COVID Class of 2020
Elizabeth Searle
Out on a masked bike ride, in a sunny break on the cloudy first Sunday of June, I accidentally ‘crashed’ the car-parade graduation of Arlington High School class of 2020. Car horns blaring, a cavalcade of old sedans, new SUVs and other vehicles- painted with ‘Congrats, Trevor!” or ‘Go, AHS 2020’ or ‘Black Lives Matter’— rolled along Summer Street in Arlington, cheerfully blocking both auto and bike traffic. I halted at curbside to applaud.
Geared up in my old bike helmet and new Amazon-ordered biker mask, my trusty bike balanced precariously at my side, I joined the ragged rowdy cheering and waving of the pedestrians, friends and family- some dressed up, most dressed down; some masked like me; most not.
But no matter- we all raised our voices above the continuous horn honkings to cheer each car packed with teens, newly minted graduates poking their Billie Eilish hued heads out of sun roofs, or gazing more demurely from windows, or perched atop convertible back seats like Miss Americas, giving mock-regal waves. In a year with no prom, any girl can be Prom Queen.
At least that’s one good thing, I thought as I gamely waved back from my streetcorner. My heart has ached for our neighborhood COVID kids- lucky to be safely sheltered yet missing their chance to shine in sports or theater, to parade in their regalia across a proper stage.
To, as they say in graduation-speak, ‘walk.’
But at least here in Arlington, MA, our local high school class made the best of their Drive-By Diplomas, on wheels. Some wore the gowns; others chose ti-dyed beach-wear or glittery hats or all of the above. One boy appeared to be smoking an oversized joint which proved as his car drew closer to be a party noise-maker that he was blowing with all his might.
No, they weren’t ‘walking’ sedately to claim their diploma, but amidst the dire isolation of our pandemic times, they rolled forward with defiant strident horns and noisemakers blaring, loud and proud. I ratcheted up my shouts, remembering my brother’s 1970’s graduation in rural South Carolina.
Kids in the assembly-line ceremony expressed their individuality by either slipping or not slipping the hapless Principal a beer-can tab when they shook his hand. Visibly flustered, the Principal kept ‘discretely’ pocketing the tabs, to the bemused titters of the crowd- who’d been ordered to hold all applause till the end of the endless ceremony.
At a more recent and uplifting graduation, a few years/ages ago, I drove my son halfway across Massachusetts so we could crowd into a giant auditorium in the city of Worcester to witness a high school graduation featuring as its speaker the then-President of the United States, Barack Obama.
My son and I were so far back in the stadium-sized auditorium that when Obama at last entered the stage with surprising lack of fanfare, flanked by school and local dignitaries in dark suits, we could barely see the men’s individual faces. But it was clear which one was our President.
As I whispered to my son, “That’s him- the graceful one.’ I barely remember what Obama said in his deep resonant voice that day, but I will never forget the grace and down-to-earth dignity with which he carried himself and the warmth with which he- in that distant-seeming spring of 2014- bestowed upon each graduate who seemed to want it, some of them in tears, a Presidential hug.
What a sea-change today as I shouted myself hoarse among the curbside crowd amidst the hail of car horns, watching each covid-battered kid roll by, roll on. Maybe one thing I did miss in this rag-tag celebration was a Prayer and Convocation. So I composed a combo. in my mind as the kids waved at us with their beaming yet edgy smiles.
Forgive us, Covid-19 Class of 2020, for the sins we have visited upon this earth you inherit. For the heartless graceless tyrant we have somehow allowed to bring us so low. Please accept, with all its pain and privileges, your degree as graduates of high school and survivors, so far, of our plague year. Teach us, Covid-kids, how to cheer each other on, how to go on. Blast your horns, floor your gas, and lead us into ‘an end yet a beginning,’ Amen.
