Tucker just graduated from high school. I’m more than a little verklempt.
I wasn’t prepared for the roller coaster of emotions I’d experience watching him go through these last four years, in particular this one. “Home schooled" his Junior year (thanks Covid!) he was lucky to finish this Senior year at Carnegie Vanguard.
Although I spent a great deal of my Senior year cutting classes, I can appreciate the ceremonies surrounding this rite of passage. No surprise, I’ve been reflecting on my high school years, prom, graduation and the wise and unwise, good and bad, unguarded choices I made right after and through the years, all culminating into the person you now see (or hear as the case may be) before you.
When a freshman in high school, my family unexpectedly moved from Wantagh to Houston. It was a life altering event for me. Gone was the comfort of lifelong friends, the only home I’d ever known, summer days spent at Jones Beach, riding bikes in the woods, capturing lightning bugs, playing kickball in the street and feeling secure in the tumultuous family life we sometimes had, living in our “idyllic Long Island village”.
It wasn’t perfect, but it was home.
I was still a tomboy, but close to leaving that childhood behind. Houston with its freeways, barren landscape, unfriendly cliques, “kickers” and jocks was a complete shock to my system. I was mocked for my thick New York accent and unique way of dressing ("What kind of weird clothes are you wearing? They're called culottes and clogs, you nitwit! Don't you wear these in Texas?") It’s a completely different city now, but back then my school bus riding peers would scream, “Go home, Yankee!”
It was during this disaffected time that I met a handful of friends (in the high school vernacular of the time, “hippies”) that included tall, lanky, Houston born and bred, Gary. His long dark curly hair belied his wardrobe of cowboy boots and well-worn Stetsons. His pot smoking ways conflicted with a serious chess interest. His library of science and science fiction tomes clashed with the 1969 “red rocket” Chevy van he drove.
He was smitten and I was intrigued. It seemed natural to us to eventually consummate our love (one month shy of my “sweet 16” birthday). The day after I was no longer a virgin, it snowed 2 inches in Houston. Snow in Texas is rare. Other memorable occurrences of this weather wonder were the first true “White Christmas” Eve 2004 (Tucker’s first birthday) and the city’s incongruent “Winter Storm” of ice, sleet and 4” of snow on my birthday last year.
Reflecting on my high school years with Gary brings a quixotic comparison to Tucker’s high school years. He’s a Gen Z, I’m a Boomer. He’s had a stable upbringing, mine was chaotic. He’s had supervision, I had very little. He has many friends online. Mine were all in the flesh. He is connected. I was disconnected. I'm cool with him living at home post high school. My mother packed my bags and told me it was time to leave.
It’s not to say Tucker hasn’t been touched by trials and tribulations: parents' divorce, a senseless murder of a good friend, the pandemic, the suicide of his young cousin, years of financial sacrifice as Gary and I build our house, being uprooted, attending an extremely academically driven high school and now a recession.
But where I ran wild, Tucker has taken to religious study. I left my catholic upbringing behind to find life in the fast lane. Tucker, with no formal religious upbringing, is seeking a more moral, chaste existence.
I noticed for the first time Tucker becoming anxious this (senior) year. I get it. Big changes ahead. He began studying “Hebrew Roots”. He borrowed a blanket I bought in Juarez, Mexico. He attached Tzitzits (Hebrew “"fringes") to the four corners of this modified tallit (Jewish prayer shawl) as a reminder of God’s commandments. Where I was reaching for a bong in my senior year, Tucker is reaching for spiritual answers. Don’t get me wrong, I contemplated my spiritual existence and purpose in life during high school, I just didn’t have the confidence of a safety net to catch me when I fucked up. For much of my life, I've been in free fall.
As I watched Tucker walk to school one day wrapped in this “Tallit”, I realized it was a security blanket – a way to help him feel calm, safe and protected in this big, scary world. Just as I was comfortable dressing in my weird clogs and culottes, Tucker didn't care about looking and being different in high school. He was confident and didn't care what others would say or think. Maybe the world would be a better place if we'd all let our guard down and not be afraid to show we're afraid, unsure or feeling small.
He enjoyed the same senior celebrations that Gary and I did together: parties, prom, graduation, celebrations. All three of us have lived to the beat of our own drum. The difference is Gary and I lacked true self-confidence, had little parental guidance and made many poor, uninformed decisions leading to unhealthy relationships and treacherous consequences in our youth.
As Tucker greets an uncertain future, I ruminate about a spent past. I know my parents did the best they could and I have made peace with that and with them when they were still around. I forgive my unaware, too much in a hurry, too rebellious with too little self-love younger self. Unlike Tucker, I didn’t have the emotional wherewithal or adult support to wrap a blanket around myself, offering some protection from the big scary world that awaited me.
Gary and I broke up several years after graduation. Thirty-five years later, a mournful event serendipitously brought us back together. We ignored the quiescent romantic yearnings, until we didn’t – eventually divorcing our spouses of two decades. We’ve been together now for almost 10 years.
Some people assume we wanted to relive, rekindle our youthful romance. In all honesty, our teenage sexual fumblings don't compare to what we experience now (yeah, despite being a couple of Boomers). For me, I have finally found the security blanket I so desperately needed when I was Tucker’s age. I didn't know it then, but it was Gary all along.
In a throwback to my Zen Buddhist studies as a teen, I gave Tucker a beautiful vintage 1960’s silk kimono for graduation. He looks regal and right when wearing it. I believe there is still quite a bit of a spiritual journey in his future.
I may not be the perfect teacher for Tucker, but pray he finds many throughout his life. I may not be the perfect example of how to live one’s life, but I wake up with the desire to do my best. I may be guilty of crimes and misdemeanors but strive to do right. I may have regrets of the past but offer solace to my younger self.
In high school, I was transported by Kahlil Gibran’s “The Prophet”. I read this from the eyes of a child. Many, many years before becoming a mother, his prescient words spoke strongly to me. Forty-seven years later they still speak to me, as I watch Tucker embark on his new life’s adventure, leaving me behind:
And a woman who held a babe against her bosom said "Speak to us of children"
Your children are not your children
They are the sons and daughters of life's longing for itself
They come through you but not from you. And though they are with you yet they belong not to you
You may give them your love but not your thoughts. For they have their own thoughts
You may house their bodies but not their souls. For their souls dwell in the house of tomorrow
Which you cannot visit, not even in your dreams
You may strive to be like them. But seek not to make them like you
For life goes not backward, nor tarries with yesterday
You are the bows from which your children as living arrows are sent forth
The archer sees the mark upon the path of the infinite. And he bends you with his might
That his arrows may go swift and far
Let your bending in the archer's hand be for gladness
For even as he loves the arrow that flies So he loves also the bow that is stable
(Photographs from the collection of the author, unless otherwise noted)
Tucker's beautiful kimono was purchased from Kimono Zulu (Vintage Kimonos Reimagined & led by Tina Zulu)