Forty-two years ago today, I sat in a sea of white robes at the Gibson Center, alphabetically wedged between beauty and blemishes, equal parts restless and terrified. Years later—during the depths of a snow-blanketed New England winter—I wrote this chapter of Reunion: Coda, channeling the bittersweet chaos of that June afternoon.
Jim Garraty, ever the reluctant dreamer, finds himself suspended between the final notes of adolescence and the opening bars of an uncertain future. What follows is his internal score: a blend of memory, melancholy, and the maddening clarity that hindsight so generously provides.
This excerpt from the chapter “Goodbye, Farewell, and Adios,” isn’t just about a commencement. It’s about the moment you realize you’ve already started leaving, long before the last name is called…..
I was restless in my seat, which was assigned by the alphabet. I was stuck between Cindy Garcia, who had a nice ass, and Devon Gerrison, who had a bad case of acne. I looked around for my mom, hoping to see her smiling face. She had shoulder-length red hair and a bright yellow summer dress, but I couldn’t spot her in the sea of people. There were too many of them, about 3,000, I had heard. And I was too far from the stands, in the middle of the graduating class. The only person I recognized – besides the gaggle of teachers and assistant principals seated in front of the dais – was School Board member Janet McAliley, the designated guest speaker. She was sitting on the stage, chatting quietly with our principal, Dr. Burke.
The Anthem started playing, and I stood up with the rest of the graduates. I put my hand over my heart and mouthed the words, but I wasn’t paying attention. I was drifting away, into a dream-like state. I imagined I was somewhere else, somewhere more fun, more exciting, more alive. Maybe I was at the Dadeland Triple Theater, watching Return of the Jedi with Mark and our small group of close friends. Or maybe I was at home, watching TV with my mom, who always made me laugh. Or maybe I was on a date with Marty at the Rusty Pelican or even at Sardi’s or Delmonico’s in New York City. Anything but here.
The Pledge came next, and I repeated it mechanically, without feeling. I didn’t care about the flag, or the Republic, or liberty and justice for all. I cared about leaving Miami, my home, my mom, and everything I knew and loved. I had a scholarship to Harvard, to study history, something I was passionate about. But I was scared, too. Scared of failing, of being alone, of not fitting in. I wondered if I had made the right choice, if I was ready for this big change, or if I would ever come back to South Florida.
Dr. Burke, our tall, white-haired, mustachioed, and genial principal, took the microphone and began his welcoming remarks. He droned on and on, thanking the guests, praising the faculty, and congratulating the graduates. He said we were the future, the leaders, the achievers. He said we had worked hard, learned a lot, and grown as people. He said we should be proud, grateful, and optimistic. He said a lot of things, but I didn’t listen. I was in a trance, a state of limbo. I was neither here nor there, neither awake nor asleep. I was just waiting, waiting for something to happen, something to change, something to end.
Dr. Burke was still talking, but I couldn’t hear him anymore. His voice faded into a distant buzz, almost as if he was speaking underwater. I felt a wave of drowsiness wash over me, and I closed my eyes for a moment. I opened them again, but nothing had changed. I was still in the Gibson Center, surrounded by white robes and caps. But something was different. Something was odd.
As I sat with my fellow graduating students of the Class of 1983, I suddenly felt a disorienting jolt of déjà vu as the entire center, with the assembled high school students, the faculty members, administrators, guest speakers, and the throng of spectators in their hard concrete benches on both sides of the arena, swirled into nothingness, pulled into a weird and yet familiar netherworld of dreams.
The Gibson Center vanished, and I was pulled into a dream. A variation of a familiar dream, the one I’d had some two days before.
This time around, I found myself in Room 136, the chorus room. It looked the same as it did when I was a sophomore. The same posters, the same piano, the same lights. And the same Mrs. Quincy, our chorus teacher, greeted us with a smile.
She was the reason I loved my chorus classes during my two-and-a-half-year stint as her student. She was the best teacher I ever had. She taught us songs that moved us, challenged us, and inspired us. She was more than a teacher. She was a mentor.
But seeing Mrs. Quincy there made me wince as if I’d been punched in the gut. Because she was gone, probably teaching a crop of new talent at the Juilliard School even as I was having this dream. Or vision. Or waking nightmare.
The door creaked open, and I looked up. It was her. Marty. The girl I loved. The girl I never told. Or better said – the girl I never told in time for it to make a difference.
She wore a black dress that made her look like a goddess. It wasn’t elaborately gaudy; it was elegant in its simplicity, but it hugged her curves in all the right places and, best of all, showed off Marty’s dancer’s legs. Her hair was long and chestnut brown, and it sparkled in the light. Her eyes were hazel, and they met mine. She smiled at me, a warm and gentle smile. And she walked towards me, slowly, like she had all the time in the world.
I wanted to get up, to hug her, to kiss her. I didn’t care who was watching. I didn’t care about anything but her. But I couldn’t move. I was frozen to my chair, like a statue. And all I could think of was a poem I had learned in English class. A poem by Lord Byron.
She walks in beauty, like the night
Of cloudless climes and starry skies;
And all that’s best of dark and bright
Meet in her aspect and her eyes;
Thus mellowed to that tender light
Which heaven to gaudy day denies.
That was Marty. She was beautiful, like the night. She had everything, dark and bright. She had a light that no one else could see. She had me.
But she didn’t know it. She didn’t know how I felt. How I loved her. How I always would. And I was too afraid to tell her. Too afraid to lose her.
She stopped, a few feet away from me. She was still smiling, but it was a hopeful smile. A waiting smile. She wanted me to say something. To do something. But all I could say was her name. “Marty…oh, Marty.” And it sounded like a sigh.
A Certain Point of View, Too 
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