Congratulations!

Graduation ceremonies are an exercise in endurance. They last for hours. The rhetoric is overblown, the regalia stuffy, the speakers pompous.  

I go to a graduation ceremony every year. And I love it.

As a faculty member at the niversity of Phoenix, part of my job is attending the annual graduation ceremony.  

By now, the routines are familiar. This year was no different. Before the ceremony, the faculty lined up on both sides of the convention center hallway. We chatted about everyday things – the classes we were teaching, where we’d eat lunch after the ceremony, and how to fasten those mortarboards on our heads. We complained about the hot robes and admired a fellow instructor’s floral-spicy perfume. We tried unsuccessfully to straighten the velvet hoods that hung down our backs in a rainbow of colors. Some of us wished we’d worn more comfortable shoes.

While we waited to march in, the students paraded down the middle of the hallway, getting in place for their procession.  They looked fantastic, in inky black robes with scarlet satin stoles, tassels swishing back and forth from their caps. Some wore gold honor cords. Some tottered on six-inch stilettos while others sported bejeweled mortarboards.

As faculty members, we turned into cheerleaders. We high-fived students. We screamed out, “Congratulations! You did it!”  We hollered and whooped as if we were at a hockey game.

The cheers were sincere. It is thrilling to see a student wearing that cap and gown, when you’ve seen that student struggle with APA guidelines or thesis statements. It’s exciting to see a student who’s attended class every week, even during a tough pregnancy or while taking care of a terminally ill parent. It’s exciting to see a student in that line who’s spent time in rehab or been wounded in Afghanistan. It’s exciting to see a student graduate when you know he is a single father to a handicapped child.

Teaching adult students is a unique privilege, because we teach students who have real-life problems and challenges. We get to see them overcome those problems and succeed. So we clapped for them. And cheered. And fist-bumped and high-fived and hugged.

The students lined up at the door into the theater. Now it was our turn to march, down the long aisle, to the strains of Elgar’s “Pomp and Circumstance.” As we walked past the students, they returned the favor of cheering and clapping. They shouted out, “Thank you!” They waved and smiled.

“Pomp and Circumstance” played on, as students, faculty, and staff filed into the theater, its tune familiar and stately. I knew the pompous speeches were coming, along with corny jokes and clichés. I knew the list of graduates would be long. I also knew why I love to teach. I straightened my mortarboard and headed down the long stairway to the front of the room.

Love and Marriage

It’s a girl! Well, actually, a beautiful young woman, but “it’s a woman!” doesn’t quite have the same ring. The point is, there is a new girl … er, woman … in the Turner family.

Ethan and Andrea married on May 10, 2014. They dated for four years, so this wasn’t exactly unexpected. But definitely welcome.

The wedding was joyful. The groom was handsome; the bride was beautiful. The weather was sunny and warm - the snow waited until the next day. (Yep, snow in May.) Lots of family members attended, and we had a fantastic time talking, laughing, eating, and sharing memories. The food was great (did I mention both Ethan and Andrea are foodies?) and the flowers elegant (did I mention Andrea has a way with decorating).

Weddings are filled with family, flowers, food, along with a few tears, mishaps, and surprises.  Even butterflies in this case. Of course, it helps when the reception is held at the Butterfly Pavilion. Happy couple, happy family. What more can you ask?

Andrea is a welcome addition to our family. She is lovely and soft-spoken (not the norm in our family). She’s an awesome cook. She is smart and talented. And she loves my son.

Congratulations, Ethan and Andrea! 

Music, the Universal Language?

          Music is not the universal language. You know this if you’ve ever listened to another culture’s music, wrinkled your nose, and said, “I don’t get it.” (I have the same response when I listen to some of my own culture’s popular music, but that’s a separate issue.) But a few months ago, I had an experience where music blurred the cultural lines.         

         I was in Barcelona, Spain. We wanted to see the Palace of Catalan Music, a stunning concert hall and showpiece of Modernista architecture. The best way to see it? A concert.

          I chose a cobla concert. I’d never heard of a cobla. It’s an ensemble that plays traditional Catalan music. The back row of the ensemble looks familiar – eight brass instruments, including trumpets and trombones. The front row is less recognizable. The instruments, called shawms, look vaguely familiar – like oboes or clarinets – but their sound is somewhere between a reedy oboe and a kazoo. The oddest instrument is a flabio. The musician plays it with the left hand, while beating a drum with her right hand. Oh, and by the way, the drum is attached to her left elbow. Talk about coordination. Coblas play the music for the sardana dance, a nationalistic dance done by the Catalonian people.

          I’d read my guidebook so I knew that nationalism is rampant in Catalonia. In fact, Catalonia doesn’t want to be part of Spain at all. The quarrel between Catalonia and Spain has existed for a long time, pretty much since the two countries were joined with the marriage of Isabella and Ferdinand in the fifteenth century. Evidence of this nationalistic fervor fluttered throughout Barcelona – red and yellow-striped Catalonian flags waving from tiny apartments, palatial buildings, and homes.

          With this knowledge, I sat back in the Palace of Catalan Music. At first, I just gazed at the beautiful, bold concert hall. This place is an architecture masterpiece, with opulent sculptures, a massive stained glass skylight that spills rich color throughout the hall, and intricate mosaic pillars.         

The concert began, and the sound surprised me. Was it harsh? Or was it an ancient sound? Just what were those instruments anyway? I decided to sit back and enjoy, like the rest of the audience, who perched on the edges of their seats.

          Then, after intermission, a choir came onto stage. Ah, something familiar. Choirs I understand. The singers began a rousing chorus. Of course, I couldn’t understand the words, but it sounded like a cross between a folk song and a national anthem.

In truth, the choir was just okay. The balance was a little off, and the intonation wasn’t perfect. These were clearly not professionals. I tried to read the program (written entirely in Catalan) and figured out – I think – that this was a community choir, comprised of choirs from several communities.

          As the songs continued, audience members began singing along with the chorus. Nobody seemed to care about the so-so balance or the predictable melodies. The audience cheered like they were at the World Cup. Some wept openly during some of the more plaintive songs, and before long, out came the familiar red and yellow-striped flags. Some audience members waved them demurely from their seats. Others stood proudly in the aisles. One chubby woman pounced on top of her seat and held the flag proudly above her head.  

          Well, when in Barcelona … I started singing too. Of course, I didn’t know the words, but I faked it. I stood and cheered with the Barcelonians and wished I had a flag to wave. Right then, music was a universal language, and I could understand the fervor of these people and feel the love they had for their country.

          I still don’t think music is the universal language. But that chilly night in Barcelonia, for a couple of hours, the cliché became reality and it was.