Class rings are as myriad as the schools they represent. Some seniors might relegate them to dusty drawers, others might immediately give them away to girlfriends, but at some schools, the senior ring is held in high esteem--not for its monetary value but for what it represents. That's how I saw my high school class ring. That's how I saw it right up to the point it disappeared.
The author Pat Conroy began his novel The Lords of Discipline with a simple, powerful line: "I wear the ring." He went on to explain that, though critical of his school, he adored the friends, the experiences, the ideals the ring represented. I remember placing my own high school ring on my finger during a ceremony that binds seniors to the alumni in a powerful way. That ring is similar to Conroy's in that, despite any faults, the school pulled together classmates who would forever be bound in deep experience. Just like Conroy, I loved that ring.
I wore it to the Senior Ring Mass every year. I wore it on important days for the school. I wore it up to the point that, about 10 years ago, I took it off after a ring ceremony and left it in my car, like an idiot. I have no recollection of why I needed to remove the ring from my finger in my vehicle, but I did. I walked outside the next morning to find my car door open. With the glove box and console rifled, my ring was gone.
Made of Celestrium--amazingly not considered a precious metal--the band has no real monetary value. The ring does not magically transfer the ideals it represents--character, compassion, integrity--to the wearer. Instead, those qualities are reminders embedded within its blue stone, a clarion call to fix what is broken and to stand up after a fall. Those important reminders sound like a bugle to those who wear it, if only we listen.
A few years ago, I had a student who worked 40 hours a week in addition to attending school. His stamina was inspiring. I casually asked him his senior year if he was getting a senior ring and his head snapped to me in response, "Oh, yes sir, it's paid in full. I earned that ring." I remember watching him reach for it during the ceremony.
That same boy died in a car accident three months later. I sat with his mother and sister in the emergency room at UAMS and watched the doctor hand the boy's mother a Ziploc bag with the boy's belongings in it. The blue stone caught my eye as his senior ring weighed down a small corner of the plastic.
Weeks later, the boy's mother appeared unannounced at the school and she presented me his ring. She said she wanted it given to a boy who might not be able to afford one; she wanted her son's memory to live. We placed the ring in a frame with the boy's photo, ready to pull it down should someone need it. To this day, the ring hangs outside the chapel in the school.
I've thought of that boy often. I've thought of the value his mother recognized in his ring. I've thought about little symbols that have such a powerful message.
This year's Senior Ring Mass took place last week. I sat on hard bleachers and watched as a classmate of mine read the excerpt from Pat Conroy aloud, a tradition begun right after the book was published. My wife, in great kindness and empathy, had called Balfour right after the theft of my ring and ordered a new one, a gift she gave me at Christmas all those years ago. I turned that ring over and over again on my finger last week as I listened to Conroy's words. My replacement ring always felt lighter to me, void of the heft that memories provide. It hadn't been there when my friends and I first began reminding ourselves how a man should be.
Last Wednesday, the day after this year's ceremony, I received a text from a man who graduated a year ahead of me. The text had a photo of a Class of '88 ring on it and he captioned it "Irresponsible '88," reviving a class rivalry that spanned decades. Someone had found it buried in a yard. No identifying initials were visible, and the man was helping the person who found it locate the owner. I told him the story of my ring being stolen 10 years ago. A long pause ensued.
"It's yours, SGS."
The person who found the ring cleared away a bit more dirt and my initials appeared clearly marked inside. It had been buried in a yard on a street near my old house. The stranger found my ring on the day of Senior Ring Mass.
A ring in no way matches a well-lived life. A ring's value is insignificant, a minuscule speck compared to the mountain of trust, character, and basic human respect that life requires of us all. As politics continue as a runaway train, as priests are named in horrific and criminal abuse scandals, as a young man's belongings are passed to a grieving mother in a plastic bag, it is obvious that a metal band can't fix the world's most grievous pains.
But to find what was lost gives one hope.
In our most personal moments we hear whispers. If we recognize the strength of our combined humanity, we hear it. If we give fully in friendships, marriages, and every worthwhile relationship, we hear it. If we allow ourselves, we understand what is precious and we hear the whisper of simple peace.
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Steve Straessle, whose column appears every other Saturday, is the principal of Little Rock Catholic High School for Boys. You can reach him at sstraessle@lrchs.org.
Editorial on 09/22/2018