The Graduate

No one tugged at him touting the eternal optimism of plastics. No one crushed a wad of money into his hands. There were also no cap, no gown, and no car for college.

But there was plenty of pomp and circumstance as Miguel graduated yesterday from the fifth grade.

Heads bowed in either reverence or fear, Miguel and Sam Afsharipour led seventy-one Dixie School graduates into the school’s multipurpose room as they concluded elementary school on a partly sunny morning.

Parents craned with digital cameras clicking and digital video recorders quietly whirring. Tears welled in parents and grandparents’ eyes, older siblings shifted restlessly, and Maya flitted between Verna and me.

“Why did I ever listen to you?” Verna asked me. “This is the last time we sit in the middle of the row. Next time we’re taking the aisle seats,” in order to make a quick getaway with Maya, who laughed loudly, narrated a running commentary of the ceremony, and informed everyone in several rows that she was hungry.

Miguel later said, “I didn’t hear her at all.”

Thanks goodness, for we didn’t want to ruin the festivities for him or anyone else. Even though the idea of a fifth grade graduation seems superfluous, the giggling energy generated by Miguel and his classmates and their utter devotion to the school and each other deserved some type of closing ritual, I guess.

I mean have we blown things wholly out of proportion with how we celebrate youth? There are now preschool graduations, fifth grade graduations (before students enter middle school), 8th grade graduations prior to high school, high school graduations, and ceremonies to mark the ends of college and grad school.

What’s next: ceremonies to celebrate spelling acumen, physical prowess, or the ability to share? Do we trivialize childhood accomplishments by having a plethora of ceremonies? Is this like having sports moments co-opted by corporate sponsors, reducing them to overt silliness? “And now our Tostito’s crunchy halftime report” or “Welcome to the Acme Axel Grease game time summary.”

I can just see it now: the principal stands at the front of the auditorium and intones, “Today, before parents, grandparents, aunts, uncles, cousins, second cousins, former neighbors, letter carriers, babysitters, nannies, mother’s helpers, and the weird guy who always sits on the park bench, we celebrate the first grade because now all of them, except for Billy Smith, are able to read, though we do question some of the racier material Missy Davis brought into ‘Show and Tell’.”

But amid all my cynicism, I was elated and proud. Miguel spent only one year at Dixie, having switched over after five years at a Waldorf-inspired school in Mill Valley. The transition academically was difficult at first, but Miguel buckled down from the beginning and was able to do quite well. He had absolutely no problem acclimating himself socially, in part because he went from a class with three boys total to one with 15. He was in sports and games heaven at Dixie.

The ceremony was very sweet. Several students shared memories of each grade level at Dixie; there was slide show, which Miguel introduced; and all the fifth graders sang “Shooting Star”, about ending one phase of life and moving into another.

Verna and I shed tears of joy and sadness—joy for Miguel and sadness that Verna’s mother was not alive to share with us. But her father was there, and that was great.

After a brief reception, Miguel and I walked back to his room to hug his teacher and collect his report card. On the way back to the car, Verna said, “Miguel, where do you want to go for lunch?”

“Pasta Pomodoro,” he said.

Once we settled down and got our drinks, Verna lifted her glass and said, “Let’s have a toast to Miguel the graduate.”

We clinked glasses and tapped plastic cups, but Miguel looked over at Verna and said, “Mom, it’s only fifth grade.”

And now for some appropriate perspective from someone who gets it: thank you, Miguel, thank you very much. The celebration continues.

Randomly Yours

Random musings before a holiday weekend:

Bay to Breakers

I lined up with more than 50,000 other runners, walkers, drinkers, revelers, and assorted non-conformists last Sunday morning as temperatures soared near 90 at eight in the morning. I was with Verna’s brother, Marty, who’d trained for about three months for the 7.46 mile race, but is quite fit.

The Bay to Breakers is basically San Francisco’s version of Mardi Gras: you have costumed people clad in various stages of dress and un-dress and copious amounts of alcohol. Soul-pulsating music reverberates through speakers at different points along the course. No theme from Rocky, but plenty of foot-thumping music to make you shake your booty and run faster.

My goal was pretty simple: stay with Marty. We last ran together three years ago and he beat me by a few minutes. I have no problem losing, but Marty is a casual runner at best (although he is a better athlete by a long shot), so I hate getting whipped by similar runners when I’ve pounded the pavement for more than 30 years and finished four Boston Marathons.

“Oh, it’s going to be great,” said my father-in-law, Martin, as we walked to his car so he could drive us cross-town to the start. He lives two blocks from the Pacific Ocean, so the breezes there were misleading. “The temperature is going to be fine.”

However, the heat of the day made the initial miles of the race, when the course was clogged and we were chugging along at nothing more than a somnambulant trot, feel easily like the inside of a health club sauna. I was almost dizzy.

Marty and I ran together for about 100 yards. Then I had him in my sights for another mile, maybe, before relenting as an inner voice said, “Let him go. Preserve yourself and run slower. It’s hotter than hell.” Translation: OK, I am a wimp.

[Speaking of really hotter than hell: our neighbor Tony, 31 and nationally ranked at the club level in doubles tennis, ran a 50-mile race the day before Bay to Breakers in Bishop, CA, outside Sacramento, where the temps neared 100. He finished in under 12 hours. As his wife said, "The man's a freak."]

City officials and race organizers supposedly cracked down this year on alcohol and public nudity in an effort to curb highly inebriated people trashing the city and urinating in public. But I passed several people who were naked and several more who shouldn’t ever be sans clothing in public or private.

“There goes one who is uncircumcised,” I said at the end of the race as Marty and I watched finishers with Martin, my niece and nephew, and my other brother-in-law, Jim.

Marty pulled a calf muscle a half-mile from the finish but still managed to best me by ten minutes. He was limping badly, so I rationalized my performance by saying, inwardly, “I may be slower, but at least I’ll be able to run tomorrow.”

I wonder if I will ever push myself to the brink and embrace more than minor discomfort in order to succeed in a physical effort. I knew running under an hour, as I did seven years ago, was probably out of the question for me, but keeping pace with Marty should not have seemed impossible.

Oh well. But as someone once said, “The race does not always go to the swift, but to the ones who keep running.”

Teacher-Teacher

I subbed at Miguel’s school last Tuesday. And while I didn’t sub for his home room, I was the teacher for Ms. Naughton, who teaches Miguel’s class science on Tuesday afternoons.

“Miguel, you have to call me Mr. Friedman. Not Dad. Not Steve. But Mr. Friedman.”

He just nodded.

Sub Day started off quite easily. I walked into the classroom just before 7:50 and got myself organized, looking over the sub plan and breathing in the classroom. The students arrived at 8:05 and worked independently until 8:30. Then they went to PE until 9:20, which was followed by DARE (drug and alcohol education) and led by Deputy Hughes until 10:05. Then they had recess until 10:25, the first ten minutes of which I supervised. After recess, they finished up DARE until 10:45.

So I didn’t start teaching until 10:50, and that lesson was on narrative writing. After I did a five minute intro, they worked on their writing projects until 11:35, followed by group and self-directed math work until lunch at 12:05.

Miguel’s class was the first one I saw after lunch at 12:55. It was a science lesson, the differences between physical and chemical changes. Miguel raised his hand three times to ask thoughtful questions. Each time I waited to hear those magical words, “Mr. Friedman…”

But, alas, he did not address me as Mr. Friedman. Or Dad. Or Steve. Or anything. He merely posed his query, which I guess is better than some of the monikers kids have for their parents and teachers.

Last night at Open House, one of the 5th grade parents corralled me in Miguel’s classroom. “I heard there was some exciting news at Dixie.”

I figured another teacher was pregnant or getting married or there was some other gossip she was going to share. I waited. “Miguel’s dad was the substitute on Tuesday,” she said with a sly grin.

Ms. Naughton reported that the kids thought I was cool. “I only wish I’d asked you to sub in September,” she said.

As Verna and I trailed Maya (Miguel was already far ahead) last night on the way to the multi-purpose room and all the art projects, a fifth grader from Ms. Naughton’s class huddled against her mom greeted me: “Hi, Mr. Friedman,” she said, smiling.

At least one kid got it right!

Right On!

I won't go into the details of Miguel's Little League game tonight; OK, just a little: his team won, 11-4, he lofted a single into center-rightfield and also scored a run. But much more importantly was what happened after the game: the opposing team basically attacked our players with two coolers filled with water balloons. Fortunately, one of our team parents planned ahead so Miguel's squad was suitably armed.

As soon as the game ended, players rushed towards each other and started lobbing, tossing, firing, and pelting each other with water balloons.

It was awesome.

One kid said as soon as the fight ended: "That was the greatest water balloon fight I've ever been in."

Coaches from the opposing dugout lobbed balloons across the field at players, coaches, and the few parents (including me) stupid, er, daring enough to get near the battle arena. I was helping Miguel and his teammates reload balloons when I'd hear another parent yell, "Incoming," and then it was whoosh and water splashed on my pants or shoes.

Whatever enmity or tension that had built up during the game (if at all) quickly dissipated as players from both teams instantly turned into giggling ten, eleven and twelve-year olds having a summer-like fun with water balloons and ice cream.

Sometimes it takes someone trying to peg you with water balloons, as you bolt across the outfield screaming, to remind you the sports are just games to be contested and enjoy. And afterwards, a good old fashioned free-for-all never hurt anyone.