Twelfth Year.

It’s been twelve years since I had a proper cap-and-gown shake-and-take graduation. I got out of kindergarten at Some NUS Hall which has probably been renamed 900 times by now, and got out of high school yesterday at DAR Constitution Hall. Both lovely, lovely venues to be graduating from.

An area high school had Colin Powell as their speaker (yes, *that* Colin Powell). Last year their cross-town rival had then-Sen. Hillary Clinton. We had -uh- some Army guy whom Powell outranks by a factor of 1000. (on a separate note, my future university – touch wood – had some motivational speaker this year. UC Merced had Michelle Obama. The trend continues.)

That’s not really the point, though. What really stood out was that the graduates were the people who entered last and exited first. The graduates, not the Principal or the Guest-of-Honour or whatever. It is because of our work that this ceremony is occurring and we are therefore, rightfully, the focus of attention. Which is the whole point of graduation anyway. To celebrate our success, not the success of some wizened old guy, even if we do have to properly introduce his credentials despite a double major in Something and the mouthful ‘Interdisciplinary Liberal Arts with a Concentration in Something Else’.

None of my American friends will understand where I’m coming from (thousands of events where, despite the expressed purpose of celebrating someone else, Important People saunter in later). All of my non-American friends will say I’ve OD’d on Western arrogance. I think a first-hand experience is necessary.

graduación

Graduation on Tuesday; rehearsals for the past couple days. Process, shake-and-take, recess. Easy enough. We don’t get our diplomas until after the whole thing, officially “to prevent mix-ups” and in reality to keep us from trying anything ‘funny’ during the thing itself as they have the diplomas over our head. It’s held in a National Historic Landmark which is pretty nice, although the guys have been complaining about the D in DAR since they were enlightened to what the acronym stood for. At least they didn’t go for CAR.

The cap is a one-size-fits-nobody. If anyone is in need of a popularity boost, I think bringing spare hairpins will be a good idea. Robes are ridiculously billowy on everybody though they’re already of decent lengths so no oversized t-shirts or evening gowns for those of us who are not of the prescribed height.

Awards ceremony was on Friday. It was the third time to listen to the exact same speech by the Principal etc. Highlights include people nearly tripping on their way up on stage and others arguing with Extended Essay Advisers over whether hugs were appropriate post-receipt of the IB Medal for Diploma people (Answer: technically not, but all the girls and half the guys initiated hugs anyway and the teachers couldn’t very well retreat into a Japanese Bow). If you want a Departmental Award, take a class with the Department Chair (he may make you out to be a mad scientist though).

Two more days and I’m out of here. I’m actually feeling kind of sad. Oh well.

Back from California.

The NorCal girls introduced me to frozen yoghurt, which is possibly the best iced concoction ever. Why do they not have such stores here? It’d sell well (at the very least, I’d go very frequently). Wendy’s Frosties pale in comparison. I had three servings in as many days and it’s SO GOOD. One such trip was taken at 11p.m. with three other people to a place recommended by my counsellor, even though none of us had the vaguest idea where it was and we ended up jaywalking and asking somebody on the streets for the directions – I can’t even begin to list the gazillion UCPD guidelines we must have broken. To be fair we walked with a guy (who “would be the first one running if anything happened”) but that was some good yoghurt.

I think it’s a Californian conspiracy to put *something* in their froyo which gets all of us OOS kids hooked up on it.

I’ll skip over all the other stuff except to say that it was great fun and that the new metal detection thing at SFO is ridiculous. Even more ridiculous than having to take off your shoes.

Last day of real school tomorrow =D

of Traditional Retailers

I went to Borders to pick up reading for the six-hour flight to California, and was promptly reminded of why I have long steered clear of cashiers in favour of self-checkout stations and Amazon.com for my shopping needs.

The book in question is David Foster Wallace’s Infinite Jest (I love his style. Genius.). It is 1106 pages long and rather heavy.
Cashier: Is this for you?
Me: Yes. (thanks for offering to wrap it, though)
Cashier: Oh. [looks at me] So you’re going to read this.
Me: I suppose. (why? I realise it’s thick, but it’s DFW! He’s a legend.)
Cashier: Are you aware that he recently killed himself?
Me: Yeah, hanged himself. It was unfortunate. (dramatic sigh) Why do you ask? Any bookstore myths about reading works by recently-suicided authors?
Cashier: No, I just thought you might get creeped out by it or something.
Me: Nah, I’m good. Thanks though.

That was a bizarre conversation especially considering it has been nearly nine months said suicide. I don’t think I look young, and certainly not that young I shouldn’t be reading the works of a dead person, however they may have died. I’m sure I won’t get any such looks when I try to get Ernest Hemingway or Virginia Woolf. My third grade teacher encouraged me to read Anne Frank’s diary and goodness knows she died the most horrible death of them all.

And at any rate, Borders – on the brink of bankruptcy – should be encouraging people to buy books, not warning them off it.