Waiting for Philip

It’s hot. It’s frigging hot. As the glaring sun spilled its rays across my left cheek, I raised my arm in a futile gesture to–if only briefly–shadow myself from the cruel light. The benches were pre-heated to an uncomfortable level, enough to warm my buttocks as I waited for the tall robed figures to come filing out in an alternating succession of green and yellow to receive a special piece of paper called the High School Diploma. Behind me, I hear an excited chatter and make out a few key words, “make lots of noise……he he…take this…it’s called a blow horn…wait for Philip…”. Note to self: Potential noise detonation at 6 o’clock. Activation key: Philip.

After all the green & yellow robes seated themselves, the ceremony proceeded to the most important segment of the afternoon: speeches. The high school graduation is the spawning pool for the most predictable of cliches. It is the place where the most tired and hackneyed kind of cliches come parading out of the closet like retired Veterans, displaying themselves with the kind of glitz and glamor known to exist only in other areas of triteness like the typical personal statement. Unfortunately, that is the way graduations work–there is simply no way to escape the fate of being bromidic. Like all ceremonial events, the graduation exists with a template, without which would leave the ceremony feeling improper, incomplete, and strange. No matter how clever one gets with the delivery of content or how distant one wishes to portray oneself as unwilling to ‘impart wisdom but will attempt to’, this template remains stalwart and lingers like an annoying little brother who will make sure that the speech is a masterpiece of overused wisdom.

“We could someday be a President, a CEO, or painter…”, “Life is like…”, “Successfully confront future…”, “do great things…”. Yes, I’ve also heard these at my own graduation. To be fair, although the speeches were fraught with collections of expected stock phrases, they had a certain magical aura around them that made them unique during the occasion. There was a feeling there beyond the reach of words, the same kind of feeling that one gets from visiting a country abroad in comparison to simply learning about the country on the Discovery channel. As I listened to the speeches, my analytic mind flashed red and screamed at the cleverly disguised torrent of cliches; my gut, on the other hand, told my mind to chill out and feel. So, reluctantly, I detached myself and tried to feel.

But i was a step too late: the speeches ran out and now came the final march. This was when, once again, I began to hear the anxious noises behind me. With a blow horn in each hand, the young students behind me were cocked and ready for Philip. I was too.

One after another, the names were being called off. Some were long, others were short; some were funny, others were outright hilarious (no offense). But with each name, I felt the excitement of counting down to an unknown integer that could explode into a frenetic chain of high pitch honks the moment the announcer hits the land mine that is Philip. Time went by, one graduate at a time. There were explosions elsewhere in the crowd all throughout as different tribes of supporters broke into hysteric cacophonies when other names were detonated. One name-call in particular (whose name I forgot) had taken ‘explosion’ to a literal level:fireworks were lit the backfield (illegally) so that 30 seconds worth of glittering firepower were successively shot, cracked and split into stars on the sky. Beautiful as it was, I have to admit it was overkill.

“Phil–HOOOOOOOOOONNNNNNNKKKK!–ip”. A few more spurts of honking later, it was over. The excitement I had built up throughout the entire graduation ceremony waiting for Philip amounted to nothing. I expected a shake-up, maybe even a good rush of adrenaline, but I didn’t even so much as flinch or feel any pressure on my ear drums. I felt cheated. But then again, maybe I expected too much from the 6 sets of blow horns behind me, just as I was expecting too much from the experience of coming back to a High School graduation. The whole time, as I watched the procession, listened to the speeches and waited for Philip, I was busy searching for something. Was it a dose of trite wisdom, perhaps, to smooth out an episode in the past? Or was it a cathartic sense of nostalgia to wash away some stains of regret? Maybe it was a missing puzzle I sought to fill a gap called “if only”? Either way, I waited for the Philip moment that will rouse me to great emotion and change my life, only to be disappointed.

As the sun began to set behind the palm tree, casting a soft orange glow on the last students called forward to receive their diplomas, I heard a click and–Gary–HOOOOOOOOOOOOONNNNNNNNKKKKK! I shook.