By: Lynette Yang
“Next!”
I’m called from the front of the line Y-Z to the circular, black stool at the front of the gym, where gym teachers would normally bark game orders or keep track of basketball and volleyball scores. I’ve stood at this spot for a good minute, desperately trying to fix my easily tangled, wavy, long black hair and positioning my bangs to mask my acne. The fixing is subpar; my bangs have glued together in uneven pieces, and it looks like I’ve been sweating profusely despite not having a gym class this semester. Maybe it’s the mask; the grey fabric masks the school sent out are thick and suffocating.
“Set your card over there.”
I place my manila card on a small perch and leave it with the school photographer. After confirming my personal details, my feet automatically move to the black stool, a habit ingrained cumulatively through years of Artona yearbook photos. I sit down, flattening a skirt the camera won’t even catch, and take one last attempt to fix my hair. It’s almost time.
“Alright… Feet planted on the marker, sit up straight, head tilted down… a little more… perfect. Keep that pose.”
It’s quite uncomfortable, really. My shrimp posture usually hides what I think is my unusually wide shoulders-to-height ratio. This current posture only makes me feel more exposed and masculine than I want to be. The downward angle of my head feels like I’m forcing a double chin, and my glasses begin to slip from the harsh, downward angle. My fingers prod my glasses back up, unintentionally brushing past my overgrown bangs and messing them up all over again. Great.
“All right. Three, two, one… Smile!”
Gosh, it’s bright. Blinding, even. This feels like an appointment to the optometrist’s office, where they tell you to stare at a red dot in the centre of a green ‘X’ and expect you to keep your eyes open the entire time while they slowly prepare to capture your open eyes. My eyes feel like they’re dessicating and flooding all at once. I can feel my eyelids coming together against my will. Please don’t, please don’t, please don’t—
“Let’s try that again.”
Dagnabit, not again. I inwardly curse at myself, peeved that I have to go through this process twice. What a hassle. At least the other grade eights lined up behind me have more time to fix their appearances. Then again, most people in my school are blessed with genetics, rarely having to worry about acne or how the wind may blow their hair. Lucky. I can’t wait to keep doing this for the next five years.
8… 9… 10… 11… 12…
“Congratulations on graduating! How do you feel?”
I feel like a bundle of anxious, yet elated, nerves. My body feels like it’s moving on autopilot, my mind having shut down after I nearly forgot to let my principal move the graduation cap tassel to my left. My right hand tightly clutches the deep, navy blue cover of my high school diploma, embossed with my high school’s formal insignia, and my left squeezes the graduation bear plush my older sister bought for me that morning from a UBC student vendor. “I feel great,” I choke out, my face set in a wide grin. “It feels so… overwhelming.”
“Haha, that’s to be expected. Five years really does fly by, doesn’t it?”
I softly chuckle in agreement at the photographers, all of whom warmly smile back at me. Five years have indeed flown past, with each year feeling shorter than the last. Five years of staying at the same high school, four years of a two-semester system and personalised learning time, three years of staying in my high school’s education enrichment program, two years of grinding out good grades for post-secondary applications, and one year dedicated to finding out my future path. It’s quite bittersweet, all of these memories enveloped in one mind and vessel.
“You remember your photo ID card you got before the ceremony? Bring that out, and we’ll take one final photo for you.”
I produce my final manila card and hand it to the main photographer. Like clockwork, my feet bring me over the black stool and immediately settle themselves down on the marked footprints. I flatten my Oxford blue graduation gown whilst another photographer adjusts my dandelion-yellow graduation stole. I give my hair one last shake, my glasses one more push-up, my shoulders broaden and relax, and my head tilts downward.
“3, 2, 1, Smile!”