about the way they do these ceremonies. After they call each name, they announce that student’s awards. It's important for kids to get recognition for their hard work, yes? Of course it is.

Our culture values high achievement and academic success and work ethic. Many other things are missed, dismissed, or undervalued. So it was hard to listen to "Katie Fake Name: 4.0 honor roll all four years, NJHS, academic excellence award, student of the month, band, yearbook, pretty much best kid ever.... Thomas Pseudonym. Full stop."

You see the dilemma, yes? We should recognize these hard working kids. But what if Thomas's only achievement was that he stayed alive all year? And what if that goal was harder than any other accomplishment?

So right now, I would like to recognize my own daughter, Band. Band was the only “award” listed after her name. So I’m going to add: most resilient, moved from survival mode to thriving, found a sport she loved, learned how to manage her ADHD, most empathetic, intuitive, highly sensitive, creative, hilarious, best sense of humor.

For any other kids whose primary achievement this year was somewhere between surviving and thriving, I see you. And guess what? There has always been a rainbow hanging over your head.”

Here I am singing “Rainbow,” if you’d like to listen.

Survive, then thrive, then achieve.

So, clearly I have big feelings about the fact that “band” was the only thing listed after my child’s name. Like I had failed, even though I know better. My oldest whispered bitterly to me that she would have had six of those awards listed after her name, if the pandemic hadn’t cancelled their ceremony. First borns, amiright? (I am an overachieving firstborn, obviously.)

I wondered if I hadn’t pushed my youngest child hard enough. I wondered if I should have checked her grades in the portal more often (fine, at all). I wondered if I should have insisted she join NJHS like her sister or participate in more clubs. Maybe a “good mom” would have focused more intently on academic success and work habits.

But the fact is, I do know better. Maybe “better” isn’t the right word. More. I know more. I know the full picture. I have had a front row seat to my daughters’ collective recovery after this divorce. I will not share their stories; those are for them. But I will say that for an entire year, we wryly announced that “therapy was our only extracurricular activity.”

I watched both of them find their footing again—my oldest at college, finally discovering her people, her purpose, boldly claiming her life. My youngest, growing as a person, falling in love with volleyball, always evolving and blossoming and loving life a little bit more. She is hilarious. She is affectionate. She is sensitive and kind and wise and I love spending time with her.

My best friend gave me this shirt and she borrows it often: “Empowered women empower women.”

As for being a “good mom,” while I am admittedly not terribly invovled/concerned about middle school grades and I don’t have the bandwidth to be a taskmaster, I know that my choices reflect more than my shortcomings, or my daughter’s. They reflect our values. Because while I did not actively encourage her to be on the honor roll, I did spend quality time with her every single day. I know her worries and doubts and triggers and favorite things. I know what movies will make her cry and when she’s going to look over at me as we blurt out our favorite inside joke at the exact same time.

I know more than to believe that having a lack of “credits” after one’s name means absolutely anything. How many of these children were barely even surviving? How many mental health crises or hungry bellies or addictions or abuse victims or unsafe living situations were present in that auditorium? How many learning disabilities, hardships, emotionally unsafe children, out-of-the-box thinkers, neurodiverse students, LGBTQ kids, victims of bullying, and non-traditionally gifted children proudly walked across the stage with nothing but a pregnant pause after their name?

So to those students I say, Please stand to be recognized.

You survived the hardest years of your life. You survived puberty and social awkwardness and mean girls and boring classes and feeling like you don’t fit into childhood but you certainly aren’t an adult and masking your discomfort and never belonging anywhere and feeling like either everyone is watching you or you’re invisible. Maybe like my daughter, you survived divorce. Maybe you survived trauma.

Maybe literally all you did was survive. Or maybe you dared to thrive, but have nothing to show for it aside from your happy heart. Maybe you found a lifelong passion or made a best friend or embraced your quirky style or got a diagnosis or fell in love. Maybe you had fun. Maybe you let your bedroom go to shit. Maybe you binge-watched 14 TV series and read a new graphic novel you couldn’t put down. Fuck yeah, you did.

Hold your head high. And please stand to be recognized.

XO,
Steph