Graduation, Growing Up, and why John Hughes is a big fat liar.

Over the last month I have had lots of opportunities to reflect on this mysterious phenomenon that is referred to as "growing up." (Note: Like many other colloquialisms in the English language, I feel compelled to comment on the apparent inaccuracy of this one, which seems, grammatically at least, to be referring to height, not age. Of course, this could apply to me specifically, as I am about 12 feet tall, but I digress.) Such self-reflection can be jarring, to say the least.

Last night, I attended a lovely dinner party to celebrate the accomplishments of the graduating class of 2008. My 2.1 readers may know by now that I am a high school teacher, and this is the first year that I have taught grade 12, the final year of high school in Ontario. I am very lucky to teach at an outstanding school, and to work with some truly excellent students. They are not all dedicated scholars, but they are all kind, compassionate and thoughtful people, and I am very grateful to work in such a positive environment. The students at the dinner (finally freed from their defining school uniforms and ties) looked like sophisticated young adults, and behaved with grace and decorum before they left the hall to go on to their graduation party. (Note: it did seem that a few students had started the party before the formal dinner ended, and to those students; don't kid yourselves ... parents and teachers notice more than you think.)

As if that wasn't enough to inspire a bit of nostalgia, three weeks ago, I attended the celebration of my high school's 45th anniversary. Revisiting high school is a bit of a disconcerting experience, partly because of how much you have changed, and partly because of how much you haven't. I certainly appreciate my high school teachers more now that I am a teacher myself. Because I was a vocal and instrumental music student I had the pleasure of being taught by two of the best teachers in the school. Watching them now with their students, seventeen years (gulp) after my own graduation, I am filled with gratitude and an understanding of how hard they worked and how much they inspired us. (I think that it is not a coincidence that in my circle of, say, fifteen friends who had these teachers, seven of them now make money as professional musicians.) I also have a much better comprehension of the world that I live in, and I understand now (as I did not understand then) that it doesn't actually revolve around me.

But it's the ways that I haven't changed that interest me the most, principally the fact that I am still waiting to feel like an adult. When I look around, I see the trappings of adulthood all around me ... a condominium (aka debt with carpeting), a steady job and a hopelessly indulgent shoe collection. I read the paper. I drink wine with dinner. I'm a member of Amnesty International. But this doesn't change the fact that I don't feel like a "grown up." Acquiring the condo on my own was absolutely terrifying, and even after eight months I have a few unpacked boxes still on the floor. I need advance notice when company is coming over so that I can spend extra time cleaning so that I can look impressive. Sometimes I eat potato chips for dinner. When a friend or family member is sick or sad, I feel scared and helpless. Truthfully, most of the time I still feel like a gawky, awkward teenager, just trying to figure stuff out. And this brings me to John Hughes.

For everyone who had the dubious pleasure of teasing their hair in the 80's, John Hughes was the voice of the teen generation, or at least he kept telling us that he was. He wrote and directed such movies as "Pretty in Pink," "Some Kind of Wonderful," "Ferris Beuller's Day Off," and "Sixteen Candles." I was very familiar with these movies as they were requisite viewing at every single birthday party I went to from 1984-1988. I knew somewhere deep down that the situations in the movies did not represent my life (senior male hunky student falls in love with awkward sophomore, cute sensitive guy gives up his crush on popular girl and chooses faithful girl-best-friend instead, kid skips school and ends up in parade, etc.) but boy, did I want them to. However, none of Hughes' movies strayed farther from any semblance of reality than "The Breakfast Club," the 80's teen movie cornerstone about five diverse students who spend 8 hours together during a Saturday detention.

"The Breakfast Club" is riddled with so many gaps in logic that it is only as realistic as, say, "Spiderman." For example, doesn't it seem strange that a high school principal would a) hate teenagers (as it is clear that he does in the film) or b) choose to spend his entire Saturday at school with the kids he hates the most? (Note: In the movie he actually commits to two months of Saturday detentions. I mean, seriously, folks. I have to do one hour of detention duty a YEAR and I resent it like crazy.) There's just not enough space in the blog to go through all of the unrealistic aspects of this "slice of life" film, so we'll just focus on the most egregiously manipulative one. It's most apparent when the kids are all angsty and weepy and learning that different types of people can be friends. Ally Sheedy's character (shamefully named Allison) proclaims to the group mournfully that "when you grow up ... your heart dies."

Now, Mr. Hughes, I hate to be a stickler about this, but according to my calculations that movie came out when you were 35 years old ... the same age that I am now. I certainly understand the marketing tactic you were going for; after all, how better can you engage an adolescent audience than to remind them that they need to rail against the evil adults? And I am willing to bet that your adult, cold, dead heart was at least somewhat warmed by the gobs of money that you earned as a result of that movie. But ... didn't it occur to you that your demographic would eventually graduate from high school, grow up and have something to say about the predicted death of their hearts?

As I watched my students celebrate their graduation yesterday, I wanted to tell them things about adulthood that would have probably bored them to tears. I wanted to tell them that they are embarking on an incredibly exciting time in their lives, but that they are going to have to search for the opportunities that will enrich them, rather than having opportunities handed to them. I wanted to tell them that they are going to fail sometimes, because ... well, sometimes you fail. It sucks and you deal with it. I wanted to tell them that although they will take responsibility for more and more in their lives (friends, money, education, pets, spouses, children, debt with carpeting,) they will often feel as nervous and unsure as they do right now. That despite their uncertainty, they will make the best decisions they can and soldier on with the consequences. And I want to tell them that John Hughes is a big fat liar and that their hearts will love more deeply and break harder than they can imagine.

Kids (and I know some of you sneaky ones have found this blog) I've had some experience and done some thinking on this topic, but here's all I can come up with. I hate to break it to you, but adulthood doesn't mean answers. All it means is that you decide every day whether you will be a good person, a mediocre person or a dickweed, and that you alone will be responsible for those decisions and what comes as a result of them. Things are complicated, so you have to think of ways to simplify them in order to find your way in this crazy, "grown up" world. Sometimes things are awesome and sometimes things suck, and you never know which it's going to be or when it will suddenly change. All you ever get to control is how you live in this world, how hard you work and how you treat other people. And that's it. In terms of life wisdom, that's all I've got. I don't know what else to tell you, kids, so I'll leave it to Kurt Vonnegut, who penned this, my favourite quotation. I think it's the best guideline for life that you can be given:

“Hello, babies. Welcome to earth. It’s hot in the summer and cold in the winter. It’s round and wet and crowded. At the outside, babies, you have about a hundred years here. There’s only one rule that I know of– God damn it, babies, you've got to be kind."

A

P.S. You should also be kind to John Hughes if you ever see him ... even if what you really want to say to him is "Up yours, you big fat liar."