Having a child finish his or her academic education is one of the happiest moments in a parent's life, but the recent graduation of one of my offspring was about to become the worst day of my life because of one of the speakers.
The atmosphere before the event was the same as so many times before: proud parents and grandparents competing for the seats closest to the stage, young people in their best clothes taking selfies while flirting with each other, while the janitor and the "smart" student finished testing the microphone and the projector.
The event went on, as usual, with the usual thank-you speeches, the ayes about how we have grown up, the inside jokes at which outsiders can only smile stupidly, and the round of applause that goes up and down after each nomination and investiture of scholarships.
About two and a half hours later, when most of us were no longer feeling our butts and the prostatics had not been able to avoid publicly manifesting their ailment, the speech of the person in charge of the academic thing began. As he approached the microphone, his eyes sparkled brighter than Michael Scott's in The Office in such circumstances. It was his moment and he knew it. The bromance he was about to unleash on us in honor and glory was going to be of biblical dimensions. I decided to take the opportunity to close my eyes and rest, as the rush to not be late for the event had prevented me from taking my traditional afternoon nap. But the speaker's words kept hitting me: clichés, irritating diction sprinkled with crutches, unfunny jokes, allusions to extemporaneous topics?
I looked at the clock and the second hand seemed to have stopped. The tingling in the right leg had already passed to the amputated level. The phantom limb was sending out signals, however, as the knee was digging in with that peak of the front seat molding. I glanced left and right, looking for a possible emergency exit, but the long line of guests on either side made it impossible to escape without becoming the center of attention in the auditorium. The lack of air conditioning gave me a feeling of suffocation and an uncomfortable excess of sweating. My heart began to race to critical levels. The speech, which I heard already distorted and echoing, continued to string together inane phrases: "we have lived through a pandemic", "the future is yours"....
"Bastaaaaaa!" -I shouted as I struggled to my feet (I remind you that I was medically lame at this point). "For God's sake, I can't take it anymore, please stop it!" I exclaimed to the astonished gaze of my wife and mother-in-law. The whole audience turned to me, gladly, putting aside the cell phone they had been consulting for a while, because at last something interesting had happened in the last half hour.
"There is no right! -I continued. We have come here to celebrate a party, to spend some time rejoicing with our families for the achievements of our children. But you have taken advantage of the fact that we are a captive audience, that out of politeness and out of respect for our children we put up with whatever it takes, to give us an unbearable bore. I want you to know that it is unworthy that a person like you, who represents an educational institution, has so little education as not to have minimally prepared a few words that say something. Stop it, for God's sake!
I had not finished sobbing this last sentence when the support of my dumb leg failed and I fell from the top of the auditorium where I was sitting to the stalls. The shock of the fall woke me up with a jolt, coinciding with the applause that the audience, oblivious to my reverie, gave to the speaker who had just finished his speech.
I took the opportunity to stand up and irrigate, this time for real, my lower extremities while applauding, with tears in my eyes, the end of that unforgettable speech. The octogenarian who was sitting next to me, clapping her hands with elbows to my belly, let out an ironic "in time of melons, short the sermons".
And this was, in short, the phrase on which I wanted to base my article on homilies today, but I have run out of space. So I have nothing more to say. Just that if this summer, at Mass, during preaching, you see a man stand up in the pew and shout "¡Bastaaaaaaaa!", don't listen to me. It's just a dream.
Journalist. Graduate in Communication Sciences and Bachelor in Religious Sciences. He works in the Diocesan Delegation of Media in Malaga. His numerous "threads" on Twitter about faith and daily life have a great popularity.
