By now, I should have the whole graduation thing down, after all, the third time should be the charm. My trip from Nahariya to Hod Hasharon was relatively uneventful. Evidently, practice does make for perfection. I had a twenty minute walk to the train station, then rode the train to just outside Haifa, transferred to a bus and rode to Hod Hasharon, probably about a 10 minute walk from campus.
Parents had volunteered to bring food to the reception following the event, so I headed toward a supermarket to pick up some salads, along with pita and gluten free options. Since my daughter is the one who has issues with gluten, I knew that I needed to make sure she had something with which to dip. So in addition to pita, I picked up some gluten free crackers , and corn cakes to go with the humus, eggplant salad, and potato salad.
Some of the parents had arranged to meet at an ice cream place before the ceremony began. We sat around and talked about the years gone past, what we or the school administration would have or should have done differently over the course of four years, especially when compared to other schools in Israel and boarding schools in the United States. There was no sense of real regret, just an evaluation of a program into which we and our children had invested four years.
One of the things that I realized was the differences in our journeys. Parents had different expectations of high school, of boarding school, of Israel. Those expectations were colored by our own high school experiences, the eras in which we had grown up, and where we had grown up.
Nostalgia was expressed for American high schools in the 1980’s, comparisons were made to contemporary high schools in the United States, dissatisfaction was expressed about one aspect or another of our kids’ experiences.
But those experiences were their experiences; these were their high school years. They have no other yardstick of experience with which to compare. I can’t say whether or not my daughter’s (or my son’s) high school experience was better or worse than my own. The time, the place, the expectations of society and of students is different. But the experience is authentically theirs.
Back at the campus, the students were finishing up their graduation assembly which was limited to students, teachers, and staff. Parents and students met in the classrooms, breaking the entire grade, Israeli and new immigrant, into their thirteen classes.
The students had their presentations about the past year and years. The teacher spoke. We shared videos from the parents. Students got to guess whose baby picture was whose and who knew their classmates best. Some awards were presented with certificates of achievement(Orli received one for best academic achievement over four years), some final words, a closing song and then high school was over.
Well, it was almost over. The next day, the day after graduation, they had their end of the year field trip and then they’d have to vacate the dorms by Friday morning. And then they’d have to make their way back in a week or ten days to get the school’s assistance in completing paperwork once they had the formal certificates of graduation. Classes are over, exams are over, paperwork continues with a life of its own.
This has made me think about my own high school years:: friendships, awkwardness, conflicts, part-time jobs, youth groups, class work, homework, and more. Some memories are clear, as if they happened but yesterday, others are a little more cloudy. I don’t really remember how to balance a chemical equation, but I do remember Dr. Swicker. I can’t tell you the formula for the volume of a pyramid, but I can remember who I was seated next to in geometry. I can remember Coach Moran’s technique of screaming at new drivers in Driver’s Ed or the feeling of dread of having to approach Brother Adrian to get permission to miss half a day of school for a youth group event.
My children won’t have these memories. They’ll have their own. Different generations, different places, different memories, but still united in that process of figuring out who you are and where you’re going. Theirs just comes with more paperwork.
My Journey to Israel: Connections and Disruptions 