EPISODE 6 EPISODE 6By the time the head of the school got to the graduates whose names started with an “M,” my feet were bloody stumps. I thought I’d be fine in two-inch sling backs, but an hour into the ceremony, my toe knuckles were raw, and the pointed heels sunk into the grass under the enormous tent.
I got up from our reserved row of seats to get a better vantage point to take photographs. Our motley crew of relatives—Anna, Lilly, aunts, grandmothers, an uncle, a cousin, and Francis, who had already spilled coffee on his tie—had all come to see Hayden receive his high school diploma. We looked the same as the other families seated around us, but somehow I felt like our family was different.
This school was Hayden’s third high school in four years. Our navy family was required to move after his ninth-grade year at an American high school on an army post in Germany, to an inner-city public school in Florida, and finally to Rhode Island where Hayden finished his senior year at Portsmouth Abbey, a local boarding school. We were surprised when he was accepted to the school as a day student, and we were elated when the school offered us enough financial aid to make it affordable on our tight military budget.
At the Abbey’s preseason football camp, Hayden made his debut as the new senior. He was quirky, husky, and lacked the personal hygiene skills necessary to keep up with the school’s strict dress code. A sort of “nutty professor” type.
In past schools, our unusual son was received with mixed reviews. In Germany, the students saw him as smart and uniquely funny—someone everyone wanted to know. In Florida, he was perceived as odd, and over two years he didn’t develop any close friendships. When he started at the Abbey, I wondered if the predominantly wealthy, preppy boarding school students would look beyond the surface to appreciate Hayden’s distinctive sense of humor and extraordinary intellect.
Throughout the year, we had mixed clues to Hayden’s reputation at the Abbey. The football coach smiled widely when speaking about him; however, the English teacher grimaced when describing the “odd British accent of questionable origin” Hayden employed when reciting poetry. The students and faculty reported that he “stole the show” in the winter musical; however, of the four boys that Hayden invited to our house for his April birthday party, only one showed up.
The head of school called the next graduate: “Ellen Mangino.”
Several students stood to cheer on their graduating friend. As I wobbled on painful shoes up the rows with my camera, my mind raced with random thoughts. These students have had four years to bond. Hayden wasn’t here long enough to be understood.
“Sean McDonald.” More applause as I inched closer to the stage.
Has our military lifestyle robbed our son of the opportunity to form close relationships with his peers? Does he think that it’s his fault?
“Julian Miller.” I raised the camera to my eyes with shaking hands and waited for Hayden’s name to be called.
“Hayden Clark Molinari.” I snapped the shutter repeatedly, catching glimpses through the viewfinder of my son making his way through the crowd of navy-jacketed students to the smiling headmaster. In a fog of emotion, I could not coordinate the still images I saw with my eyes with what I distinctly heard with my ears.
I took the camera away for a moment and realized, They are giving him a standing ovation.
Students and teachers leapt to their feet to cheer for an unusual boy who had been with them for nine short months. Through the din of applause and shouts, I managed to take a dozen more photographs before bursting into tears.
Minutes later, the students spilled out of the tent, milling around in a sort of preppy mosh pit in the bright sunlight. Fighting the celebratory crowd, we found Hayden amongst the jovial graduates, slapping each other’s backs.
He smiled broadly as I kissed his prickly cheek, silently reminding him, You will always be loved.