“I’m looking forward to your graduation,” he said. “The Lord has a
few choice rebukes for me to give them professors.”
“You will not,” I said quietly.
“If the Lord moves me, I will stand and speak.”
“You will not,” I repeated.
“I won’t go anywhere that the Lord’s spirit isn’t welcome.”
That was the conversation. I hoped it would blow over, but Dad was
so hurt that I hadn’t mentioned homeschooling in my interviews that
this new wound festered.
There was a dinner the night before my graduation where I was to
receive the “most outstanding undergraduate” award from the history
department. I waited for my parents at the entrance, but they never
appeared. I called Mother, thinking they were running late. She said
they weren’t coming. I went to the dinner and was presented with a
plaque. My table had the only empty seats in the hall. The next day
there was a luncheon for honors graduates, and I was seated with the
college dean and the director of the honors program. Again, there were
two empty seats. I said my parents had had car trouble.
I phoned my mother after the luncheon.
“Your father won’t come unless you apologize,” she said. “And I
won’t, either.”
I apologized. “He can say whatever he wants. But please come.”
They missed most of the ceremony; I don’t know if they saw me
accept my diploma. What I remember is waiting with my friends
before the music began, watching their fathers snap pictures and their
mothers fix their hair. I remember that my friends were wearing
colorful leis and recently gifted jewelry.
After the ceremony I stood alone on the lawn, watching the other
students with their families. Eventually I saw my parents. Mother
hugged me. My friend Laura snapped two photos. One is of me and
Mother, smiling our forced smiles; the other is of me wedged between
my parents, looking squeezed, under pressure.
I was leaving the Mountain West that night. I had packed before
graduation. My apartment was empty, my bags by the door. Laura had
volunteered to drive me to the airport, but my parents asked if they