‘We enter into a covenant that we shall build the society in which all South Africans, both black and white, will be able to walk tall, without any fear in their hearts, assured of their inalienable rights to human dignity—a rainbow nation at peace with itself and the world.’ ”
The crowd has grown silent; the dignity of Mandela’s words has compelled them to quiet and listen. John Liggins tells his graduating seniors, “All of you would do well to take the same pledge, to strive to build exactly the same society here in our country.
“There is, of course, a great deal more to say, and under normal conditions I would be saying it. Probably too much and too long.” There’s a ripple of laughter from the students. John Liggins is a very popular president. “But I made a promise,” he continues, “given the unseasonable heat, to cut my remarks short today.” There’s a scattering of applause, particularly from the graduates, and Liggins laughs and says, “I guess I made the right decision.”
And then he introduces the commencement speaker, some Los Angeles official—is he the mayor?—who begins his speech by assuring the audience that he will make no such concession to the weather. Standing at the podium, multiple white pages of his speech fluttering in the hot Santa Ana wind, this small, trim Latino man promises (threatens?) to give the whole speech and nothing but the whole speech. This is a once-in-a-lifetime moment for your graduates, he tells the parents, and what he has to say may well change their lives. A groan escapes from the audience, but he ignores it and begins talking…and talking…and talking. After forty minutes, with no end in sight, Ruth leans toward Eli, across the boys,“I’m going to faint. I’ve got to find some shade.”
Aaron gets up with her without being asked, to take her arm, to help her out of the amphitheater.
“You’re going to miss Isabelle,” Eli warns, but all Ruth does is wave her hand as she makes her way out of their row. He looks at the twins, Ethan and Noah, and shrugs. “Your mother can’t take the heat.”
“Neither can I,” Ethan shoots back, “but you don’t see me leaving.”
“You’re fifteen and she’s…well, a lot older.”
“Yeah, Dad, so what?”
Eli doesn’t have an answer to that. And Ruth and Aaron don’t come back. It is only Eli and the twins who see Isabelle walk across the stage, radiating happiness, take her diploma, and stride with purpose into the rest of her life.
—
AFTERWARD, AS THE FAMILIES AND GRADUATES mill about outside the arena, Eli finds Ruth sitting at a small table under a tree. Her sandals are off, her eyes are closed, and she’s fanning herself with the now very rumpled program. Aaron stands miserably by with three bottles of water in hand.
“Well, you missed her.”
“Eli, I had a throbbing headache. I was dizzy and nauseous. My heart was going a mile a minute. Do you know what those are symptoms of? They’re symptoms of heatstroke. Should I have stayed in my seat? Is that what you wanted, your wife dead at her daughter’s graduation?”
Eli considers this question. For a split second it sounds good to him, and then he says, “Of course not, but Ruth, we came all this way to see her graduate, and you missed the moment when—”
“How did I know it was going to be this hot? Is that my fault? You know I can’t stand the heat.”
And Isabelle, pushing through the knots of people, spots them. “Hey, Dad! Mom!” They watch her come to them, grinning, relieved, riding a bubble of celebration.
Eli embraces his daughter and whispers in her ear, “My beautiful college graduate,” and the boys mumble, “Congratulations.” Aaron manages an awkward arm around her shoulder, a halfhearted hug. And then Ruth and Isabelle are facing each other.
“It’s bloody hot.” Ruth doesn’t get up.
“Oh, I know. I’m so sorry, Mommy, I know how much you hate the heat.”
“I was sitting there and
The crowd has grown silent; the dignity of Mandela’s words has compelled them to quiet and listen. John Liggins tells his graduating seniors, “All of you would do well to take the same pledge, to strive to build exactly the same society here in our country.
“There is, of course, a great deal more to say, and under normal conditions I would be saying it. Probably too much and too long.” There’s a ripple of laughter from the students. John Liggins is a very popular president. “But I made a promise,” he continues, “given the unseasonable heat, to cut my remarks short today.” There’s a scattering of applause, particularly from the graduates, and Liggins laughs and says, “I guess I made the right decision.”
And then he introduces the commencement speaker, some Los Angeles official—is he the mayor?—who begins his speech by assuring the audience that he will make no such concession to the weather. Standing at the podium, multiple white pages of his speech fluttering in the hot Santa Ana wind, this small, trim Latino man promises (threatens?) to give the whole speech and nothing but the whole speech. This is a once-in-a-lifetime moment for your graduates, he tells the parents, and what he has to say may well change their lives. A groan escapes from the audience, but he ignores it and begins talking…and talking…and talking. After forty minutes, with no end in sight, Ruth leans toward Eli, across the boys,“I’m going to faint. I’ve got to find some shade.”
Aaron gets up with her without being asked, to take her arm, to help her out of the amphitheater.
“You’re going to miss Isabelle,” Eli warns, but all Ruth does is wave her hand as she makes her way out of their row. He looks at the twins, Ethan and Noah, and shrugs. “Your mother can’t take the heat.”
“Neither can I,” Ethan shoots back, “but you don’t see me leaving.”
“You’re fifteen and she’s…well, a lot older.”
“Yeah, Dad, so what?”
Eli doesn’t have an answer to that. And Ruth and Aaron don’t come back. It is only Eli and the twins who see Isabelle walk across the stage, radiating happiness, take her diploma, and stride with purpose into the rest of her life.
—
AFTERWARD, AS THE FAMILIES AND GRADUATES mill about outside the arena, Eli finds Ruth sitting at a small table under a tree. Her sandals are off, her eyes are closed, and she’s fanning herself with the now very rumpled program. Aaron stands miserably by with three bottles of water in hand.
“Well, you missed her.”
“Eli, I had a throbbing headache. I was dizzy and nauseous. My heart was going a mile a minute. Do you know what those are symptoms of? They’re symptoms of heatstroke. Should I have stayed in my seat? Is that what you wanted, your wife dead at her daughter’s graduation?”
Eli considers this question. For a split second it sounds good to him, and then he says, “Of course not, but Ruth, we came all this way to see her graduate, and you missed the moment when—”
“How did I know it was going to be this hot? Is that my fault? You know I can’t stand the heat.”
And Isabelle, pushing through the knots of people, spots them. “Hey, Dad! Mom!” They watch her come to them, grinning, relieved, riding a bubble of celebration.
Eli embraces his daughter and whispers in her ear, “My beautiful college graduate,” and the boys mumble, “Congratulations.” Aaron manages an awkward arm around her shoulder, a halfhearted hug. And then Ruth and Isabelle are facing each other.
“It’s bloody hot.” Ruth doesn’t get up.
“Oh, I know. I’m so sorry, Mommy, I know how much you hate the heat.”
“I was sitting there and
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