My daughter flew three times across the stage tonight, and it reminded me of my middle school “flying” incident.
My daughter and I arrived at the high school 25 minutes early. We parked and waited for the eighth-grade awards ceremony to begin. Neither one of us knew what awards would be given.
“It doesn’t matter, you know,” I said. “What matters is your education.”
Next week, she performs a solo in the song “Part of Your World” from The Little Mermaid, so I suggested she sing it in the car.
The air-conditioning on full blast, she cued up the karaoke version of the song on YouTube, and we sang loud enough to draw glances as people passed the car and walked toward the school.
We exited the car and headed into the school auditorium. Meredith sat in one of the front rows with the other student who would be receiving awards. She scanned the crowd for her friend as students’ parents and grandparents found seats.
The awkward, tall, skinny kid with a mop of curly brown hair plodded to the seat Meredith saved. Her friend was called to the stage to receive the Merit Award for earning all A’s and B’s this year.
Meredith’s name was called first for the Honor Roll, then the Principal’s Award. That meant she earned all A’s not only this year but all through middle school.
She beamed.
My mini me dressed in a Victorian-style black dress with a cutout across the thighs showing off her shiny black and silver tights as she made wide strides toward the podium. The back of her skirt trailed her like a flying carpet in tow. She pulled her hair into a ponytail with my green scrunchy. She didn’t wear a drop of makeup but had rosy lips and cheeks. You would have thought she wore bronze eye shadow and eyelash mascara.
Before the roughly 45-minute ceremony concluded, Meredith was again called to bounce across the stage, shaking hands and receiving praise.
“Woo!” I yelled each time her name resonated through the loudspeakers, even though the principal specifically asked the crowd to stay quiet.
I accepted that request as reasonable but defied it with a loophole of my creating: one short “Woo!” loud and sharp enough to pierce the millisecond break between names. That way, my voice wouldn’t smother another student’s name.
Meredith’s final time crossing the stage was in recognition of the President’s Award for Educational Excellence, a gold seal certificate signed by the United States secretary in charge of dismantling the Department of Education and the president bent on destroying education in America.
My daughter’s smile betrayed her desire to appear stoic. When she read the paper and saw the triangular spikes of the president’s signature, she asked whether we should burn the award.