Contrivances

I'm not sure what to write, really. Yesterday, I graduated from Rutgers in a big procession full of pomp and excitement and a sense of ludicrousness. Having a commencement speaker talk about how rich he was certainly did not ease the incendiary sun above, which promptly burned my face, giving me the appearance of perpetually being embarrassed about something. He wasn't inspirational except to those who want to dominate the business world, and since that is most certainly not me, I essentially spent a good two hours being roasted like a pig at a luau. Whoop de doo. I feel especially sorry for the graduates wearing black robes (business school, I believe, which may actually be fitting and slightly ironic (no offence to my business school friends)), as I removed my robe, rolled up the legs of my pants, and put the university commencement program magazine on my head to block the sun, and that STILL didn't protect me. Damn my pallid, semi-transparent skin.

After that was the actual political science graduation. I must say, it was truly remarkable being able to assemble all those incredibly useless, expendable, indecisive people in one place and have the whole process go off relatively expeditiously. (I joke. Or do I? I've become a new level of the word "sardonic.")

One would think that, with a name shared by several notable people, i.e. an athlete and a rather famous inventor, that the name would be not commonly mispronounced, especially in a state where the athlete is pretty well-renowned. One would also think that writing out one's name phonetically on the name card would exempt me from having my name mispronounced, just like so many frustrating past teachers and substitute teachers and various others have done, squinting at my three-letter name, furrowing their brows, staring into the letters as if they would pronounce themselves, but, nope. It's almost as if the universe decided, "hey, let's poke fun at this kid just one more time at the last possible chance that would definitely make him look ridiculous in front of his peers." And so they did. As soon as I heard the mispronunciation of the first syllable, I shook my head and walked on with an expression tantamount to having just thrown up.

It certainly wasn't the greatest day of my life, nor was it the worst. It was just another day, honestly. I mentally checked out months ago, probably around the time I was accepted into graduate school. My grades certainly reflect this: for a class where I could bring a cheat sheet to both the midterm and final exams, I received a B. What's more, I'm pretty sure that my professor gave me the B out of some laughable pity because of my graduating status. The professor was a good guy, he legitimately liked what he taught, but even so, I couldn't bring myself to care much about folklore. Or, really, at all. Sorry professor, but I'd rather be tickled by a cactus than watch another movie about trains or singing cowboys.

There was a point after the whole proceeding where I sequestered myself from the brouhaha and sat on a bench adjacent to a nice stone path that I had walked on often to get to class. I had to take in this place just once more, just absorb the towering trees that created a verdant cover from the sun, look out over the small, arched stone wall to the river, see a view that I might not ever see from that perspective again. That place had evolved from my residence into a home. I even designated a tree my favourite, a silent, isolated spot my own; this place had become familiar in the most intimate way, and I am not ashamed to say that I loved it all.

One might say that my experience is not unique to me, that every student feels the same sense of withdrawal and immediate nostalgia that I am feeling what millions upon millions have felt. The only problem is, no two people will ever be completely the same. Everyone will always have a unique story to share, a different emotional connection to make to a place, so no, my grief is not the same as everyone else's. My feelings are built upon my own unique experiences at Rutgers, god damn it, and therefore everything I feel is my own and will always be uniquely mine. No one will ever feel the exact same thing, so this is a moot point of condolence. All that can be said is "move on," and that is all anyone can really ever do.

And so, here I am on the cusp of the beginning of all things, debating whether or not my real life will begin. I think I'll make it so, otherwise, I'll be perpetually waiting for an opportunity that will never present itself.

The person who waits for his life to always begin should be the instigating factor in that life. So, graduates of all, don't wait for opportunities; seek them out, take advantage of their benefits and learn from their failings, and never, ever be satisfied. There is always more to do, more to learn, and new adventures right around the bend.

This little opus makes me think that I might have been a better commencement speaker than the rich guy who talked about how he made his money. I guess political science did do one thing for me: it primed me for a tiddly bit of arrogance. Eh, I'll live.

That's all for now,
Das Flüg