Every year on matriculation day, I become an Olympic-level people-watcher. Seriously, all my manners go out the window and I straight-up lurk. My mom would be horrified (although this one time we saw Mario Lopez at a restaurant and she shamelessly stared until our bill came, so mom, just give me this one day). It’s absolutely the best day of the year, full of all these little moments that mean such big things, and I love watching them unfold all over campus. I love to see moms pull bedding out of the car as their sons stare wide-eyed because they definitely didn’t know they even bought bedding. I love seeing roommates try desperately to subdue their embarrassing dads as they meet each other for the first time. I love watching parents and children say goodbye (that makes me sound so evil, but I promise I’m reacting more to the pride those parents feel than their sadness… or that’s what I tell myself).
Each year I have a favorite moment of the bunch: an interaction so beautifully poignant that it sticks with me for a long, long time. Last year that moment happened on my morning commute. This year, it happened as I sat at lunch with my colleagues. Every year on matriculation day, Tufts serves a huge lunch on the President’s Lawn. Parents, students, and school administrators mingle around and sunbathe as they eat, and someone dressed in the Jumbo mascot suit walks around greeting everyone. It’s really quite festive. As a unit, the admissions team usually claims a spot on the lawn with one of Susan’s big picnic blankets. I sit back, totally in my element, and spy.
This year as we sat, Jumbo approached the family of four in front of us. The older brother was clearly the one moving in; his younger brother looked only about eleven years old. I could tell that the 11-year-old very badly wanted a picture with Jumbo. I watched him eye the elephant as he came closer, trying but failing to seem nonchalant about his presence. His mom, noticing as I did his poorly hidden excitement, nudged him up off the ground and got her camera ready.
But then everything stopped. Jumbo had paused in front of the family and was clearly ready for the photo op (smeyesing and everything). Mom had the camera up to her face. But the boy had frozen mid-approach. He was too nervous. If you ever went to Disney World growing up this is probably unsurprising. I remember wanting to be best friends with Chip and Dale while also expecting them to remain 15 feet away from me at all times. I could tell the boy was similarly torn: does he approach the slightly terrifying elephant or walk away without the photo he so badly wanted? I also suspect he wondered if wanting a photo with Jumbo made him uncool on a campus full of college students.
The dad glanced at his older son, who playfully rolled his eyes and stood up. He walked over to Jumbo, put his arm around the elephant, and said “come on, let’s take the picture!” His younger brother smiled and hopped in, the mom snapped the shot, and the older brother offhandedly said “thanks Jumbo!” before returning to his pasta salad. Mom waved as Jumbo moved on, and dad thanked his oldest son with a silent, proud smile and a wink.
This moment was so small – it lasted maybe 30 seconds and the only thing that came of it was a photo with a college mascot. I quickly went back to my watermelon. But it was beautiful too. How simple it had been for this college freshman to give his little brother a moment he so desperately wanted. It was quite easy in that moment to see the enormous change that was about to hit that family. I was so excited for this 11-year-old, who will now have to forge on fearlessly without his big brother to help him navigate every step of the way. I also felt a pang of sadness for him, but that passed quickly. This transition is such a happy one, really, even if it’s couched in goodbyes. I smiled to myself and tucked that moment away with the one from last year. This one I’ll remember for a while.