Chapter One: Graduation

The brand new white flats cut bleeding blisters in the backs of my ankles and the outdated air conditioning could do little against the early Tennessee heat. The doors in eight directions have been propped open for the better part of the day and will continue to be for the foreseeable future, coaxing any and all artificial cold out into the harsh sun to be swiftly reheated. Even if the dial did not show 90 degrees the combined heat of nearly fifteen hundred people alone would likely be more than the outdated air system could handle. Add in the circus tent hanging off my shoulders, the proximity to my chair neighbors, and the fear that any wind or fans would blow my freshly curled hair out of place, and the heat becomes an inescapable adversary.

The scene was like a sauna. A stiff, formal sauna that smelled of basketballs and perspiration. Hiding among the other background smells including hair spray, stale popcorn, and the dust off of the oversized tarp on the floor, olfactory hints of the powerful thunderstorm inching its way closer and closer were making themselves more and more known, first to the farmers in the auditorium and then to the others. The barely perceptible change in pressure teases the promise of a drop in temps accompanied by strong, pleasant winds and a break from the over enthusiastic sun that had been baking the magnolia blossoms into brittle, slightly yellowed chips, more like fossils than flowers in this uncharacteristically early heatwave. For more than two weeks, the sun has been sucking up all of the water and the eastern winds take it somewhere else. Finally, we will benefit from solar theft and relocation. Arkansas won’t notice the loss; rain has been keeping that state plenty humid.

Even though the storm is now barely perceptible in the air, nobody has any concerns about the rain making mascara run or the distant lightning posing an electric threat. Instead, everyone is far more concerned with how low the sun is already setting in the sky. Mothers attempt to count the heads on the covered basketball court trying to determine if there will still be enough natural light when everyone finally has the chance to escape the bowl-shaped sardine can swelling with the heat to take decent pictures. Graduation takes place the Saturday immediately after finals week. Most students won’t know their final grades when they walk across the stage, and will experience the whiplash of being in the thick of finals and submitting last minute assignments straight to the culmination ceremony of years of work with pomp, circumstance, friends, family, and stress-acne. As the tradition carries on, there is a peculiar energy: a palpable combination of the appropriate anticipation and excitement and restless boredom. The announcer will carefully, thoughtfully announce each name, but everyone only really cares about one or two.

The graduate ceremony is the worst. It takes place the night before the undergraduate ceremonies in the afternoon on the last Friday of finals week. A few graduates will have taken a final earlier the same day. It is less personal, more pageantry. All of the graduates are, naturally, older than they were during their undergraduate. Many have children, and most have jobs they have to get back to the next day. The master’s students look at the first four rows of doctoral students with a sliver of hatred they know is misplaced. For those who intend to pursue their doctorate, there is an unashamed envy of being done. Done with the dissertation. Done with the assignments. Done with professors. For those who do not intend to chase the ultimate terminal degree, there is the knowledge that they are sharing their biggest accomplishment with people who have accomplished something greater. The doctors outshine the masters. The doctoral graduates do not notice though. The front rows are teeming with imposter syndrome, remnants of the morning’s hangovers, and student debt: the three ingredients involved in creating enormous accomplishment.

The doctoral students are the first to walk. One after another, one at a time. Two rows of students stand up at one time to wait in line for the stage. When the third and fourth rows of new doctors finally stand, a silent dread fills the room. Mothers start abandoning all hope of having the sun present at the after party, spouses start to abandon their efforts to keep their small children quiet, still, and attentive. Most simply hand over their phones with the sound turned down to nothing. Of course, a noticeable number of parents and guardians never tried from the beginning. And the heat everyone is doing their best to stay too happy to notice, asserts itself to the front of everyone’s mind.

I shifted and turned in my seat in absolute horror and hopelessness. I had already folded the razor-sharp backs of my white lace shoes under my heels. Under my robe, my green romper was working its way further and further inside me. If I brushed a stray curl out of my eyes the sound of cheap, plastic-feeling polyester swishing together would sound from mine and my seat neighbors’ regalia. I shuddered to think of what it might sound like to fix my romper. I sit still, bored-looking, hiding the pain in my eyes as blood threatens to stain the $10 flats and my right ass cheek becomes permanently fused to the billowing, one-size-fits-all piece of fabric I had to pay $83 for to attend this painful ceremony. However, the worst thing, the only thing that really starts to impact my ability to enjoy this day and my accomplishment, is the sheer boredom. Any interest I had in watching the doctoral graduates walk across the stage is long gone in favor of indulging the self-pity of my current wardrobe and daydreaming about the chicken bacon ranch gyro and hand-cut fries I get to eat once this whole process is completed, including all the heinous picture taking and pleasantries.

I hate the regalia. It’s outdated, old-fashioned, broiling hot, and, this year, hilariously insulting. During undergrad, there were two colors for robes: all black and all gold – the school colors. I proudly wore my gold in front of my entire family, most of my friends, my then boyfriend, and an auditorium full of proud, excited people. Members of the university’s honors college were honored with the gold gowns and I reigned at the top of my class, a distinction that granted me the honor of carrying the university flag behind the president at the start of the ceremony. I didn’t even mind that the graduation committee could not find the correct holster and the bottom of the banner fell right below my nose, hiding most of my face and a lot of my vision. That is until I saw pictures and realized one ‘B’ would not have been the worst thing to happen in the world. Of course, my sister’s favorite part of that ceremony was the momentary time when I could not find my assigned seat after placing the banner. Liana has that incredible sense of humor that allowed her to recognize the irony that the student at the top of her class was too stupid to find her chair. A sense of humor that, to this day, enjoys reminding me of that fact at every opportune moment. However, when I was called to stand and my accomplishments were read to the entire auditorium, singled out and on full display, all of the nights spent stressing over the details of assignments and taking on more courses than recommended all seemed worth it.

My undergraduate ceremony was exactly one year ago tomorrow and the scene is now very different. I sit lost in a sea of faces. There is no graduate equivalent of valedictorian, so I have no perception of being disowned. If there was a valedictorian for this ceremony, it would not have been me. I still received good grades for this degree, but I was more comfortable only striving for a ‘B’ in master’s level financial accounting. I have no intention of ever doing corporate-level accounting again in my life. No one really cares if I attend today’s ceremony or not. Instead of getting the unexpected help ordering and sizing a gold robe like last year, I filled out an online order sheet with my size, major, and credit card information. The collars are color-coordinated by major. Education is light blue, psychology is wearing silver, business administration is ‘drab.’ Orders for regalia took place in March, ready for pick up at the campus store two days before graduation. Of course, the order sheet did not include any pictures that might have given me the slightest insight into what color ‘drab’ actually is. When discussing the possibilities with my co-workers, it was decided that the color was likely a gray or beige. Instead, a light, coffee brown collar hangs around my neck and down my sleeves. The color is actually kind of pretty, relaxing in a way. The brown would nicely compliment the white and yellow flowers on the shirt of my romper if they could be seen at the same time. Instead, the light brown painfully clashes with the black robe.

I didn’t decorate my cap. I lack the time, creativity, and dedication to create something both original and aesthetically pleasing. The three women sitting in front of me all have unique designs on their caps. One has the phrase “3rd Degree Murdered” in sparkly stick on letters. The middle has a printed and cut out skull with blood stains and crime scene tape. The last one says, “It’s Open Season Now” with fuzzy handcuffs fastened in the middle of the design. They are part of the masters of criminal justice graduates. Although I am skeptical of what the third girl’s glittery, furry message is trying to imply. I can’t help but to narrow my eyes a bit as I look down at the gold collars they get to wear under their crime-themed hats. My color.

“It doesn’t matter,” I think to myself as I try to focus on the excitement of the day, “I’d rather have pink anyway.”

Once the last of the oyster cracker hats sits back down and all of the empty doctoral diploma holders are handed out, the pace increases noticeably, but not startlingly. The master’s students’ names are rattled off quickly, efficiently. As soon as the person in front is done shaking hands with the university present, the next name is called to move across the stage. The president, Dr. Sam Bennett will hand me my diploma holder. Only my parents, professors, and co-workers are in the audience. A natural consequence for attending university 12 hours from home. The professors have to be there. One of my coworkers, who is a part of my small, work-friend group, is graduating with me. The other three leave in the middle of the ceremony to beat the crowds to our favorite sandwich shop. They claim in the group chat they waited until Alyx’s and my names were called and for some ridiculous reason, I hope it’s true. It’s not like it really matters. Alyx’s entire family will be at Trattoria Vellini during their reservation time in the event room with the three walls completely stocked with bottles of wine, drinking custom pink prosecco mojitos. My parents and I will be on the outside patio of The Switchyard eating delicious Mediterranean-ish food and drinking strawberry margaritas. Different, yet equally valid priorities. I will never really know for sure if the other coworkers attended the event at all, I never saw them while surveying the bleachers. There were too many faces and it was too hot to face backwards in my chair long enough to confirm anyone’s attendance. I did spot my parents sitting above me to my left.

I correct the backs of my flats when it is finally my row’s turn to take the stage, now pushing three at a time: exiting the stage, shaking the president’s hand, and standing at the loading dock waiting to hear their name announced. Nobody is unhappy that they or their loved ones are getting less time than the doctors. We are nearing the hour and twenty minute mark with eight rows of names to go. I take advantage of the unique opportunity offered by my voluptuous gown. I slide my arm out of its sleeve into the dress section and pull my shorts’ hem back down onto my leg without changing my posture.

I keep my poker face locked in during the readjustment process and get my arm back into its sleeve. However, I briefly lost my composure and my face faltered in a puzzled micro-expression as I looked down the line of heads and names before it was my turn. About thirteen places ahead, a man with the face of a 16 year old, hair like a floppy mop, full master’s regalia with a white collar indicating a degree in psychology and huge clothed mascot feet for shoes. I am suddenly fully aware no one would notice if I folded the backs of my shoes under my heels again. I still don’t.

After I walk, I find my seat and flip through the remaining items on the program. I suddenly understand the purpose of the black ropes that block the bottom of the stairs on every aisle. It is not to keep families from coming down to take pictures; the ones who want to do it anyway while staff try to usher them back to their seats. Its real purpose is to send a visual message to the graduates to not even try to go up the steps: up and out. My last name starts with an E, the girl currently taking her turn in the spotlight’s last name is Geoff. Not even halfway done. At the same time I daydream about being able to quietly slip through the crowd and forget the rest of the ceremony, I scowl disapprovingly at the significant groups of people leaving early. Intense contempt of their disruption and a secret envy bubbles inside me.

I despise boredom. Normally, I can distract myself with stories, fantasies, plans, jokes, or anything that I can use to transport my mind elsewhere. But there are too many people, sitting too close. It’s too loud, too hot, and I am too uncomfortable in my metal folding chair. Thinking right now is too dangerous anyway. I keep having silent, surface-level revelations as I scope out the scene, ignoring the early symptoms of oncoming heat stroke. I think about what options I might be afforded, especially if I was in the bleachers: a visitor instead of an honoree. If I could have snuck out with my coworkers I could be at Binder’s enjoying a strawberry sweet tea, a shared party nacho platter, and the comfort of more semesters to figure out my life. I know now why they leave the doors opens. Years of experience has taught the university staff that closed doors do not stop visitors from leaving. It is better to not have the noise of the heavy metal gray doors opening and closing.

I sincerely apologize to anyone with a last name that starts with Z. Everyone deserves the same amount of attention and encouragement, but less than half way through the names, my clapping becomes automatic and robotic. Clap, pause, name announced, clap, pause, name announced, cla- adjust the degree holder sliding down the robe off my lap – aps, etc. N-Z go a little faster. No one walks under the letter X, two walk under Y. I can’t imagine many people with an X last name have walked across the stage in the years the university has operated. I think about my student, Kyle Xie. I saw him earlier this week on Monday afternoon.

I do not always have a strong ability to read people and know their emotions. However, I knew from the easy way his shoulders moved when I returned his student ID and the way he whispered “Have a nice day!” he was happy with his final exam grade. His disposition was now drastically different then when he had first walked in and silently handed me his ID card. I had been working at the testing center during finals week. Students came to the front desk with the large dual monitors set up on the corner of the desk. The right monitor has the form containing information on classes, passwords, tests, and the daily log of student visitors. The left side monitor had an array of sixty-four little screens allowing us to monitor the testing computers. Even though there are so many small square camera feeds to scroll through and check, it is amazing how easy it is to spot something sketchy or suspicious. If a student truly wants to get away with cheating, they should wait until a rush of students enter to take their exams. The desk manager will be too busy on the sign-in record form and the floor walkers will be too busy entering passwords to notice. During finals week, there are plenty of opportunities to do it right. Despite that, the camera caught three students in the first two days of finals week.

Xie didn’t cheat though. Even if I didn’t already have some insight into his work ethic, his expression held the relief, pride, and confidence of a person who now gets to revel in the payoff of their own hard work. Those who don’t cheat don’t have to contend with the fear that they might be discovered with a quick review of the camera footage. When Kyle first handed me his ID, I had to look up. He was 21 looking like 12 with acne on his forehead, worry in his brow, and sweaty hands. I felt no shame when I pumped some Germ-X from the large bottle facing the students into my palm after handing back the slimy ID card.

For the past couple of months, Kyle Xie would email me, the graduate assistant for his corporate management course, for help with assignments and studying. Kyle had never set his profile image so as far as I was concerned, he looked like a circle with a bold, white letter K in the center. A little, non-distinct gray circle with anxiety. As a graduate assistant in the School of Management, I was the main point-of-contact and grader for three professors. I had many students. A few who I would have begged, borrowed, and stole anything for them to reach out, respond to my emails, or read the feedback I provided for all of their assignments. For the majority of my students, my interactions with them would consist only of assignment submission, grades, and comments with no follow-up. However, I could always count on one email per assignment in the MGT 400 course from that nervous, gray circle ensuring the highest grade he could achieve.

Ethan Collins

Phi Betta Kappa

2014

The cabinet was between a standing floor lamp with a tear in the shade and a toddler-sized wooden chair with two missing spindles on the back. The sterling silver tchotchke was selling for $15. I almost bought it so I’d have a matching set. Back in March, I took my orange cat, Missy, to the vet due to scabs on her chin. The vet said it was feline acne, prescribed a cream, and recommended I replace the plastic food and water bowls with a metal that wouldn’t irritate her skin as much. I used my least favorite glass bowl for the water and my award celebrating four years of academic excellence holds the Science Diet.

Back in the present, I sit with the sting on my heels, the degree holder that will house my Master’s of Business Administration on my lap, sweat running down my back, thoughts of family, friends, students, past accomplishments, and the crippling anxiety of knowing in two weeks I will be unemployed.