Hopes, memories persist long after ceremonies end

In my time, we did not have graduation ceremonies for pre-kindergarten, kindergarten or grade school. There may have been cookies and juice before we went to high school after Grade 8, but we were never gowned, portraited and diploma-ed. I vaguely remember a white poplin dress with a yellow bow somewhere along the way, but it is an image that drifts in and out of focus with a context I can’t verify.

I must have had some ceremony at the end of high school, but as a misfit, plump and bewildered, high school was no picnic and I have brushed away the particulars.

I did not attend my undergraduate university ceremony as I was readying myself for a May wedding my mother was not pleased to design. When I received my doctorate, years later, I had two boys and a husband who understood every one of my misgivings about whether or not I could succeed.

During that last graduation, I opened the manila envelope given to me as I walked across the stage only to find a rather severe notice stating I would not be degreed unless I returned outstanding library books.

This past June, by way of contrast, I attended my grandson’s kindergarten celebration in the school gym with an array of exquisite little people, each unique, each unforgettable in terms of the energy expressed and the quality of their engagement with the morning ritual.

My grandson, abashed and overwhelmed, sat with his classmates and received his certificate. The children sang in Hebrew and in English. During the last number, squeezed between two classmates, he receded into the background to form his own second row. He didn’t mind. At least, I felt he didn’t mind because performing in front of a room full of strangers, for the most part, was not easy.

I observed a range of behaviours. Some children delighted in their front-row experience. Some gave form to every word and gesture as instructed by their teachers. Some gazed at objects of interest elsewhere. Some jostled.

I watched and created stories of a future for each one given how they received the occasion. Hypothetical, grounded only in the moment and my feeling for the inclinations each seemed to express.

And in the midst of my story-making, I reflected on rites of passage. In my own third act, I recognize that I might not be here for my grandson’s future graduations. That possibility does not sadden me, however, because I have been granted time enough to watch him become a five-year-old and there are many grandparents who never or but briefly meet their grandchildren.

My husband did not know this grandson. He did not become his in-person Zaida, though he abides, as we speak of him often and this little one carries his name.

I look around the school gym. We, the grandparents lucky enough to be able to participate, bring an eagerness, attentiveness and joyfulness barely contained. We understand that time will pass without us. We yield to the intensity parents and guardians of the children graduating encounter, for we remember the way we hoped for the best in our children’s lives, grappled with the profound responsibility thus gifted, remaining almost certain we would live to see that best find future expression.

I know with certainty that I will not. There will be some kind of end-of-life ritual my children will prepare according to my directive, modified perhaps by their own wishes. They will remember that I accompanied every ceremony that distinguished their lives — a wedding, a graduation or a grandchild’s birth. They will remember the relationships I had with their children.

They will remember, one day, as grandparents themselves perhaps, what it was like to be young in the presence of their children’s early years milestones. They will look around at the other grandparents, as eager, attentive and joyful.

As I imagine this trajectory in a world full of difficulty and uncertainty, I keep faith with such possibilities and, in doing so, I find I am aware of the world going on without me. I don’t know if there will be school gyms. I don’t know if children will be attired in gowns or with crowns, but I will be “attending” future rites of passage as legacy.

Interestingly, during my grandson’s ceremony, his sister reminded me that the pandemic prevented her own kindergarten graduation from taking place. She will have one when she completes Grade 6 and I hope school staff doubles up in some way to acknowledge that she missed out on the first one. I hope, as well, I will be there, bundled into the company of families and friends, guardians and grandparents proud of the milestone they helped create.

Such hopes, the crowning achievements abiding in memory and undaunted love, persist long after we do.

arts@winnipegfreepress.com

Winnipeg writer Deborah Schnitzer explores life lessons from women in their Third Act.