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Wilson: A Different Kind of Graduation Gift
By Leslie Wilson, Contributing Columnist
As I wrote last week, my oldest son graduated from high school only a few days ago. Excitement (on his part) mixed with sorrow (on my husband’s part) as we dressed for the ceremony and made plans to dine out after the big event.
Charlie has gone to school with these same kids for twelve years. Actually, since a few of them attended our church’s preschool class, he’s known them longer than that. The point is, we’re invested in these kids’ lives. We care about their future plans; we want to see them experience great success and happiness.
As I thought about what present to get them to mark this milestone, laud this landmark, I settled on one thing that had been one of my favorite gifts when I graduated. Sure, I got the requisite Cross pen, monogrammed luggage, the much-needed—and appreciated—$25.00 check, but one of my most cherished gifts cost no money at all. Instead, it heralded my entrance to adulthood, signaled my crossing the threshold into maturity.
Imagine the practical challenge of that transition. Mr. Burden had been my 8th grade science teacher. How could I possibly go from calling him Mr. Burden, which connoted great respect and esteem, to casually referring to him as RayBob, as though were a peer, equal to me? I tried it on for size in private at first, letting the new and unfamiliar name roll off my tongue. Actually, after a few embarrassed tries it felt pretty natural.
So much so that I decided to try it out on some of the other couples at church who were really my parents’ friends, not mine.
Some acquiesced, seemingly OK with my awkward attempt toward maturity, my self-conscious stab at equality. Others were absolutely not having it! One couple, when I greeted them by their first names for the first time, was quick to correct me. “What do you mean, Don and Julie? That’s Mr. and Mrs. Jones to you.”
I decided to take the guesswork out of it for my son’s friends. After all, this bunch is now old enough to fight for our country’s freedom halfway around the world. They’ll soon head off to college, some hundreds of miles from home. They can drive, vote, sign a legal and binding contract, and buy cigarettes—thought I hope they won’t. Why shouldn’t they enjoy the privilege of addressing me—a fellow adult—by my first name?
As I’ve seen these young men, I’ve shared with them my graduation gift idea. A couple of them have looked at me as though I’ve lost my mind. (Or maybe it’s just disappointment that my present doesn’t end in several zeros.)
Then, just yesterday I sat at my computer catching up on e-mail. I heard the side door open and heard someone shout my name through the house, “Leslie?”
“I’m in my office,” I hollered back, swiveling, then pushing myself up and out of my chair. I didn’t recognize the voice—at least not as one that might call me by my first name.
I entered the living room and spied Ryan, one of my son’s closest friends, headed toward me, sporting a huge grin. “Hi, Leslie,” he said. Then he stopped abruptly. “Nope, can’t do it. I’ve known you since I was this big,” he gestured at his knees. “It just sounds too weird to call you Leslie. I think I’ll stick with Mrs. Wilson.” I told Ryan that was perfectly fine with me.
I truly understand what my dad means when he says of his children and grandchildren, “I don’t care what they call me, as long as they call.”
Contributing columnist, Leslie Wilson, is the co-author of A Scrapbook of Christmas Firsts. You may contact her at les5points@aol.com.
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