Pomp and Circumstance.

When you graduate from high school, you get to buy these not-so-fancy gowns and caps. But tradition upholds we must pay, so our parents do, and we get to feel accomplished and special and finally free from our adolescent years. What fools we were then. Anyways, some of the more special students who tried harder than the rest were given special symbols to show this. They took the form of cords, colored according to the after school group or association the student was involved in for doing so well. Yellow for National Honors Society, White for something else. The Top Ten ranked students in the class received sashes. Et cetera.

I didn't earn any of these things. Surprise, surprise.

Neither did my friends, another shocker. We did not agree with a lot of things my particular high school stood for, exemplified and practiced (Oxford Hills Correctional Facility Comprehensive High School for all curious parties). So making a joke of the establishment at any point we could was a priority. Given the leeway of being a graduating senior and the expectation to pull "pranks," something had to be done.

Jealous of the over-achiever cords representing those with future yearly incomes practically double our own meager potentials, we decided to make ones of our own.

We went to the craft store, made some choice selections of yarn and twisted us up some cords. It was tricky getting tassels on the ends, it just looked like frayed yarn, but I felt the deeper metaphor of our frayed souls and selfs. Harshly snipped off by secondary education, and left trailing for us to pull and unravel. We eventually would tie our own knots. It's the strength and durability of those knots that truly measure a man's worth in this world. And the sweater knit from these strands of cotton or wool would be our final comfort with ourselves, and the paths we've chosen.

So it's Graduation. Hordes of parents in the bleachers. It's the local sports complex football field. Salutatorian speech. Valedictorian speech. Mosquitoes. Guest speaker: a refugee/author from a country far away. He tells us we have the right to rebel against our government, he did not in his country. He tells us to form unions. They're a great idea, he says. And that is all. My community is not impressed. It's a hot night in June.

Pomp and Circumstance. Line after line of Green and Gold clad graduates step in beat. My mother is crying.

I'm wear my Aviators. I have a mess of cords slung over my shoulders, some tied across my chest like an X, others, dangling down by my feet. One is red and black. My anarchist pride flipping off capitalism, our fucked up culture, and the founding ideas our country has contorted and convoluted. Another is blue and white. My free spirit, my rejection of the material success I've been taught to struggle all my life for. Another's yellow and another shade of yellow. They really didn't have a huge selection at the craft store. My thriftiness. My indifference. My self.

A math teacher with administrative power had approached me while we were bottlenecked before rowing off so he could step on my creativity and individuality. He asked me to take this ceremony a little seriously. He's a nice enough guy. I had nothing personal against him, so I abided to his wishes. I put my cords in my pockets. He told me to take off the sunglasses, but I said it was sunny, and he could not argue. Once he had left the scene, I put my cords back on.

I mean, yeah, respect and cordiality and etiquette and so on, but fuck you, math guy. I'm graduating, you're not. What's it to you if I embarrass myself? I don't respect my high school. I want to show it.

And I did. I took my diploma and shook my Principal's hand. He smiled, I smiled. Even the "hardass" Vice Principal smiled. Peace out, guys. See you never. It's been real, it's been fun, it just hasn't been real fun. I'm out.