A guiding light for post graduation

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.)

After graduation, I walked dogs for a company (bling bling!) and lived with my dad for six months. Then, practically on a whim, I drove cross-country to California to live with one of my best friends. I had no plan in mind or job lined up; all I had was $4,000 and a burning desire to get the hell out of Dodge. I didn’t know what would happen.

Well, not much did.

I lived like a bum off the money I’d saved (reading, eating fro yo, watching Arrested Development), met a few real-life LA stereotypes (the phony talent agent, the creepy photographer) and held down a single job for a single orientation session because my manager, the training video and the atmosphere of the restaurant were all eerily reminiscent of the movie “Waiting.” After four months, I was broke. With zero prospects and very few friends, I pinned a note to my roommate’s door (“Trevor, if you’re reading this, you already know.”) and drove back to Virginia with my tail lights between my legs.

It was a humbling experience, to say the least.

But from the ashes of that humiliation arose a blazing phoenix of accomplishment! Less than a year after returning home-during which time I, yes, lived with my father and yes, briefly resumed dog-walking, before ascending to the jet-setter world of substitute teaching-I was accepted to GCSU’s Creative Writing program. Although I can’t sincerely call Milledgeville a dream destination, my assistantship provides me with honest, meaningful work and enough money to pay the bills, and there’s something to be said for that-especially in times like these. I mean, no offense, but you picked a hell of a time to graduate college.

(Ahem.)

I tell you my story not to bore you, horrify you or suggest that you are going to spend most of the next year living with your parents and scooping dog doo (not that there’s anything wrong with that). By narrating my darkest-or at least, smelliest-hour, I hope to underscore the fact that events probably won’t unfold the way you think. And that’s not necessarily a bad thing.

A shade over 40 years ago, when he was about your age, a tiny southern writer named Truman Capote (who never graduated college, by the way) stood on the brink of fame and fortune. In his debut novel-a story about growing up-Capote wrote that “What we most want is only to be held, and told that everything. everything is going to be all right.”

Three years ago, when I was about your age-and two years ago, when I was lost in California-and one year ago, when I was waiting to hear from grad schools-all I wanted was to be held and told that everything would be all right.

Today, I am legally forbidden from holding any of you. But, in all seriousness, I would like to tell you that-despite the fact that almost nothing will be what you expect-everything, everything is going to be all right.

Congratulations. Enjoy this and everything else.

Posted by Colonnade Archives on May 1 2009. Filed under Opinion. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0. You can leave a response or trackback to this entry