Page 20 - The Gonzaga Record 1994
P. 20
Graduation ’94
‘SEE HOW THEY GROW'
THE CEREMONY is well over, the hall is filled with proud parents, empty
wine bottles, gregarious staff members and one rather smoothly dressed class of
'94. The latter, armed for life with its pint, certificate, and Jerusalem Bible, is
reminiscing - probably for the first time in its life.
The school suddenly seems quite different; the barman and his over-worked
kegs look somewhat out of place in the assembly hall; the teachers are chatting
candidly about life and love; the parents are relaxed and seemingly oblivious to
the rapidly impending maelstrom of the Leaving Cert. As for the graduates
themselves - they just can’t help feeling very much at home.
Things were decidedly different six years ago. The hall was by general consent
definitely bigger and no one can remember the barman being there. The Preps
were very much at home; the rest of us, very much at sea. Someone recalls Fr
Sexton proclaim ing that we w ere the ‘class of ’94’. By 1994 man would
doubtless have landed on Mars and we would (quick sums) be 18 years old.
The talk of First Year is almost reverent; that really was ‘then’. Throughout the
evening the year has been peering at Ms M acConville’s Burren photos, rubbing
their stubble pensively and declaring that it simply ‘couldn’t be us’.
First Year is, of course, merely an eight month preparatory course for the
Burren Trip; the subsequent 5 years are a chance to discuss its deeper meanings.
Some of us admit that we still don’t understand Psycho, despite discussing it to
exhaustion on the way home. Most of us admit to cheating at poker (and offer to
return our ill-gotten Opal Fruits). After the Burren came the mythical three
months of summer holidays - just reward after the longer school day. Some
made the pilgrimage to the Gaeltacht and took up where they left off in the
Burren. Most, however, stayed home and calmly waited for their hormones to
turn them into JCT players.
We inform each other (while queuing up again for more PE Beer) that we
haven’t changed at all since First Year. The assembled mothers assert that we’re
still children (having grown from babies in First Year). Still the fact remains
that by Second Year there was quite an array of shapes and sizes in our midst.
Many found rugby much more enjoyable and others began wondering whether
they had missed the boat altogether. Not much is being recalled about Second
Year. Dr Deasy still, it seems, has his fans and Fr M oylan’s rather soggy sojourn
in the Wicklow mountains continues to haunt its victims.
Memories of our final year in grey, by contrast, cause much excitement and are
regurgitated as vividly as the English language and polite company can permit.
We were, quote, a ‘horrible Third Year’ and quite thrilled to be known as such.
The Inter Cert, like the Angel of Death, passed over unnoticed and the way was
now clear for passage into the Promised Land: Transition Year. Before this.
12
‘SEE HOW THEY GROW'
THE CEREMONY is well over, the hall is filled with proud parents, empty
wine bottles, gregarious staff members and one rather smoothly dressed class of
'94. The latter, armed for life with its pint, certificate, and Jerusalem Bible, is
reminiscing - probably for the first time in its life.
The school suddenly seems quite different; the barman and his over-worked
kegs look somewhat out of place in the assembly hall; the teachers are chatting
candidly about life and love; the parents are relaxed and seemingly oblivious to
the rapidly impending maelstrom of the Leaving Cert. As for the graduates
themselves - they just can’t help feeling very much at home.
Things were decidedly different six years ago. The hall was by general consent
definitely bigger and no one can remember the barman being there. The Preps
were very much at home; the rest of us, very much at sea. Someone recalls Fr
Sexton proclaim ing that we w ere the ‘class of ’94’. By 1994 man would
doubtless have landed on Mars and we would (quick sums) be 18 years old.
The talk of First Year is almost reverent; that really was ‘then’. Throughout the
evening the year has been peering at Ms M acConville’s Burren photos, rubbing
their stubble pensively and declaring that it simply ‘couldn’t be us’.
First Year is, of course, merely an eight month preparatory course for the
Burren Trip; the subsequent 5 years are a chance to discuss its deeper meanings.
Some of us admit that we still don’t understand Psycho, despite discussing it to
exhaustion on the way home. Most of us admit to cheating at poker (and offer to
return our ill-gotten Opal Fruits). After the Burren came the mythical three
months of summer holidays - just reward after the longer school day. Some
made the pilgrimage to the Gaeltacht and took up where they left off in the
Burren. Most, however, stayed home and calmly waited for their hormones to
turn them into JCT players.
We inform each other (while queuing up again for more PE Beer) that we
haven’t changed at all since First Year. The assembled mothers assert that we’re
still children (having grown from babies in First Year). Still the fact remains
that by Second Year there was quite an array of shapes and sizes in our midst.
Many found rugby much more enjoyable and others began wondering whether
they had missed the boat altogether. Not much is being recalled about Second
Year. Dr Deasy still, it seems, has his fans and Fr M oylan’s rather soggy sojourn
in the Wicklow mountains continues to haunt its victims.
Memories of our final year in grey, by contrast, cause much excitement and are
regurgitated as vividly as the English language and polite company can permit.
We were, quote, a ‘horrible Third Year’ and quite thrilled to be known as such.
The Inter Cert, like the Angel of Death, passed over unnoticed and the way was
now clear for passage into the Promised Land: Transition Year. Before this.
12
