For all of us, it’s a distinct moment in time. A moment of accomplishment. A moment of triumph. A moment of redemption and achievement and success.
It could be the rainiest day of the year, but inside your heart is sunny and bright. You try to remember every single moment, every instance. Those who taught you each fall, winter and spring, are there to see what you have achieved. They are so proud of you. Your family members and friends are in the audience, video cameras and tape recorders at the ready. They wouldn’t miss this moment for the world.
Your best friend steps to the podium, and gives the valedictorian speech. Your friend looks so confident and poised on the stage, and only you know that for the past three nights, your friend has been over at your house, rehearsing the speech and editing it and looking to you for approval. “Did I get this right?” “Does this make sense?” “Should I tell the story about …”
A very important speaker takes the stage now. You want to hear the commencement speech. Sometimes it’s exciting and enthralling. Sometimes it’s as boring as an overcast sky. A million things are racing through your head. What will Monday be like? College life? Residencies? That new job? The future is unknown. But it’s an exciting future.
You don’t want this moment to end. This is a celebration of all your accomplishments, your drive and determination, your achievement against all distractions and deterrents. You give a wry smirk at those who chided you, said that you would never reach this point in time. That the only way you’d be in this building would be by accident. Forget them. They’re petty and small, and you’ve beaten them all.
And for a moment, you wistfully remember those who could not attend today. Those who helped guide you in your youth. Those who were called to glory; those who will always keep you in their hearts. You whisper a soft prayer, thanking them in your soul.
You look to your left and to your right. You’re arranged alphabetically in the graduate area; Carla, the girl to your right, is nervous – her whole family is here, even her aunt who drove all the way from Cincinnati, just to see her graduate. Bruce, the guy to your left, is pensive – next week he makes plans to move all the way to the West Coast, where he will continue his educational journey. This is a new day. A new challenge. They call it a “commencement.” A commencement is a beginning, a new chapter in the book of your life.
Did you remember everything? No, you can’t remember everything. This is a moment out of time. Just hold on to whatever moments you can savor. Keep those memories in your heart. Stamp them as permanent. Never forget them.
Then the names are called. One after the other. Alphabetically. Acker. Anderson. Arthur. Audet. You have a while.
Then your row stands up. It’s time to take the stage.
You walk slowly. It’s not a mad rush. It’s a dignified, slow pace. The last thing you want to do is trip. There are no do-overs at this moment. You walk up to the podium. Bruce goes before you. Carla is behind you.
Your name is called. You walk across the stage.
The diploma is placed in your left hand. With your right hand, you offer a handshake. The offer is accepted. “Congratulations,” you hear.
With that, you nervously take the tassel on your mortarboard and move it to the other side.
And at that very second, your journey is complete. You can now add – for at least as long as you want – two digits and an apostrophe to the end of your name.
You are a graduate.
You have earned a diploma. You have earned a bachelor’s degree. Or a master’s degree. It doesn’t matter what you have earned. What matters is that you have earned that degree. It may have been physically “handed” to you on an engraved parchment, but you worked morning, noon and night to receive that parchment.
Congratulations to the Class of 2011. I wish you all the success in the world, may all your dreams come true, and may your work and deeds inspired all to greatness.
– From Chuck Miller (Street Academy of Albany ’81, Hamilton College ’85).
Chuck The Writer 