A guiding light for post graduation
Evan Allgood
Issue date: 5/1/09 Section: Opinion
Good afternoon. Despite repeated e-mails to President Leland, Dean Harshbarger, Ryan Greene and about two dozen other university officials who may or may not be involved in the graduation ceremony, I have not been permitted to address the Class of 2009 during this year's commencement. On the contrary, I have been ordered by campus security to stay at least 500 feet away from all seniors on the date of May 9, 2009.
So, to avert any possible legal ramifications, I will try to keep this brief.
Three years ago I stood in your unsteady shoes, gazing into a murky, foreboding future. Shifting and sweating like a pig in my gown (oh yes, there will be sweat), I was drunk not only with anxiety and relief, but also tequila, for I graduated on May 6, and on the previous night Cinco de Mayo-a voluptuous Friday of a woman-had beckoned to me with Two Fingers.
Though I can't condone succumbing to such hedonistic impulses, I will say that the ceremony absolutely flew by. Like, really fast. This is probably because I missed most of it (George Allen was speaking-no great loss), but also because of the tequila, in which my head was still swimming while scary thoughts like "What am I going to do with my life?" and "Holy sh*t, what am I going to DO with my LIFE?" circled like worrisome sharks.
Thankfully, just as the thoughts were smelling blood, an anonymous old white guy in a tricked-out gown handed me a blank piece of paper wrapped in a ribbon. For all intents and purposes (especially those of the metaphor, which I am beating into the ground), this blank piece of paper was a lifesaver. Thank you, anonymous white guy. I will never forget your glasses or your beard, which I think was gray, assuming you had one.
Okay, it doesn't exactly work like that.
Yes, someone in a tricked-out gown is going to hand you a blank piece of paper (they mail you the real thing later), but that piece of paper-though symbolic of a great accomplishment-is not going to ease all your doubts about the future. I hate to say this, but that piece of paper is actually liable to magnify your fears, because it represents the end of a chapter in your life. And you don't know how the rest of the book is going to turn out. (The big-screen adaptation, unfortunately, is sure to disappoint.)
So, to avert any possible legal ramifications, I will try to keep this brief.
Three years ago I stood in your unsteady shoes, gazing into a murky, foreboding future. Shifting and sweating like a pig in my gown (oh yes, there will be sweat), I was drunk not only with anxiety and relief, but also tequila, for I graduated on May 6, and on the previous night Cinco de Mayo-a voluptuous Friday of a woman-had beckoned to me with Two Fingers.
Though I can't condone succumbing to such hedonistic impulses, I will say that the ceremony absolutely flew by. Like, really fast. This is probably because I missed most of it (George Allen was speaking-no great loss), but also because of the tequila, in which my head was still swimming while scary thoughts like "What am I going to do with my life?" and "Holy sh*t, what am I going to DO with my LIFE?" circled like worrisome sharks.
Thankfully, just as the thoughts were smelling blood, an anonymous old white guy in a tricked-out gown handed me a blank piece of paper wrapped in a ribbon. For all intents and purposes (especially those of the metaphor, which I am beating into the ground), this blank piece of paper was a lifesaver. Thank you, anonymous white guy. I will never forget your glasses or your beard, which I think was gray, assuming you had one.
Okay, it doesn't exactly work like that.
Yes, someone in a tricked-out gown is going to hand you a blank piece of paper (they mail you the real thing later), but that piece of paper-though symbolic of a great accomplishment-is not going to ease all your doubts about the future. I hate to say this, but that piece of paper is actually liable to magnify your fears, because it represents the end of a chapter in your life. And you don't know how the rest of the book is going to turn out. (The big-screen adaptation, unfortunately, is sure to disappoint.)
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