The Piano Knows Something I Don't Know

Why is saying goodbye so painful?

Why is saying goodbye so painful?

May 1st was Decision Day at Bishop Gorman High School, and I was proud to wear the brand new Kale University T-shirt that my mother had bought for me online. I got a few odd looks when I wore the black and red T-shirt with Kale's brand new slogan printed on it, but I could not possibly care less. In my mind, I was already at Kale, making new friends and enriching my mind in ways that my high school never could.

"What school is that T-shirt even for?" a boy in my Spanish class said. "I don't think any of the schools around here have black and red as their school colors."

"I don't just want to be a footnote in someone else's happiness," a girl in my math class read off of my T-shirt. "What's that supposed to mean?"

I ignored the girl, but I had thought about that very question myself. In the end, the new Kale University slogan was self-explanatory. It was only encouraging people like me to carve out their own place in the world, instead of working too hard to make other people happy. Certainly, there had to be some value in making other people happy, but I did appreciate the sentiment of the new slogan. Hopefully, Kale University would give me the tools that I needed to be more than just a footnote.

The last month of high school was a blur. Time seemed to fly by, and it was impossible to tell whether it was really flying or if it was just an illusion caused by my excitement over attending Kale in the fall. Before I knew it, it was graduation day.

In the terms and conditions of the Common Application, it says that your acceptance to any school is dependent on your "honorable dismissal" from your current high school. I could only imagine how much better graduations would be if they were honorable dismissals. There would be no need for a cap and gown, and the ceremony itself would last about two minutes. The principal would simply tell all of us that we were honorably dismissed, and we would leave, and high school would be over.

Unfortunately, that's not what happened at my high school graduation. Instead, I sat through two hours of speeches and far too many renditions of Pomp and Circumstance before the magical moment when I left high school finally arrived.

"Ryan Ross!" I heard the principal say.

"I love you, Ryan!" Mom screamed. I stood up and walked up to the stage, accepted my diploma, and returned to my seat, slightly embarrassed, but mostly just wondering whether the diploma that I held in my hands meant anything. It wasn't like I was going to get a decent job with a high school diploma alone, and even a college degree didn't guarantee success in life. Did the celebration mean anything if the diploma didn't? My heart sank as I listened to the principal call the rest of my fellow students' names and I realized the pointlessness of it all. Why do we do so many things that have no meaning? Isn't it such a waste of our short lives?

My spirits were lifted when I thought of Kale again. Before long, my lonely high school career would be over and I would be at my dream school. Who cared if graduation or high school had meant nothing? College would surely be a meaningful experience.

I tossed my cap into the air with the rest of the student body, and finally, the nightmare that was high school was over. At last, I was honorably dismissed.

The summer before my freshman year at Kale University was rather uneventful. I spent most of it walking my dog, practicing the piano, reading and re-reading my favorite books, and telling everyone I knew how wonderful Kale would be. Most of the people in Las Vegas didn't even know that Kale existed, and they didn't understand just how amazing Kale was even after I explained it to them, but my friends and family did seem happy for me.

"Kale?" one of my classmates once said to me. "Don't you mean Yale?"

"No, I mean Kale," I said. "I'm not smart enough to go to Yale."