Aug 1, 2020 4 min read

Our son Jack graduated this past weekend from Central Catholic High School. Nothing about the day seemed ordinary. It was hot and sunny like much of the summer, sure. But in my stomach I was twisted. I felt so many things. Sadness. Frustration. Bitterness. Pride. Mainly pride. Jack is soon off to an incredible adventure, I’m certain. But this wasn’t how I wanted his send-off to feel.

I could hear his electric razor buzzing down the hall as I steamed the wrinkles out of his long, blue gown. We were cutting it close, I thought. Our time slot for Jack to walk with seven other classmates was 3:10. The traditional ceremony at Soldiers & Sailors Memorial Hall had long been canceled. Instead, Jack’s Class of 2020 had been broken down into alphabetical groups of eight. Each graduate was permitted two attendees. My husband, Joe, and I looked at each other with an unspoken understanding. Can you believe we’ve now put two through high school?

We pulled up to school with a few minutes to spare and were ushered by masked staffers to temperature scanners. We sat down in three chairs placed in the hallway and waited to be called into the auditorium. Jack fiddled nervously with his tassel. Joe made small talk about his high school days 32 years earlier when he walked the same halls. And I pretended to take interest in the trophy case next to me, hoping the tears filling my eyes wouldn’t be too noticeable.

Then it was time.

The boys lined up six feet apart, their parents, standing awkwardly behind them. We waited patiently for the four graduates ahead of us to have their turn before Brother Tony read Jack’s name. John Joseph O’Toole. He walked up to the stage, received his diploma, elbow bumped his principal, smiled for a photo, and walked out the door and out of the school where he’d grown from a child into a young man for the last time.

We stood outside in the shade and took photos for a few minutes. And that was it.

Congratulations.

These are unprecedented times. I get that. I’m pretty sure that each and every one of you reading this has suffered some kind of disappointment, loss, or life-changing experience because of this virus. But I must speak out loudly against anyone who claims that what we’re living like today is going to be our “new normal.”

Not a flipping chance.

There are 103 million people in this country under the age of 25. Think about that. One hundred and three MILLION. Do you know how many of those young people – from newborns to college grad students – have died because of COVID-19, according to the Centers for Disease Control and Prevention? 226. Two hundred and twenty-six. To be honest, I’m skeptical of that number because the CDC doesn’t include how many of those young people also had compromised immune systems, autoimmune disorders, or other life-threatening co-morbidities.

How many of those 103 million Americans under the age of 25 have died because of seasonal flu? 477. Why don’t we close schools because of the flu? It’s far deadlier to kids than COVID.

As teachers’ unions wring their hands over the task of reopening schools safely, I find myself looking at the Class of 2021 with a great deal of hope. The data just don’t add up, after all. And more and more people are catching on. Particularly our children. Next year won’t be a repeat of this one.

Not a chance.

To this year’s graduates, I wish you all godspeed. You survived the Great COVID Shutdown with dignity. You showed your parents that you’re ready for the next step, and that it’s time to leave all of this mess behind you.

And, Jack? Not that you’ll ever read this … but if you ever do … I love you. I’m proud of you. And I know that an America in your hands will never let a chapter such as this one ever become this country’s new normal.

Wendy Bell can be heard on 1020AM KDKA, Weekdays from 3-6pm. KDKA Radio can also be heard through the RADIO.COM App. Follow Wendy on Facebook and Instagram @WendyBellRadio and on Twitter @WendyBellPgh.