Kathleen McCall:
Occasional�� Muse�

2001-12-21 - 11:39 a.m.

Ceremonies

My daughter's on the honor roll. She got her certificate today, in an assembly. I went.

She called me over and hugged and kissed me. She stood when called, proud and embarrassed, and accepted her certificate. She gave it to me to take home so it wouldn't get wrecked in her backpack.

I am so proud of my child that it hurts.

I listened to the principal speak, and the shifting of children in metal seats and the squeak of tennis shoes rubbed on the floor, and the sound of the rain on the high ceilings of the gym, where later there will be ropes to climb and basketball hoops lowered for play - but for then, for that moment, there was only pride and hope and determination. I remember. I remember.

I remember when to stand for your name was your biggest moment, when all things were possible, when you were smart and knew you were smart and they gave you certificates to prove it. When extra effort meant better results. When the goals were clear and the rewards came when expected, and when pride could nearly burst your chest, at least for those few minutes that were yours, all yours, in that gym.

It's funny that I choke up for my daughter at the honor roll ceremony. It's funny that I choke up for me.

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