A man walked into an elementary school graduation ceremony. Up on the stage, his daughter, the class valedictorian, delivered the following speech, now paraphrased for clarity:
“Family, faculty, and friends both real and imaginary, welcome. Can you believe it? The moment has finally arrived. We’re graduating. Before our compulsory education, we were mere children; however, today, we’re still mere children, who happen to own diplomas. Indeed, much has changed. A short while ago, we knew nothing of the outside world, but now that world is our oyster, which we probably won’t eat, because its insides look like boogers. (Then again, we might be persuaded for extra TV time.) Without hyperbole, since none of us has learned that concept yet, these past five years have been nothing short of a roller coaster ride, one of the very few we were tall enough to board. We’ve grown as people, mostly biologically but also as reminders for our parents to use birth control, whatever that means. We’ve lived. We’ve loved. And we’ve finger-painted dinosaurs. Truly, this school has made us who we are: slightly older versions of the kids we were already. We would thank those responsible, but manners and etiquette weren’t part of our curriculum. Sharing was, though, so we’ll split the credit in half. High fives all around! Sadly, in the year to come, we’ll soon be leaving this place — our home away from home or daycare — and going to middle school, where we’ll learn sarcasm and how to fart with our armpits. It will be a time of great progress. But before we celebrate, let’s take a moment to remember those classmates who won’t be joining us in the coming adventure, namely the ones who moved away, got cooties, or couldn’t crack long division. May they never be forgotten, because we have yearbooks. So, with that being said, turn your tassels, Class of 2014, and raise your glasses of Welch’s grape juice. Congratulations! We did it!”
The man wiped a tear from his eye. “That’s my girl,” he said, whimpering uncontrollably.
© 2014 Tony Vicory.