Well, like most things Hungarian, the descriptions are not what the reality is. In this case I was surprised greatly, and deeply, and all in a good way.
All I really knew was that there was this ceremony in which the students are presented with their class ribbons: a band of cloth with their years at the gymnázium... 2006-2011 for the students with the extra year, an intensive 9th grade , 2007-2011 for the others. And then I heard that there were dances, actually two dances by each class group (5 class groups in all), so there would be a total of ten dance presentations, and I understood that one of them would be formal--a waltz in tuxedos and ball gowns.
So I show up at school for this gig, turns out I was an hour early, but that was ok, I was in no rush to be anywhere or do anything. People started gathering around 3:30, and I went in to the sports arena around 3:45, finding that the general seating area was already pretty crowded, but not concerned because I knew I had a reserved seat. Turns out it was in the front row-- not the front front row, but the seating was in a largish C, so i was in front of one of the arms of the C.
Things started out in somewhat formal fashion, a greeting, the entrance of the senior class, in their class groups, dressed in the standard formal school dress--black suits for boys, black skirt and navy-style white blouse for the girls. They stood in formation, one of my English colleagues gave a speech (i think it was something about how the faculty is proud of them and wishes them all the best), people stood and sang the National Hymn (I was prepared--I got a student to write the text for me in my notebook so I could genuinely sing along), there was a poem (by Goethe in Hungarian translation), and then each senior was awarded the ribbon. They do this in a clever fashion: the ribbon is already pinned on their lapels, but only one side.... the class advisor then flips the loose end of the ribbon over and fastens it with the extra pin. Then the advisor shakes the student's hand. If the advisor is female, then the student is also kissed on both cheeks. If the advisor is male, then the female students are kissed, but the male students get only a handshake. Then the students processed out.
Then there was a pause of about 20 minutes. People milled around, said hello, some stepped outside for a smoke, others went to the toilet. Then things started up again.
What followed was a combination of high school musical and ballet. The groups did musical numbers: a charleston, a country-line dance, a medley from Grease, a medly of sailor chanteys, and a medley of American football rah-rah songs. The classes had hired professional choreographers to help them plan the dances and had been rehearsing for some time, some of them for months. The Grease number was very complex, with a number of the moves close to those of the film. The charleston reminded me of a production I saw several years ago of The Boy Friend, maybe at CCC in Cincinnati.
The formal numbers were not as demanding, more a corps de ballet thing, with swirls and twirls, stately, flowing. But I was looking not at the whole thing like I would if I were attending a ballet, but rather I was looking at individuals, these young men and ladies who have been in my classes during the last year or so, and seeing them not as the pains in the butt they often have been but instead as elegant and secure adults, stepping a bit cautiously but still bravely into a world that is hoping anxiously to be delivered by them.
There is a young woman that I know only by sight, she has some kind of leg deformity and walks a bit clumsily. She was in the middle of this group, dressed in her formal gown, dancing gamely with the rest, and I could not help but watch her especially, anxious lest she stumble and cause a hiccup in the dance. And her partner, whom I have had in class and whom I know to be a most serious and diligent student. He paid her as much attention as anyone could ask for, constantly looking her in the face, making sure that she was ok, providing every ounce of support for her that he could muster. They pulled it off without a hitch.
During these dances I would notice this young man, that young woman, amazed at how secure they seemed. It was like the MayDay even at MICDS when my daughter Meredith was there. I saw all those young teenage girls transformed at one stroke into lovely young women.
When the final dance was over, the last of the applause fading away, the music started up again. Viktor, who was sitting next to me, explained that it was traditional for the seniors to dance with their parents. How extraordinary I thought, and suddenly I became more moved emotionally than I expected. Yes, I am a stranger here. Yes, I do not know their language, and I never will, not really. But I know enough to know the language of a young man dancing with his mother, a father with his daughter, and then a young woman with her mother. It is a language beyond ... beyond the power of my poor electronic blip to transmit. For a while at least I knew that I was privileged to be here.
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