The Third Degree

I think my oldest son graduated from college this past weekend, but I’m not absolutely sure.
I’m sure he had what it takes, did what it took, and took what they had: but I am still not convinced that the desired transformation took place.
You would think they would have it all worked out by now. You would think that there would be a book – one slim but definitive volume that you could follow, step by step and, at the end, POOF: the transformation would be easily discerned.
You’d think with the cost of college these days, they could give you some kind of guarantee.
It would help if – at the appropriate time, the student changed colors, or grew wings, or spoke in tongues. Instead, underneath the black satin muumuu they all wear for the final act, is much the same kid you sent on their way four years back.
In fact the youth I sent off to college four years ago, wore pants and shoes and a shirt, and the graduate that we un-robed a few days ago wore only shorts and flip-flops and a look of relief.
We sent off a fully dressed kid and got back something, in some ways, less.
That’s a transformation alright, just not the one I was looking for.
Not that I am now looking for someone to blame. No, if mistakes were made, look no further than yours truly.
I can honestly say that when I supposedly graduated over 25 years ago, somebody messed up.
I didn’t know what I was doing. I didn’t know where I was going.
I received a degree in Elaborate Excuses, with a minor in Extra-curricular Activities, and before the ink had dried on my sheepskin I had my very own undergraduate and was dispensing educational advice to him with the ease of a bartender.
I told him he could pretend to drink without actually drinking.
I told him to take Chinese.
If I was to sum up the advice I gave my son as he headed off to college, it would be, ‘don’t smack your lips while you’re eating’, metaphorically speaking. I thought it was that simple. I thought the only thing he had to worry about was overdoing it.
Overdoing it was the only thing I had done well during my college days.
That was one reason I sent my son to a small, prestigious eastern college, instead of the enormous prestigious college I attended. I thought he would have fewer opportunities to overdo it.
And I felt that if anyone could produce an actual graduate – with an actual degree, they could.
I have to say that I am happy with the effort: theirs, not his.
The recent graduation weekend was one long ‘David Copperfield Makes the Statue of Liberty Disappear’ extravaganza.
Nothing that might have contributed to a successful matriculation – as they call it, was left out.
He had several Benedictions recited over him.
They had a Baccalaureate ceremony during which a traditional Sanskrit Hymn was played by a Master Sarod Player and accompanists.
There were a half-dozen Processions in his – and a few hundred other pupils, honor.
I counted at least two or three solemn Invocations.
There were endless speeches, honorary degrees, dire warnings about nuclear proliferation, and a parade of professors in medieval costumes.
They had a Lobster Bake and beer on tap.
They recited a lot of poetry too.
Poetry is a sure sign that someone is attempting to create graduates somewhere nearby.
If my son had suddenly begun to recite poetry, that would have convinced me.
Didn’t happen.
There were also speeches in Latin.
If my son had suddenly started to sign the new song by Maroon 5 – in Latin, that would have convinced me.
Didn’t happen.
Still, according to a translation of one of the Latin speeches recited by the school’s President, my son was no longer a pupil, “but a colleague”, and “all that your instructors have been able to do has been done.”
But that last phrase sounds suspiciously like the small print on a box of cereal: “Sold by weight, not by volume. Some settling of the contents may have taken place.”
That was what I think happened to me, during my college days: I didn’t get any smarter, I just had what I already knew, rearranged.
It also reminds me of the time I was not born again.
A few years after my ‘failed’ graduation I tried for another transformation: I wanted to be born again.
I attended the proper service, waited for the proper moment, raised my hand and asked to be born again.
But it didn’t take.
I told the people at the evangelical church that I didn’t think it had taken, but at first they didn’t believe me.
Just wait they said.
Wait a little longer, they said.
Just a few more days, they promised.
That was in 1985.
Maybe it’s the tassel.
Maybe the difference between a graduate on paper, and someone who really feels as if they have had an educational transformation, is the tassel. 25 years ago I may have forgotten to flip it from one side of my ‘mortar board’, to the other.
Or maybe I flipped it to the wrong side.
At my son’s small, expensive, fabulously landscaped college though, they had all the bases covered. They actually had someone assigned just to make sure all tassels were correctly flipped at the penultimate moment.
Maybe it’s just me. Maybe it’s my faith that’s lacking, not his.
Perhaps parents are physically unable to see what’s plain to everyone else.
After all, it’s in the book. It’s printed on paper. Soon it will be published in a local newspaper.
Maybe the kid actually did it.
All hail the college graduate!