Graduation is a big deal, no matter from where and no matter the circumstances that caused one to get there. As such, my friends at the Catholic school were pleased with themselves for their collective arrival in time at their graduations.
Andrew and Tom, my two best friends, who both went to the school together, invited me. Getting prepared, I remember, was an ordeal for them- part of their graduation was acting in whole as a choir for an evening service that preceded the actual graduating and the fineries of leaving behind a school, such as a diploma and a cordial handshake from the principal of the school.
Their graduation was on a Friday night, heralding the beginning of summer well. Needless to say, it being a Catholic graduation and me being Jewish, there was a certain puckish aura about my being there; both before and after many jokes were cracked about how I was going to get some vague security force called on me for my simple act of existence within the walls of the old, rigid chapel connected to the school (2 years later, these jokes would be repeated within a different group and in the context of a group tour through the Vatican).
On the outside, the chapel was simple- a turn-of-the-century Gothic building, built out of stone and stained glass. It stood within the middle of our neighborhood keeping vigil over nearby buildings. It was omnipresent; at every hour the ring of its bell could be heard over the typical city sounds of sirens, motorcycles, and occasional gunshots. It was a behemoth that towered over the rest of the neighborhood in much the same way as the school it was connected to towered over my friends’ lives.
The inside felt warm, like the enveloping arms of hallowed halls had rushed forward to receive you and and point you to a specific seat. The floor was faded, in some spots more than others, from the constant barrage of light that streamed through the stained-glass windows to form beautiful abstract geometric patterns on the floor like distorted angels. More important than any location, however, was the sight of my friends, the multifaceted, year-older-than-myself ladies and gentlemen that populated the front of the room with their suits and their graduatory paraphernalia (of which there was actually quite little, one of the running jokes was the school’s frugality and their unwillingness to buy gowns, let alone caps, for the graduating class).
As they entered, the chapel rang with the applause of peers and parents; relatives beamed widely as their little ones stepped up, momentarily steeling themselves against the harshness of singing in front of such a group, but then remembering that their practice was all going to pay off today, at this moment, and as a whole class they launched into song. What songs they sang, I can’t remember, no doubt due to my lack of Catholic upbringing, but what I remember clearly is the sheer joy of seeing the resplendence of my friends singing the praises to the communal Judeo-Christian lord (although their inclusion of the Messiah is a bit different than the Jewish tradition). After they sang, each of them were given diplomas for their hard work at the school for the past 9 years (kindergarten to 8th grade) and the ceremony was over, ending with an applause even greater than it started with. The pride emanating from the room was palpable.
Afterwards, the population of the church moved downstairs into a community space for a celebration in honor of those leaving the school behind to continue their learning elsewhere. Of course, what this meant to me was an opportunity to high-five my friends and tell them how great they sounded singing up there (true, of course- they really did sound great). I was beyond proud of them and beaming with it- smiles characterized the feeling of the party. I was introduced to the faces of many of the classmates I had heard about by name only, and many of us left to go out into the small parking lot/playground behind the school to meander and talk. A few hours later, only a few of us were left, still cordially chatting and sharing stories, me of my first year in middle school, them of their last year at their Catholic k-through-8 school. Laughs were shared among the group many times, and even as our numbers dwindled as people were commanded to talk to their relatives or to return home, our happiness grew (not because of these hiccups- the group just slowly became more and more comfortable with each other and jokes became the shared language which we all shared that night). I became friends that night with many people- Zeke, who I had seen a few times before but never really spoken to, Kristine, who would go on to be a great friend of mine who I still keep in touch with, and Mitchel, who didn’t go to the school either but was a good friend of Andrew’s.
The night had that glimmer of shared elation- I think most of it came from Andrew et al.’s relief to be done with some of the draconian conditions of the school. They had now left behind their trials and tribulations at the institution and were more than happy to be done with it. They were not only satisfied with themselves for having made it through, but happy for each other that none of them had been ‘lost’ to the rigors of the school.
As the sun slowly set on our circle of congratulatory relief, we decided to walk around the neighborhood, led by Tom. His almost-drunkardly stagger that came about him naturally after the hours of 8:00 pm guided us through the area, and all of a sudden, he began to sing. Nothing he had already sung, nor in a similar voice- in a grating, harsh voice that was half-scream, he began to sing a song that we had sung many times that year. He started softly- “the roof, the roof, the roof is on fire,” he sang, and when we heard him we all smiled, a grin with a little bit of early-teenage capriciousness in it, and joined in on the second line. “The roof, the roof, the roof is on fire,” we chorused, echoing his half-scream to fully encompass the street and share our joy with them. “WE DON’T NEED NO WATER LET THE MOTHERF*CKER BURN,” our 7th and 8th grade selves yelled, too wrapped up in our own exhilaration with the moment to care about the ramifications of yelling “motherf'r” in our local streets, and then to echo it again, “BURN MOTHERF*CKER, BURN.”
We traversed the neighborhood this way, eventually ending up back at Tom’s abode to sit down and enjoy ourselves some more with laughter and Coca-Cola. At least until his parents came home and asked us what we had been doing and if that was us they heard yelling.