Joy and Devastation

Those of us who celebrated high school graduations and college and university commencements across the land last weekend never expected that we’d be doing so within the bookends of two horrific national tragedies.

Our loved ones who earned diplomas, walked across stages, were cheered by family and friends, felt the culmination of their efforts on a single day — they shone brightly. Joy was palpable in the soft breezes that danced across campuses, the robes that fluttered, the speeches that were given to distinguished honorary degree recipients, the dappled sunlight across storied buildings.

Guest speakers, especially those individuals who brought records of devoted and sometimes dangerous work for the public good, could not help but convey to the young people seated before them that they will have a host of problems to try to solve. Sheila Coronel, an investigative journalist originally from the Philippines, who gave the address at Kenyon College, spoke about the “complacency” that older adults have demonstrated, particularly in believing that, once earned, a democratic system of government would always be safe. Detailing the recent rise of authoritarian systems worldwide, along with an array of other ills including unchecked climate change, persistent racism and gun violence, she even said, “We have failed you.” Many in the audience probably felt her words were too bleak, not appropriate for such a joyous occasion, even though she did come back to the graduates on what felt to me like an “up” note — imagining them as soaring birds, following their own instincts.The whole text is here: https://www.kenyon.edu/news/archive/venturing-into-unknown-skies/

Afterwards, we did what families of graduates do on these afternoons: met friends and families of friends, took pictures, wandered through classroom buildings, packed up the car with contents of a narrow slice of a room. In our son’s case, the dorm itself held many memories, since it was where he’d started as a freshman, too.

After one more short drive over to see one more close friend who was soon headed to the West Coast, our caravan headed back to the AirBnB in the rain, where we all felt that wonderful sense of “do nothing and just be together” at least for the rest of that evening. A sense of fullness, of readiness for the next chapter of life — right alongside the bittersweet farewells — prevailed.

The four of us parted ways the next morning, since my daughter and I were headed to the airport while my son and husband were making the two day drive back to New Hampshire. This meant that, before they got to my brother’s place in Rochester, they could make a stop in Buffalo, and the Tops (the cruel irony of that name resonates now) Supermarket. Knowing my husband, I was not one bit surprised that this was his plan. Some people make it a point to steer away from sites of grief and suffering; he more goes right into the heart of them, believing that they hold important truths about life itself.

Making their way through many city blocks that showed signs of deep economic distress, they saw how that supermarket must have served a crucial need in that community. Once there, they spoke to a number of local residents, some of whom were also visiting the site for the first time, trying to take in how this would change what they had previously considered “normal” routines.

So many bright colors to commemorate the immeasurable beauty of those ten individual lives.

Back home from our trip, we went back to work, holding both the graduation and Buffalo somehow — not exactly together, almost in different hands — but holding nonetheless.

And then, of course, came news of the next massacre, this time farther away, in a small town in Texas. Memories of Sandy Hook a decade ago came surging back, and then scalding questions like “What have we as a country, all of us collectively, not just lawmakers, actually done since the first elementary school horror to try to prevent anything like this from ever happening again? What will we do now?”

The simple act of a parent saying goodbye to a child for the day should never be burdened with the anxiety of “Will s/he be safe?” This, surely, is the complete opposite of progress. The Second Amendment cannot be held up as so sacred, so untouchable that common sense gun control measures are still not put in place in a land where the number of available firearms has skyrocketed. The U.S. is so far out of step with other nations on this, it has to make us ashamed.

Meanwhile, both the NHL and NBA playoffs keep offering up excellent evening entertainment options (the sports alternate quite beautifully) for sports fans across the land. Steve Kerr, NBA Coach of the Golden State Warriors, could barely contain his outrage the other evening when he used his couple of minutes with reporters not to talk about basketball. If you haven’t listened yet, here’s your chance. See how this man, known for his characteristic grace under pressure, quivers : https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=vPvf5RgCU08

I’m late getting this blog out; it’s been almost a month since my last one. I apologize to my loyal readers for this delay. Keeping up with everything is hard sometimes. I bet you’ve noticed.

The simple topic I’d been considering, on the heels of a visit to my elder son in D.C., was the oft-used term “old school” to describe anything that is done the way it used to be done (generally lacking in efficiency) instead of in the updated way. When my son asked me if I had my boarding pass ready before he took me to the airport, and I told him that I was planning on printing it out from one of those machines, he said, “So old school, Mom.” Fair enough. The night before, out at a restaurant with my college classmates, I’d gotten a reminder that menus are no longer expected because people can just use their phones to scan on that black and white design in the middle of the table.

I’d better get with the program all right, because I don’t want to be left behind.

Still, for me anyway, that same term of “old school” has recently taken on some new meaning.

After Commencement at Kenyon, our son showed us one of the classrooms, in the Modern Language building, where he’d spent many hours.

There was no Smart Board, just a regular old blackboard and a bunch of wooden desks in disarray. And a nice big open window to gaze through.

No doubt, students brought plenty of anxieties into this room; there was probably some boredom; maybe there were even sharp jabs of cruelty that happened, in one semester or another, amidst the moments of enlightenment.

But the experience of walking in here last weekend, of absorbing my son’s own memories of having been able to learn in relative tranquility and now getting the opportunity to walk out into the world as a healthy young man, is sticking with me.

Our schools, our supermarkets, our airplanes, our subways, our parks, all of our public places, even our Internet sites — they’ll be no good at all, whatever quality of new they bring, unless basic preservation of the common good, making way for the absence of fear and the possibility of thriving for people of all ages who want to see what they can do with their precious lives, is not the primary goal.