Examiner column for May 25.
It starts in sixth grade with an assembly where students sing and play instruments and feel butterflies at the thought of going to a larger school. Every three or four years thereafter, successful students are treated to a ceremony similar to that sixth grade ritual. By graduate school, it has lost its charm—which is why most graduate degrees are awarded by the postal service.
Why do we continue to flock to these rites of passage? Even before I attended 25 high school graduations—including my own and my son’s—I found those ceremonies of dubious value. I reluctantly went to my college ceremony, but skipped the larger university-wide one that same day. I also took a pass when that same university conferred a masters and Ph.D. in my name. At the time, attendance seemed pointless.
Yet with my first teaching job I purchased doctoral robes and a hat from my alma mater so I wouldn’t have to wear the cheesy, plastic-like black robes lent to faculty of the high school where I taught. Why not take advantage of the lovely blue color of my school’s robes, and elevate the event beyond its normal tackiness?
There’s no denying that the speeches at most graduations are clichéd, repetitive—sometimes even clones of one given before. (A Virginia politician was speaker at Oakton High School’s graduation twice, and gave the identical speech both times.) And waiting as the fake diplomas are handed out can become excruciating with large numbers. (“You mean we’re only on H? We’ll never reach Z!”)
But after numerous ceremonies, I now recognize that graduation has almost nothing to do with the graduate, nor with the faculty who dutifully attend ceremonies they have practically memorized. It’s all about those who supported the graduate; they keep this ritual alive.
Waiting as the alphabet progresses oh-so-slowly is not boring for families; they are counting down until the moment when the only name that matters is read. If they are lucky, their graduate has a name towards the end of the alphabet, when the applause increases exponentially—making it appear that all the popular students have names beginning with W, Y, or Z.
Some years ago I discussed this ritual with my George Mason University writing class since half of them were about to graduate. Some were thinking of skipping the ceremony. I told them I’d done the same thing in 1982 for my Ph.D., and that my mother--who lived on the opposite coast--had wanted to fly out for the ceremony. I poo-pooed her suggestion, telling her it was meaningless and boring.
She died suddenly six months later, and I have always wished I could take back that jaded moment when I denied her the pleasure of seeing me graduate. Attending graduation means never having to regret not going.
To all families of graduates, I wish you a happy day celebrating the conclusion of this round of sacrifices, made in the name of whatever degree will be conferred. To faculties, I wish you courage in the face of boredom—even if you’ve heard the speeches before. And to graduates everywhere, I wish you the wisdom to realize that graduation is not about you.
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