The tradition at my daughter’s high-school is to have a number of seniors, elected by their classmates, give speeches at graduation. I found myself listening to the words of first one and then another of the six chosen graduates with a detachment and cynicism of, well, a 51-year-old man.
In my mind I put each of them in a box — the class clown, the good kid, the brainy self-important student — at first dismissing their remarks with the perspective of 30-plus years of post-high-school life.
It is easy to disregard my girl’s emotions at moments, seeing them through the filter of age. I remember the first time, a number of years ago, my older daughter ran to her room yelling, “This is the worst day of my life,” followed by an impressive door slam. I found it hard not to laugh because I saw clearly that, whatever awful, terrible thing had happened, it really wasn’t so bad and would be forgotten quickly.
What took me longer to realize was that, to her, at that moment, a six-year-old facing the slights of kindergarten peers or childhood disappointments, it really could have been the worst day of her life.
No matter how hard I try to hide it, at times I can be dismissive of my daughters’ feelings, writing them off to teenage drama or lack of sleep. Regardless of what words come out of my mouth, I’m sure I transmit this indifference in other ways, infuriating my kids and making them feel I’m not taking their emotions seriously.
It can be hard to reach back and remember what adolescent feelings were like, the intensity and passion, the immediacy and all-consuming nature of those times, without also now seeing the folly and recklessness that went along with them.
The graduation speakers were quite eloquent, each striving to communicate some essential feeling about high school, reflecting on the past four years. I tried to listen, not with the distance of age but with an openness to what they were trying to tell me and all the other parents.
Suddenly, their words became so moving as I heard them speak about the fun, the challenges, the joy, the fears, and the love they had experienced in high school, now facing the uncertainty and excitement of leaving this time and place.
Rather than looking at my daughter and her classmates through the lens of my own experience, judged by all the ensuing time, I really got a little piece of what life had been like for them, seeing through a tiny window the carousel of emotions, ideas, and relationships that consumed them these last four years.
I also realized that the only way to fully appreciate my daughter and all the varied experiences of her life is to hear her feelings, whether she is sharing them or hurling them at me.
They are hers — all hers — in their passion and pain and joy, and they are honest and wonderful.
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