I'm back in my safe Northeastern home, after a sojourn in Heartlandish Purple America (Stonewall Jackson would weep!). My eldest nephew graduated from the eighth grade, and I had the honor of attending the pre-graduation assembly with his little brother. Hilariously, the little one decided to borrow his brother's electric razor to trim his "sideburns" a bit, so he had a couple of "tan lines" on his head. He can now truthfully tell everyone that he started shaving in the third grade. My nephews are great kids- smart, funny, magnanamous, and spirited, and I'm proud to call them family.
The school headmaster muffed one boy's name, substituting a girl's name for the lad's given name- I told him, "Hey, at least this happened at the end of your career here, otherwise you'd have been stuck with it forever." He's a laid-back kid, and shrugged the whole thing off. The class president gave a short speech, opening with Langston Hughes' poem Dreams. While I don't recall the main body of the young lady's speech, I will let the lovely, gracious, and talented Brandi Carlisle give the gist of it:
A hearty congratulations to all graduates of ***REDACTED*** ***REDACTED*** ***REDACTED*** ***REDACTED***.