Graduation

It was an uncomfortably humid day, and the air in the stadium was thick with the apprehension of an entire senior class. Sitting and perspiring under the blindingly bright stadium lights, all of us were patiently awaiting our impending independence. I still recall which seat I sat in so apprehensively. How I clinched my gown nervously between my fingers, and squeezed my eyes closed as if the crowd would dissipate into the darkness. Despite my self infflicted sensory deprivation, my ears remained attentive, honed in on Principal Woodrow’s monotone voice. We were awaiting his words as if he was God preparing to bestow the ten commandments upon mankind. There I sat, Row F, Seat 37, watching the few remaining grains of sand fall from my high school hourglass. It showcased the evidence of the past four years before my eyes. This sight partly poisoned me with regret of my actions, yet at the same time it was a sight that demanded gratitude from all who gazed in its direction, admiring the lessons I have learned. This was sign to me that my perseverance was due a reward.  It wasn't until I heard the name of the student to my left called, that my attention shifted away from the now transparent hour glass. The next name was spoken in a tone which did not give merit adequate to the caliber of his achievement, “Jimmy Alvarez,” (AKA the occupant of Row F, Seat 36.)
By this time, whatever falsely manifested confidence I managed to muster up in order to combat the stage fright, was now seeping out of my body like air in a balloon violently escaping the confines of its plastic prison. I watched as Jimmy approached the wall of handshakes and insincere, “It was a pleasure teaching you,”s. By now I knew, within a mere matter of seconds, the cynical puppeteer that is the American school system, would pluck at my strings one last time. They would orchestrate my coronation, as they had facilitated my drafting into their mindless militia as a pawn for them to sacrifice four years ago. I would be escorted to where they would liberate me from my shackles, and reiterate the empty promise that after graduation our future was in our own hands.
The time to reap the spoils of 12 years of hard fought scholastic warfare was upon me. I shakily exhaled my final breath as a high school student, and unknowingly inhaled my first as a mass produced component shuffling down Uncle Sam’s assembly line. Almost as involuntarily as it was to rise from my seat after the bell, I rose in synchronization with the thunderous echo of my name being announced throughout the stadium.
After I first erected from my seat I was met with a sensation that nearly buckled my knees beneath me, which could have swiftly ended the ceremonial recognition of my entering society as a contributing member. The size of the audience seemed to multiply as the focal point of the ceremony fell on me and the cheers began to fade. My heart was racing, and the blood in my extremities retracted to my brain as a necessary countermeasure to the adrenaline crashing through my veins like catastrophic waves terrorizing the Atlantic. I fought off the crippling dizziness, which coupled with the deafening cheers of the crowd and the narrowing of my vision, began to inhibit my motor skills to the point of immobility for a few seconds.
Nevertheless, I approached Principal Woodrow, whom in one hand clutched what I have spent the majority of my present life working for, and his other hand extended in an obsequious congratulatory handshake. The same handshake he had bestowed upon the hundreds of students before me, and will continue to offer to all of those proceeding. From one disappointment to the next inadequate display of recognition, I politely embraced the barrage of acknowledgement, which the staff is mandated to shower over us. All of it seemed unsatisfactory in comparison to the decade and change I spent dedicated to that dreaded school system’s classrooms.
As payment for a painstaking 720, 8 hour days of high school, (Which is equivalent to $41,760 worth of labor valued at minimum wage), I received a piece of paper, which for a measly lifetime of debt, will grant me the ability to proceed on to a higher level of education. It’d be inappropriate of me to fail to mention the 14 handshakes and 2 hugs I received from previous instructors, who months before vocalized their opinions of how, “I would never amount to anything”, because I asked to go to the bathroom during their class.
As I made my way from the stage, I was approached by a student draped in cameras, backpacks, and press passes. The type who aspires to be a journalist for the “Times”, but is incapable of operating one of the three cameras strapped around his midsection. He asked me a question as unoriginal as I expected  from a student of his caliber, one generic to every graduation; “What message would you like to give to incoming freshman?”
  This question evoked some nostalgia of the four year journey, that just seconds ago I had completed. I thought back to what it was like walking into that corrupted kingdom for the first time. Similar to so many others at that age, I was enslaved by a curiosity that burned with such intensity, that even the most fiendish pyromaniac damned within the depths of hell would become entranced in an envious gaze. One that left fire itself gawking with childlike admiration. In fact, only the sun could outshine its blazing illuminance. However, as a boy amongst men, a gatherer amid hunters, a fish in the presence of sharks, these curious cravings would go unsatisfied. In hindsight, the fears that festered inside of me were a bit extreme for the circumstance. However, the intensity of every scenario is amplified in the innocent minds of the young. I glanced into the setting sun, cocked my head to the side ever so slightly, and spoke with genuine sincerity while fighting the urge to laugh, “May the odds be forever in your favor.”