(Sixteen Years) After Graduation

Zara blazer (similar)
Zara sweater (similar)
Aritzia culottes (similar)
Mango heels
Friday by JW Pei handbag (c/o)
Zara sunglasses (similar)
Bon Voyage hairclip via Lineage House
Keltie Leanne Designs ring (c/o) (similar)
Mango earrings
Location: The Ambassador Apartments – Winnipeg, Manitoba

Two of my cousins graduate from high school this week. They are half my age and, in my early thirties, it is admittedly hard to relate to the flurry of activity surrounding final exams, university applications and graduation ceremonies. I’ve lived through it all, of course, but it was half a lifetime ago now. But the truth, upon reflection, is possibly that I find it hard to relate to not just because I am so much older but because my own graduation was anything but a highlight in my life.

High school alternately bored and annoyed me. I spent most of my days counting the minutes until it would end. Literally. In eleventh grade, I forced myself to stop wearing a watch because I did nothing but look at it. Sometimes every minute.

At the time, I’m not sure anyone knew how much I hated school. I was allegedly academically gifted, which is to say I sat quietly and turned in my assignments on time. I achieved good marks. Maybe I really had a gift – I don’t think I learned much in those four years that I didn’t already know. Which didn’t help. I never joined a club if I could avoid it. I stuck to a small circle of friends whom I felt mostly indifferent towards, knowing full well I would stay in touch with only a select few when my four years were over. Whenever I could manage it, I avoided school assemblies, class events and activities intended to be “fun.” In class, I scribbled in my notebook, writing stories about places and people I wished I could be. I doubt I heard more than every third word any teacher spoke.

It was all because I really just didn’t want to be there – I’d heard about the real world, after all. Teachers and guidance counsellors were always telling us about it. Those were the moments when I listened. Who would want to stay in school when they could be out there? Sure, adults described it as challenging, because they had to; no matter how many times they said it, some people would still ultimately not get the message and be surprised that the world would not babysit them. But I was not one of them.

High school felt like four years of being held back from an adventure I couldn’t wait to start: my own life.

On the first day of twelfth grade, no less than three teachers stopped me in the hallway to ask, “Didn’t you graduate last year?” It felt like salt in my already stinging wounds. The last year was torture. (I’ve shared one aspect of why before, but believe me, that was just one item on my long list of complaints.)  One of my two true best friends – the two I still do talk to after all this time – was moving. My prospects for the long months leading up to graduation felt bleak. And they didn’t improve after that first day.

Upon reflection, I sometimes wonder if my years of high school might have been better if I’d just tried a bit harder to see the positives. But I know that they were few. My four years ended on a particularly low note when I contracted an especially virulent case of chicken pox about a week and a half before graduation. In that case, there was a plus side – I was excused from my writing my final exams. But that glimmer was dimmed somewhat by the fact that most of my chicken pox were on my face and I bore a striking resemblance to the Swamp Thing for our graduation party. C’est la vie. After all, it wasn’t the end of my life – it was just the beginning.

Sixteen years later, looking back, I know my four years of high school were a necessary rite of passage. It is our worst experiences that shape our character and help us to appreciate the best moments of our lives more profoundly. In some ways, I actually feel for anyone who enjoys high school too much. It might be difficult to fully embrace the life that begins after it if you’re dwelling on what you miss about those four years. I’ll never know – but it might be.

If I could do it all over, I’d probably still want those four years to end as quickly as possible.