What Happens at the Country Club, Stays at the Country Club

For my middle school graduation, my school had generously arranged for us to have a  “celebration” at a country club. Bougie, I know, and an idea that could only lead to disaster. The event started at 5:00 pm, and we all felt like distinguished elites, showing up in our fresh haircuts and collared shirts. We mingled and talked about current events and the economy as we partook in our gourmet hot dogs, with relishes, of course – this was a serious event. But the conversation soon shifted to the notable absentee of the evening: Anthony, the class clown and the butt of all our jokes, famous throughout the school for his erratic behavior and lack of social awareness. He had not ended the year academically as he probably hoped, and rumors began circulating that his poor performance meant he had been banned from the event. When he finally showed up at 6:30, we all rejoiced, mobbing his car and forcing him to climb out through the sunroof, then parading him across the club as we carried him on our shoulders.

What followed was 45 minutes of Anthony being the absolute star of the show, the topic of every conversation, before all the excitement led to a predictable rush of blood to his head. After drinking one too many lemonades on the golf course, Anthony inexplicably turned around and peed. A collective 10 seconds of paralyzing shock passed, and every middle schooler who had just witnessed what happened ran away screaming. The adults could only stand, mouths agape, attempting to process what had unfolded in front of their eyes. Given the wide availability of bathrooms and complete lack of an attempt to hide what had just happened, the randomness of Anthony’s decision meant word of this event spread through the club like a wildfire. Within 15 minutes he had been escorted off the premises. 

Outraged by this complete violation of his human rights, my friends and I decided to do whatever we could to ensure our hero was returned. Inspired by Dr. King and Gandhi, we decided to stage our own peaceful protest, leading to a march across the club followed by the announcement that we were locking ourselves in the nearest bathroom  a symbolic maneuver, given the situation  and would not leave until Anthony had been freed. We mentally prepared ourselves to spend days in this stall, recognizing that this struggle was about something greater than each one of us. It was our duty to fight against this injustice, and the lessons from history taught us that eventually the evil powers-that-be would eventually cave to our demands. 

Needless to say, a single-stall bathroom is not designed to hold 20 middle schoolers, and the emanating body heat quickly turned the room into a sauna. When a janitor finally unlocked the door and forced us out, we all quietly looked to the floor as we shuffled our way out of the bathroom. Outside the bathroom, we cursed our failure (“wHAt thE frEAk mAn”), stifling the relief we felt about being freed from that furnace.

The rest of the event was kind of a blur. Without Anthony, the party felt incomplete and meaningless, a graduation not really worth celebrating. How could we enjoy ourselves when our hero had just been taken away from us? We sat around, drowning our sorrows in Orange Fanta, as we contemplated the injustice of it all, coming to terms with the fact that we were leaving our middle school bubble and entering into a cruel new world. When our parents showed up, we promised to not say a word what happens at the country club stays at the country club, and Anthony’s secret was safe with us.  

However, we were not made aware of the fact the club did not take kindly to our shenanigans, sending a strongly worded email to the school, which was then forwarded to our parents, explaining exactly what happened, followed by the fact that we were not welcome back anytime soon. Despite my explanations about the injustice committed, my parents tended to see the situation my school's way  "those resistant to progress, status-quo-loving so-and-so’s" and I was told that I was raised to be above this rowdy behavior.  

When I thought about my middle school graduation I expected a very posh and glamorous party, filled with polite mingling and filet mignon. Instead I got a chaotic, pissed-filled, bathroom-protest mess. It was even better than I could have ever imagined.