Living dangerously.
It is 1971, on a sultry June evening in the Long Island suburbs of New York, and I am poised to parade down the aisle in my elementary school graduation ceremony. I glanced enviously at my classmates, slick haired boys crammed into their suits, girls decked in frilly pastel dress like shiny hot dogs encased in starchy buns, tapping out a nervous staccato rhythm with their dress shoes. They look back at me, giving me the once over with a mixture of pity and wonder reflected in their incredulous eyes. I flash them a fake brave smile, wondering if they can hear the pounding of my heart over the crackly noises spilling out over the faulty PA system.
On cue, the solemn notes of Elgar’s pomp and circumstance fill the air, snapping me out of my reverie and imposing the gravity of the occasion on the waiting crowd. As we shuffle forward toward the podium, I start to panic that I have made a huge mistake – and my eyes dart to the auditorium’s emergency exits as I consider making a run for it. But locked into position like a shackled prisoner between my fellow inmates, I have no choice but to keep moving forward until I am in full frontal view of the firing squad.
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