The Absence of Ceremony

article by MEREDITH MCKINNIE

images by ULM PHOTO SERVICES

I’ve attended 15 graduation ceremonies at our local university. Only two of them recognized me. One of the duties of faculty members is an annual appearance at one of the three graduation ceremonies each academic year. You may have noticed us flanking the graduates at one of those same ceremonies. We all wear regalia, representing our alma maters from across the country and beyond. We are asked to stand shortly after the ceremony commences, and the audience claps dutifully, paying respect to the educators before the degrees are conferred. While the list of names is exhausted, followed sporadically by enthusiastic families and friends, we all sit patiently, following along in our programs, the same as the audience showing support.

The first few years, I marched with pride. I had crossed over. Once I sat amongst the students, and now I educated students. Regardless of the degrees bearing my name, I always felt I’d slipped through the cracks, representing a flaw in the system. What did I know? But nonetheless, I showed up in the spring to pay homage to the graduating class. What becomes routine begins to lose its luster. A graduation appearance morphed into another job duty. As I perused the names and the announcer’s voice faded into the background, my mind would wander. Then a familiar name would bellow from the speaker. I would look up in anticipation, placing the face among the thousands of students who’ve sat in my classes. Oftentimes, I would smile, as the graduating student’s success wasn’t surprising. She always submitted exemplary work, or he would always finish what he started.

In the last decade, student realities have shifted. Many work full time jobs, are raising families or caring for ailing family members. The traditional college student is not so traditional anymore. The stakes are raised, and success depends upon one’s work ethic while juggling responsibilities we don’t often associate with college life. My students’ lives look more like my own, and in that realization lies an opportunity for enhanced connection. Early in my career, a 70-year-old woman sat on the front row of my class, a freshman among peers decades younger. Recently retired, she wanted to finish college. She longed to learn for learning’s sake. She valued the knowledge I could provide, and she reminded me of the honor my profession affords me daily. When I heard her name over that speaker six years later, I almost leaped out of my seat. She received a master’s degree in science, and the tears flooded my face as she glided across the stage. The university president extended his hand, and she semi-tackled him in an embrace. She always insisted on hugging, and I tingled with the memory of the awkward dance of what is appropriate interaction in educational spaces.

When faculty presence at graduation ceremonies evaporated under Covid restrictions, initially it felt like one less thing to do after an exhausting semester. But as May rolled around the second year in a row, I started pondering the absence of traditional recognition. I missed the culmination of my students’ efforts. I missed the athlete who struggled with subject-verb agreement but could describe a picturesque scene better than his writing instructor. I missed the single mother who after being a teacher’s aid for 10 years longed to lead her own classroom. I missed the quiet kid in the corner who rarely spoke but was obsessed with insects, finding a way to incorporate bugs into any writing assignment. I missed the first-generation African American student who wanted to become the black doctor who never treated him. I missed the cheerleader who twice sneaked her pocket poodle into class because he appeared sad. I missed the kid from out-of-state who followed his girlfriend to school, only to break up two days into his first semester. I missed the pre-nursing student who cried when she read my positive feedback on her paper. I missed the youth pastor who wanted to step out of his shell and pursue something outside of his comfort zone. I missed the international student who kept telling her parents she was majoring in biology, all while reveling in her art classes. I missed the culmination of their stories. Collectively, those students represent the fabric of academia, the personalization of a professional endeavor.

Graduation thrives on tradition, and while we inevitably call tradition into question, in its absence, we long for the familiar, for the pinnacle of a well-deserved accomplishment. This May, I will attend my first in-person graduation ceremony in three years. I will cheer and clap for the students I know, and even harder for the stories I missed, for they are just as worthy. While the ceremony is only a snapshot on a person’s timeline, it represents the transferal of knowledge, a gift from one generation to the next. Under every cap and gown lies a unique story on the precipice of a plot twist.