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.
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