Bachelor (degree) party

After four (or in my case, six) years of hard work (or in my case, a Communications degree), here you are, ready to accept your university degree, among friends, family, and old guys dressed as wizards. Congratulations, young person! The world is your oyster. When I say oyster, I of course mean that in the sense that oysters are becoming extinct and increasingly difficult to come by, and that reaping the rewards of your education will be as difficult as remembering when it’s food-safe to collect oysters from the beach (months that end in Y?).

Though you completed your studies six months ago, today is the day you’ve been waiting for, or at least the day that your mom keeps telling you you were waiting for. After all, it’s not every day you can take pictures on the campus you’re at every day! Well, not pictures featuring you holding a document printed on fine, certificate-style stationary and wearing a dumb hat, anyways. So treasure this moment. Hold your head high as you stand in line like an overly-educated sheep for a smock that drags on the floor because you incorrectly guestimated your size: you’re a unique flower, just like the other 700 graduates with whom you will be forced to march around a building designed by Canada’s most stair-happy architect.

Don’t worry that you start freaking out about not being able to check your purse. Losing all sense of personal control is just part of the fun of being part of an elaborate ceremony! Other delights include: a bagpipe medley and a mortarboard tassle that you keep accidentally inhaling.

There is a certain art to writing a speech that could be applied to any event, and the organizers of your commencement ceremony have nailed it. “Y2K. 9/11. The internet. These are things that have happened. More things will happen in the future. Now that you’ve gotten your degrees, we hope you’ll agree that this is how time works.” Two or three people in hats stupider than yours – thus demonstrating their superior intellect – will throw this sort of abstract sentiment in your general direction. “You’ve achieved . . . stuff. That is something, all right.” Then come the honourary degree recipients! These are given out at every convocation ceremony at your school: 11 per year. Whether you are a math major or not, after 45 years, worthy honourees become harder to come by, and so today's newest doctor is a local singer who has, to be fair, done a lot of charity work, but who is mostly famous for writing songs about angels and remembering that are very popular funeral choices. After twenty minutes of being treated to the musical stylings of this woman who never went to your school and who certainly didn’t pay $20,000 for the privilege, the graduates are hustled across the stage at breakneck speed in order to make time for the next honourary doctorate, who will presumably be some sort of juggler or dog trainer.

“Abigail Chen. Andrew Chen. Dorothy Chen.” And a host of others! Your name is called, you run on stage, shake hands with the university’s prez. Your friends, so kind to sit through both pomp and circumstance, will hoot at you. He’ll crack wise about how you “brought your own fan club!” That’s why they pay him the big bucks. Someone will give you an alumni pin. Your boyfriend, another sweet supporter, will later find one on the ground and make some funny jokes about saving thousands on tuition; this is even more endearing than the bouquet he brought you. 

Afterwards, your grandparents make you pose in front of things and with things and next to things. Your family tells you how proud they are, although you are not necessarily proud of yourself. Though not everyone can get through, say, med school (mostly due to the ickiness of cadavers, I presume), pretty much anyone can get an arts degree. All you have to do is show up, and sometimes you don’t even have to do that, as a little class called Communications and the Canadian Creative Economy has taught us. You can pass classes without buying the textbook (theory tested, hypothesis approved). You can avoid the library for six years. It is not a testament to intelligence or stamina to get a BA, but an indication of not having anything lucrative to do. Who drops out of school because their publishing class is too hard? Nobody. They quit because baby boomers started writing them cheques for social media consulting or they found some steady work dealing drugs. People don’t get into university for the money (or I hope they don’t, or they’re going to be severely disappointed) but they’ll get out of it in the good name of dollah billz. 

Spending years of your life at this school was certainly not a pain, but those last three hours are. At least you got a diploma out of it though. One look at that bad boy and the employment opportunities are going to come pouring in! Every year, thousands of job recruiters die trying to race to the top of Burnaby Mountain to snag fresh grads. Perhaps one day, in addition to alumni pins, they’ll give you memorial ribbons to commemorate this tragedy.

Congratulations, graduate. No other day, ever again, will be more special than this. Please return your robe as soon as possible for the next ceremony.