For what seems like a lifetime I've watched the Year 12 students leaving my school, every time thinking to myseflf: "That'll never be me".

I go/went to a relatively large private school in Australia, a boys-only school (eeeew, girls' germs!). Generally it has quite prominent traditions, manifested everywhere from the mandatory Cadet training to the ridiculous summer uniform that's been humiliating students for god knows how long (khaki shorts and knee-high socks don't look good on ANYBODY).

Only two days ago now I finally completed my schooling there, and am now on what they call "StuVac", the 2-3 weeks between Valedictory day and the start of our HSC examinations that are supposed to be spent studying. The last week of school generally doesn't involve much work (which doesn't make sense to me), but a few rather grand ceremonies to celebrate the end of a much grander era in our lives, general unruliness and a lot of alcohol.

The Passing Out Parade
As I said before, the school holds a lot of traditions dear, one of the greatest being its cadet unit. Starting at year 7, supple young boys are taken under the wing of this branch of the school, to be made into men (I hyperbolise, I jest). Since a lot of parents are suspicious that this whole thing is just an military recruitment tool, the school now sends out a big letter full of legal mumbo-jumbo that basically says; "You don't have to join the army, we swear!". In retrospect I think the whole cadet experience has been good for me, and choosing to continue in it past the end of year 9 'till year 12 meant that I got to "Pass Out" of the unit in the aforementioned "Passing Out Parade". This is the biggest parade of the year, where the whole unit dresses up in a pretty parade uniform (one not worn on any other occasion), a military guest speaker appears and gives us a little block of wood with our name on it, and we (the ones passing out) march painfully slowly(literally) past the rest of the unit, hundreds of teary-eyed parents and lots of randoms that show up to watch.

For 5 years prior to this one, I had been one of the young boys filling the ranks of the parade, watching the Year 12 "Senior Cadets" march past. It always seemed such an unnecessary hassle, being forced from home on a Sunday morning, polishing my brass and boots lest I be reprimanded. I'd go through the motions with very little passion while slowly losing my will to live; "Atteeeaan...HUT!" "Raaiiight Dress!", "Band by the Centre, Parade by the right, quiiiick...MARCH!". This time was a little different, though. I felt like the whole arduous ordeal was just for me, and it was no longer so difficult to endure. Despite the underwhelming speech from the guest speaker (one of the only two living Australians awarded the Victoria Cross, this one for a distictly Forrest Gump-like situation), I was filled with many... feelings. I felt quite proud, more proud of my fellow cadets than of myself. I felt sexy in my parade uniform, like a super-stud womanising machine. I felt like a member of an elite squad, one that could never be joined after today. Mostly, though, I felt happy that my Cadet days were over.

Afterwards, instead of simply getting home as soon as I could like every year before, I felt compelled to stay.

Valedictory Day
Our last day of school before StuVac, our last day before being sent out into the world, armed only with the knowledge we have (hopefully) accumulated during our many years at school. No classes today, only a ceremony that is, until its completion, a complete mystery to most students. While most of the proceedings are unknown to the students, I had witnessed them already...

The day began with me oversleeping and damn near missing being late for what I thought would be a most momentous occasion. Luckily, the morning tea that was the proverbial kick-off to the "celebrations" was a dud that I would've been happy to have missed. A complicating factor, though, was that this was the only part of the ceremony that my Mother could attend , a fact that upsetted her far more me. Due to this little fact, it was crucial that I be there, no matter how boring it was. After farewelling Mother Dearest, we, the year 12 group, were treated to something wonderful. As with the Passing Out Parade, every year prior I had taken part in this part of the ceremony without being its focus. The entire school, every student and teacher, lines the drive from the school chapel to the main hall, standing in silence as the year 12s walk throught to the hall. We walked, two abreast, with so many hundreds of eyes fixated on us. The deafening silence, permeated only by the occasional uneasy shuffle of a student's feet on the pavement, was wonderful. It was such a long-awaited honour, one that I would never recieve again. We slowly filed into the hall, no-one but me knowing what was to come. What ensued was an oddly religeous service, with seemingly no relevance to our leaving school. It seemed like going to church, nothing more (except for a brief and obscure reference by the Headmaster to an Alice Cooper lyric about his leaving school). Therein lies the reason why only I knew all about the service: I was the only student from my year to have been in the Chapel Choir, who every year sing at this service. I wonder if this foreknowledge was the reason for my apathy in regards to this ceremony, although I must say that singing the school Hymn for the last time with my peers was quite moving.

Following this was the Valedictory lunch, a welcome prospect considering my missing breakfast and the ensuing ravenous hunger. Toasts were made, speeches by prefects and another underwhelming guest speaker were given, and terrible Parfaits were consumed. Awards were also handed out, of which I recieved a "Subject Prize" for Standard English (as prizes go, this is the bottom of the barrel). We were also offered a chance to join the Old Boys' Union, an establishment that, for a reasonably extortionate fee, will (apparently) help me keep in touch with my former classmates. This, of course, begs the question; Wouldn't it be easy enough for my to keep in touch with my friends myself, and forget all the other assholes? Joining the union scores you a nice tie, though, so I set aside my cynicism and joined.

The Formal
Also known as a Prom, Valedictory Ball, Leavers' Ball, Leavers' Dinner, Leavers' Do or Grad. I didn't go.

Other than these three major events, there was also a breakfast with a certain favourite teacher of ours (much champaign was consumed), "Muck-Up Day" (no longer officially sanctioned by the school, but the figure they can't stop us anyway) and, of course, the Formal After-Party. All in all, an interesting week.

I spent 7 years at that school, all the while thinking that I would never leave.