Hi, there.
It was
good to see you today, both to interact with you and, simply, to see you participate in the ceremony. You’d
said before that Commencement was something, a side of the school we don’t
normally see—the only time it feels like a “normal” school. You said this with
a surprising fondness, considering that I’d never pegged you as a particularly
normal person, but I’m glad you were there, and I’m glad I went.
I liked
the ceremony and the dim grandeur of the auditorium, and the quirky details of
tradition not all of which were explained. Like, ok, they explained what the mace
was, and someone described the colors of the hoods, but why have hoods to begin
with? And why does academic rigor call for tassels and strange hats and men in robes
that hang past their knees? We don’t need to understand all things consciously.
There are some who make the mistake of too much explication. I say, let the Mystery go unexplained, sign
and signal of deeper Mysteries to be artistically explored and scientifically
plumbed. Let the procession of men and women go by in black, preceded by the
Mace held aloft, the President of the campus coincidentally robed in red like
some academic bishop, everyone else in black with colored ribbons and trim,
variously grand, scholarly, or foppish, let speeches be made and obscure
higher-ups be thanked, and let us be created masters or doctors in turn by the
power vested in incantation. And let the men and women in black process away
again to the chanting oompa oompa of horns.
You were
one of the grand ones. Academic regalia suits you. My mother once said once of
a certain person that he looked as though he had on an “invisible opera cape.”
I don’t remember who she was talking about, and I don’t have a clear idea of
what an opera cape looks like, but in an analogous way, I’ve always thought you
seemed to be wearing an invisible black robe. To see you really dressed that
way looked so right.
I’m not
sure what, if anything, this actually means about you. I don’t think pomp and
circumstance itself is particularly your thing—and you actually looked kind of
bored during the ceremony. Maybe it’s
that something about the look of medieval formality suits you; academic regalia
must be the sartorial first cousin of wizards’ robes (after all, the first
scientists were medieval alchemists), and you do have dried bats in your office. Or at least, you used to.
I sat
around in my own robes noticing these things in part because I was not sure
what else to do. I sat through a ceremony meant to confer upon me the degree of
Master of Science, but I have not finished my thesis yet…and neither have a lot
of other people who sat beside beside me. So what did the ceremony do? What did
it do to me? I feel as though the degree today conferred is floating above my
head in a small, golden cloud, there to follow me around until I finally finish
my thesis and the cloud settles upon me at last. Then, truly I will be robed in
accomplishment.
I should
have walked last year. I could have, and I did not, because I wanted to wait
till I was really finished—but if I waited now till next year, hardly anyone would
be left who knows who I am. So now I’ve given up walking with my own cohort for
nothing—except I was quite proud to walk with the cohort that commenced today. But I was quite torn last year—I could have
gone, and did not, and the whole time my cohort was graduating I walked the
streets of town with a song stuck in my head;
Once
upon a time there was a tavern,
where
we used to raise a glass or two.
Remember
how we’d laugh away the hours
And
dream of all the great things we would do?
It was one of the songs
traditionally sung at my grade-school’s graduation. The song is all about
nostalgia, how the good times are all in the past and the best part of life is
being young and foolish…which is a pretty sick thing to play at an eighth-grade
graduation, if you think about it. At the time I didn’t think about it, except
I knew I liked the song for its fun rhythm and fond associations. And then for
years I didn’t think about it at all, until last year it just popped into my
head, as clearly and instantly as if I’d had a radio in my brain.
From
the door there came familiar laughter
I
saw your face and heard you call my name.
Oh,
my friends, we’re older but no wiser,
For
in our hearts our dreams are still the same.
I’m really glad I’m both older and
wiser than I was when I was thirteen. I was pretty crazy and really depressed
at that point in my life. And while I’m in pretty good spirits these days, I
hope to get wiser than I am today. I don’t think that involves giving up
dreams; it involves using those dreams to do something practical and marvelous.
But I guess that while my friends processed, I joined them in my head with the
old graduation song of my childhood.
Why didn’t I get the actual
graduation march stuck in my head? We played that at 8th grade
graduation, too, after all. Maybe because I didn’t like the song as much. It
reminded me less of graduation in general and more of my 8th grade
graduation particularly, which I did not want to go through. I’d been at the
same school for seven years, and it was part of my world. Intellectually, I understood what was
happening, of course, but emotionally, it felt like I was being arbitrarily
evicted. After all, I had never gone to school in order to achieve anything, I
just went because I was a kid, and kids went to school. For many years, the
graduation march was unbearably sad to me—it’s such a proud, grandly triumphant
song, and it so denied the reality of my
experience that day.
College graduation went rather better.
As an adult, I can and do pursue my education for an actual reason, and I can
be happy and proud when I reach my goal. I was proud of my school, and at the
same time happy to leave it, happy to move on with my life. I heard the song
that time more like it was meant. I kind of like it, now. But Pomp and Circumstance wasn’t the song
that was stuck in my head all day today.
No, I had the theme for Monty Python’s Flying Circus. Wouldn’t
that make a great graduation march? I mean, it’s even done with a horn ensemble,
same as the march they actually played—it’s got a faster beat, though. As my
husband suggested, if we processed in that way, we’d have to do Silly Walks. While
we were waiting in the cafeteria, lined up waiting for the procession to start,
I did started dancing. Did you know that academic robes and bare feet are just the thing to dance in? The tassel and
the big ol’ sleeves go flip-flop, and bare feet slap on the floor, and I just
was having a great old time. At first I sang “It’s the end of the world as we
know it,” but then I changed it to “it’s the end of the line as we know it,”
since our group was indeed at the back, not counting the PhD people. The man
standing next to me in the procession hid his face with his program, muttering
that he doesn’t know me. But he smiled. And then I danced to Monty Python for a
while, not that I sung it, as I can’t usually sing things without words to keep
me organized, but it was in my head clear as anything.
Afterwards, when I thanked you, you
said that this day changes nothing, that we are, first and foremost, friends.
That is true. But never again am I likely to see you dressed like a wizard. And
never again am I likely to find my education directed by such a constellation
of excellent people.
And now for something completely
different!
No comments:
Post a Comment