Electric Pig

The headmaster and the vice principal stand on the stage. They are dressed, apparently in some bizarre Japanese custom, as waiters, and bow solemnly to the rising-sun flag. They take their places in the centre of the stage as class 3-1’s teacher announces the first of the 190 graduating students. This boy, chosen for the alphabetical placement of his name rather than any academic brilliance, is sadly slightly mentally sub-normal and clearly does not really know what is going on. However, his responsibilities have been mercilessly drilled into him and he walks to the centre of the stage and stands rigid to attention in front of the headmaster. As the headmaster reads this first graduation certificate out loud, from my position near the front of the stage I can see that, unbeknownst to the proud parents seated at the back of the hall, the boy is holding on, with grim determination, to his penis.

The ceremony continues. The first class files one-by-one onto the stage and collects their certificates. Class 3-2 replaces them. One of the “cool” boys demonstrates his boundless rebelliousness by saying “yes”, as his name is called, a few decibels louder than has been proscribed by the teachers. A palpable sense of thrill passes through the 2nd year girls seated near me. Another of the more daring boys, although sadly not as handsome as the first (he resembles a acne afflicted hedgehog), has the gall to spin round in a mock-boyband pirouette having collected his certificate, instead of the acceptable martial turn-and-step.  It is enough to make one of the 2nd year girls drop her programme in excitement. There is a collective intake of breath as the lovely but accident-prone boy with downs-syndrome mounts the stage and a collective exhalation in relief as he manages to collect his certificate and get back to his seat without falling over.

The main-certificate presentation over, it is time for the speeches. The headmaster, having only just descended from the stage, stands up again as his speech is announced and returns to the place he was standing not 15 seconds earlier. He begins a long and meandering speech about a 70’s TV drama, with lessons that he earnestly hopes will have some relevance to the students, none of whom are listening to him. He is followed by the head of the P.T.A; a man who has been elected to his role as some sort of cruel joke, as he has a speech impediment and clearly is not suited to this or any other form of public speaking. The 2nd year boys snigger in glee with each consonant he stumbles over. After his painful and unintentionally long speech, he beats a rapid retreat from the stage.

Next is the turn of the visiting dignitaries. Each of this motley collection of geriatrics is announced in turn by the Vice Principal. Surprised to hear their own names, they struggle to stand up, take a second to try to remember where they are and what it is they are supposed to be doing, mumble some barely comprehensible variation of “congratulations on your graduation”, then fart, sit down and go back to sleep.

30 minutes of this later, the students give speeches. The incredibly popular, academically gifted, unfeasibly handsome and utterly detestable leader of the student council is first. He gives a witty, touching and heartfelt speech. Teachers and parents beam approvingly, boys laugh admiringly at his jokes and girls tremble and melt in their seats. I feel a nausea that is only relieved with the comforting thought that in a few years time, the Japanese employment system will have beaten him down into a self-loathing salaryman. He is followed by a less gifted, less handsome, but more rotund boy, who gives a stunted, rambling speech, laden with unbelievably corny puns. I notice that I am the only one in the hall who applauds him.

The ceremony continues with messages from those who, through judicious rescheduling of their appointments, could not attend today. Past teachers, whose messages betray their relief at no longer working here, various unknown members of staff, local council members, the local police chief (known only too well by the majority of the 2nd years), people who live nearby and apparently someone who once drove past the school, all have messages of good luck and congratulations for the graduates. I find myself wondering absentmindedly whether the suit I am wearing, fitted in a backstreet tailor's in Vietnam during my more slimline days, is now doing irreparable damage to my testes.

After 2 hours, the ceremony finally draws to an end with an ill-advised rendition of a graduation song. Heavy on soprano parts, it is massacred by the hormonal, pubescent 2nd years. Final greetings are expressed, a few last bows to the flag and each other are squeezed in, and the 3rd years leave the hall to our applause. I wonder if the music from Schindler’s List is really an appropriate accompaniment.

There is a short break.  The graduates then leave the school for the final time, in tears now that the real world is encroaching on their sheltered lives for the first time. They are met by the 2nd year boys, who, with unbelievable lameness, run up to the popular 3rd years and ask for their class pins. The 3rd years gather at the gates and mill around, apparently at a loss for what to do with themselves at this first taste of freedom. They are greeted by a selection of the graduates from last year. As ever, these are the students who most vocally proclaimed that they would never return to school a year ago, and who have been the most frequent visitors ever since. They lead this year's graduates away to karaoke booths and the joys of underage alcohol. Another year’s graduation is over. The single kind, funny and charming class files off into the rest of their lives, abandoning the school to the clutches of the 2nd years. It is going to be very different around here from April...

Click to see a bigger version and to scroll through the slideshow...