I wrote this about a year ago, soon after my college graduation of June 2010 but didn’t really have a forum to post it. Believe it or not, I trimmed down the cynicism. So now it may look like I’m a pessimist, but at least it no longer looks like I’m beginning a transition to Goth (I don’t look good in black). Anyway, given it is graduation season, I felt now would be an appropriate time to post this. If ustedes (you’ll get the joke in a minute) have any good graduation stories of your own or would like to express things that annoy you about education in general, please share in the Comment section after the post.
If there’s one thing I learned in college, other than Queen Elizabeth I was a bigger bitch than she let on and 20th century authors proved greatly adept at suicide, it is that intelligence is currency.
For those that don’t know, I recently graduated from UCLA. Being a new grad, I am quickly learning that my proverbial meal ticket has just about expired. Previously, people would sort of worship the ground I stand on because I went to a well-known and well-desired institution. Now, though, the primary fascination with me isn’t where I earned my degree, but what I plan on doing with my life now that the pseudo-real world of school is over. While others go to school to become doctors or lawyers or teachers, I decided to major in English, which really means I majored in Poverty. I hate kids, so teaching is out of the question and, quite honestly, I don’t like working all that much.
But before I delve too much into myself, I want to return to my rather astute point regarding intellect being really valuable in college, or something. A great way to discover the intellectual requirement of certain social situations is the Movie Test. The Movie Test is quite simple: get comfortable with a group of people and start talking movies and get a feel for what types of movies said group enjoys; since everyone loves movies this shouldn’t be all that difficult to accomplish. A typical high school answer is probably as follows: “I don’t like any of that boring crap like There Was Blood or whatever the hell that one with the oil dude is called. It’s all about 300, Transformers, and those funny ass movies with Adam Sandler.” Now the uppity college response: “Well, lately I’ve been more into foreign or independent film. I find that film from Iran exposes problems that remain shockingly relevant in America. The shadowing and overall mis-en-scene give the films a truly noir texture. If I’m in more a light-hearted mood, I like to flick on the VHS (DVDs are fascist; screw the man, I’m not changing my format) and pop in some David Lynch or, if I’m really starved for something simple, Coen Brothers. Hey by the way there’s a rally this week supporting the three-toed sloth in the Amazon. Their habitat is falling apart because of...” You get the point. The high school student tells it like it is because their social status is not at stake based on their intelligence, whereas the college student is either BS-ing or a pretentious douche, both of which are acceptable at the college level. In college, especially at big universities, the need to feel important and smart is as vital as oxygen to humans, blood to vampires, and the souls of children for Nancy Pelosi. It is in college where one begins to feel their intellectual mortality, a feeling that heightens when one gets closer to graduation. The belief that you are normal and don’t really belong amongst your peers is psychologically damaging, hence the belief that one needs to lie about their cerebral powers or overachieve so that it becomes obvious to outsiders you matter.
Nowhere on the college scene is this radical overachievement more perceivable than the sheer, um, epicness of graduation ceremonies. My graduation experience, for optimum annoyance, was divided into two days. The first day of the celebration included just about every major. At this event, nobody receives diplomas. That is reserved for the satellite ceremonies, held either the day after or two days after the (I don’t even know what to call it so for the sake of ease…) Big Ceremony.
Big Ceremony kicks off with about 6 hours (numbers may be exaggerated; sorry, I’m not Charles Dickens so don’t expect a literary journey) of students filing into Drake Stadium on the Northwestern part of campus, cattle-like. In a sense, we are being lead into the slaughterhouse, only here we are fattened up on dreams and promises of great futures. I elect to enter with my friends from the Political Science department because English people are weird, not to mention some of the primary perpetrators of intelligence-related douchebaggery. After the bovinistic herd settles in their seats, the BC show officially begins with a tribute to John Wooden, legendary basketball coach that passed away a week before commencement. I’m sure the tribute is lovely, but I’m much too concerned with the colossal program, which includes names of all the graduates (Oh look! There’s me!), keynote speakers and most importantly the itinerary so we all know approximately the length of this thing.
After some generic graduation stuff, the student speaker, whose name I’ve since forgotten, delivers a rousing speech about how life after college is confusing, we should do what we want, and, oh yeah, support the federal Dream Act because this is absolutely my platform to express my political beliefs about current immigration policies. Following Generic Student Speaker is keynote speaker Gustavo Arellano (who?), “known” for his “Ask a Mexican” column in OC Weekly. Even though this sounds like a bad sketch from George Lopez’ talk show, Arellano delivered a rousing speech about how life after college is confusing, we should do what we want, and, oh yeah, let me refer to “you all” in the Spanish word “ustedes,” because this is absolutely my platform to express my political beliefs about current immigration policies.
After more talk about life after college being confusing, some important UCLA people begin announcing the different departments represented at BC. It becomes evident that after our specific department is called, we are supposed to stand/cheer/moo/hug friends/moo/wave to parents/adjust udders. During this procedure, I continually thumb through the program and look at names. It is here, on these sheets of paper, the notion of graduation becomes bizarre and slightly disturbing. For one, I see how extraordinarily ordinary I am. I didn’t graduate with Latin honors but can now clearly see how many people just in my alphabetic vicinity have some combination of summa or laude. Looking deeper, it becomes evident that UCLA could not give less of a crap about us. We are only good to them if we make timely payments for tuition and housing. This whole charade of graduating is itself a mockery. I just paid $26 for a flimsy cap and gown I’m going to toss when I get home. The festivities are, I suppose, the least the school could do for raising tuition and cutting classes. These actions are not necessarily the fault of the UC system; these problems stem from Sacramento. Nevertheless, as the cattle files out of Drake Stadium to greet enthusiastic parents, grandparents, and friends, one cannot help but wonder, “what’s the point? Great, now I get to enter a flailing job market and compete with these Summa Cum A-holes that are more driven than me.” Yet, by social standards, I need to become debt-ridden for the sake of a piece of paper that denotes I took enough credits without failing. And this piece of 8½ x 11 is going to get me places? Gustavo and Generic Student were right: life after college is confusing.
***
Remember when I was talking about intelligence being collegiate currency? Oh good, because there is nowhere I have felt as poor as the English Department’s commencement ceremony.
Prior to the event, taking place on campus at the Los Angeles Tennis Center, the graduates line up on a smaller court adjacent to the actual venue. I arrive fairly close to the start of the commencement because, again, I don’t talk to English people and I don’t want to start now. It’s not that these people are mean; it’s just they think since they know what a spondee is and can describe Zora Neale Hurston’s use of free indirect discourse they feel they understand society’s emotional workings. A story near and dear to my heart took place in a Shakespeare class during my first quarter at UCLA. After reading Othello (or maybe Antony and Cleopatra; whatever, doesn’t matter) one girl raises her hand and declares that, after reading the play, “Shakespeare is truly a god among ants.” Here’s the kicker: nobody laughed in her face. In fact, I would bet my soul 95% of the class agreed with her. Shakespeare is a great writer and all, but a god? I prefer a great writer who plagiarized most of his material. Plus, Anne Hathaway (his wife) has been speculated to also be his cousin. Nice job Billy, you bagged your cousin and inspired the most overrated movie of the 1990s (Shakespeare in Love, which criminally defeated Saving Private Ryan and The Thin Red Line for Best Picture in 1998).
I understand the point the girl was making. While she said “Shakespeare is truly a god among ants,” she really meant “Hey everyone, I’m smart and complicated because I appreciate Shakespeare’s puns and I like to read 10 hours a day at Coffee Bean because I understand the voice of modern society is in books published over 100 years ago.” For anyone that majored in English, film, or other artsy things, they know these people. And if they don’t, then they were these people. The problem with encountering these people, in my case, is that they will not let me be as smart as them. Their lives are literature, while mine is more diverse; the only reason I majored in English is because I like reading in my free time and I’ve been told throughout my life I’m a good writer. That’s it. Unlike the chick in my Shakespeare class, I don’t really care what these authors have to say. I read, ponder for a couple minutes, then flick on Sportscenter. I don’t sit around thinking of crap to spew at the professor the next day. Their world, a world of “higher understanding,” is off-limits to me because I don’t put in the effort they do, effort I see as more or less pointless.
Needless to say, I don’t want to associate myself with this girl and her kind. So as I enter the court to line up and wait to walk in the Tennis Center, I scout out a good safe spot. I line up in front of this guy with shades that I recognize from one of my classes. We don’t talk even though we are both obviously alone. It’s better that way. I don’t care about his plans after college and I would rather play Tetris on my phone anyway. Another advantage to planting myself next to him: I don’t look like a loser. As you have probably guessed, I’m worried about my perception to others, even around those obsessed with literary masturbation. Guy With Shades becomes my only option in my catch-22. I don’t want to talk to anyone, or look like a dork, which would happen if I stood next to some beret-wearing dude with a copy of Finnegan’s Wake. Guy With Shades is normal looking enough to where it is acceptable to stand next to him, alone.
Upon entering, I cannot help but feel like a Roman gladiator; the funny costumes we all wear and the screaming, almost rabid supporters create this allusion. Yet, it’s no allusion we pretty much are the evening’s entertainment. I half expect the Dean of English to show thumbs up or down as to whether we have truly earned our degrees. The graduates, unlike gladiators, will not literally kill each other Russell Crowe style. Yet, the competition is clearly visible, even if the battle is undeclared. Students wearing different colored cords declare they received awards, recognition, or were just members of certain clubs. Battle garments. Even the shoes or tie one wears declare they are socially superior to others. I, naturally, fall somewhere in the middle (but at least I wasn’t the girl who forgot her gown, but was later rescued by her mom who gave it to an usher to give to her). I wear just a cap and gown. No medals, no awards. I’m not even wearing a tie. I feel the glares from my bloodthirsty rivals.
After we arrive to our seats, we remain standing for the faculty, all of whom are dressed even stranger than us. All professors are dressed differently. There’s green gowns, orange gowns, funky octagon-ish hats and I think even one professor had a scepter. This is feeling less like a commencement ceremony and more like a wizard reunion.
I recognize three of the professors and am disappointed when one of them isn’t Dumbledore. The first is Professor Little, a Shakespeare professor acting as the MC of the event. The other two are Professor Braunmuller (one of the leading Shakespeare scholars in the country, not to mention he could probably win a Mr. Magoo lookalike contest) and Professor Maniquis (Early Romantic Literature), who I can only describe as a man who looks like an Asian that looks like an Asian Powers Boothe. I’m pretty sure he’s not Asian, but still. A trend I notice during the ceremony is that Braunmuller and Maniquis, the latter following Jack Nicholson’s lead by wearing sunglasses at dusk/night, will lean over and whisper sweet nothings to each other almost constantly, nodding approval for those students they remember kissing their ass the past 4 years. Thumbs up.
It doesn’t take long to figure out if any of our speakers are good. I typically expect them to suck, since they mainly talk about themselves and waste twenty minutes, twenty minutes I may as well have spent reading their Wikipedia page. From my experiences, the only alternative commencement speakers to those that talk about themselves are the ones who say a bunch of banal phrases like “we can be whatever we want to be.” You know, stuff every kindergarten teacher says. Faculty speaker Professor Cunningham is this type of speaker. Although her speech was commonplace, she scored points in my book for possessing a voice that made me fall in love, love in the way somebody loves their grandmother. I secretly hoped she baked cookies for the graduates. She tells us just because we are English majors we can still become astronauts (Sally Ride) and governors (New York’s Mario Cuomo). She tells us we can do anything we want, but fails to mention that’s the case only if it’s outside the world of English. Professor Cunningham’s words are momentarily uplifting, until one realizes that Sally Ride double majored, also receiving a degree in physics, from Stanford no less. Meanwhile, Governor Cuomo received his law degree after his English degree. Her speech suggests that these professions, unlikely to attain anyway, are really only possible if you had some foresight and didn’t just plan on majoring in English.
As the ceremony lurches on, I receive texts from family to turn around, pose, wave, and overall just look stupid. Apparently, they are growing frustrated I didn’t instinctually do this in the first place. So, alas, I try to act excited, turn around, give them a few quick snapshots, then quickly about face and pseudo-listen to the proceedings while I read through the program for about the ninth time. By this point, the keynote speaker has taken the stage. Julie Corman, wife of famous film producer Roger Corman, gives us more hope and promises for bright futures. To be honest, I wasn’t really paying attention for her speech. I was either zoning out or wondering why Julie Corman, also a producer, was the keynote speaker. A quick look at her IMDb page makes it clear her work generally ends up on SyFy channel and only witnessed by shut-ins (though Dinoshark, a horror film about a, get this, prehistoric dinoshark killing tourists in Puerto Vallarta, Mexico after escaping from a melting Arctic glacier, is destined to go down as a classic of modern television).
Shortly after Mrs. Corman’s rousing speech, the ceremony finally turns toward the part when students walk on stage and receive their dip – er – nothing actually. The diploma is not mailed until UCLA makes sure classes are actually passed and, more importantly, all fees paid. Essentially, we wait around to hear someone pronounce, or mispronounce, our name.
The procedure is simple: ushers silently inform us to line up on the perimeter of the stadium’s interior. Mercifully, there are two professors reading names, meaning we get to leave doubly quick. By now, all the parents are going crazy. This is the moments their Nikons and tripods have been waiting for. And just in case our parents proved worthless photographers, UCLA kindly provided three photographers at various points in the line, the last one as we shake a faculty member’s hand on stage (pictures can be purchased via internet for a nominal fee, of course). Waiting patiently for my row to be dubbed fit to graduate, I can’t help but notice the students that are called before me. A lineage of double majors, Latin honors, and graduating-with-honors tramples the stage in organized single file, allowing the stadium to hear their achievements. Some of those double majors come in fields like physics or math or stuff I can’t even pronounce. Those are the future Sally Rides of America. Those are the students that will grace headlines with their presence, that will make a difference in whatever field they choose or whatever Master’s program they enter.
After a seeming eternity, my name is called and I accomplish my goal of not falling on my ass walking across the stage. On the way back to my seat, I notice the happy faces on my family. Thumbs up. And don’t get me wrong, I am proud of the school I graduated from and the fact I graduated from college at all. It is not lost on me that most people never have the opportunity to go to college. For that, I’m truly lucky. But I liken myself a realist. Walking back to my seat, I see my gladiatorial competitors, those I will scrap and claw and contend with for similar jobs. Yet, they are equipped with swords and axes, whereas I possess a squirt gun, a degree with no extra successes or even an internship to hide behind. My hunt will not be hopeless, but it will be more strenuous.
We all exit the stadium through a tunnel of faculty (I wished they had enclosed the tunnel with their arms and we got to run through, similar to how parents would do it after a soccer game when you’re 11), a nice touch so that we can thank professors we may have had a particularly close bond with. I bypass the professors and choose to wait for my family outside. I imagine the air would be cold if I wasn’t draped in Supreme Court attire. I spend five minutes waiting alone, waiting before my family moves with the crowd, cattle-like, out of the stadium. I relish those five minutes, because when they’re up, after receiving words of congratulations marking the official end of my life as a student, expectations change and being a full time student is no longer a viable excuse for not making something of one’s self.
