Point is, over a decade later and that person I was has long since flatlined. Unfortunately, Brooklyn College is the one thing that melds my unimpressive past to my present. It keeps alive the memory of the me that I'd rather forget. The idiot who believed the high school teacher who told him that you have to "try really hard to not get laid in college." I guess my yeoman work ethic did me in that time. Or maybe the enlightened asshole who thought that drinking beer in the college radio station everyday in lieu of going to class was the key to succeeding in an academic setting. I nearly managed to get out close to "on time" but not quite.
The buracracy of Brooklyn College hadn't quite caught up to my shitty grades in the spring of 2002. In fact, the Degree Audit department saw it fit to send me a congratulatory postcard on my upcoming graduation. A bit of a shock to me since I was absolutely certain I would fail a required physics course I was taking at the time. from the moment they accepted my application and approved me for admission, nothing Brooklyn College ever did made any sense. Add my graduation to that lengthy laundry list.
Decked out in hideous nylon burgundy robes and caps, the graduates were paraded out into the middle of the campus, sparing none of us the misery of the merciless humidity and sun. The graduation began in earnest and slowed to a cruel and screeching halt when members of graduating classes pre-dating WWII made their way down aisle. Participating in nothing less than a death march, these elderly ladies and gents moved at an unbearably slow pace towards the stage. I wondered why these poor souls were not living out the remainder of their years spending their social security checks on bingo and vitamin tonics. Maybe they couldn't let go of the past, the same way I have difficulty letting go of mine.
I had little patience for the formulaic valedictorian speech. She hit all the usual points:
Distinguished members of the faculty. Check. We'll always carry with us the memories of this truly special experience. Check. For good measure, she threw in a little caveat about taking control of life not burying your head in the sand like an ostrich, an oft repeated myth that has no foundation in truth. Dating back to my pre-kindergarten graduation where me and my fellow graduates fashioned caps out of paper bags, I was reminded that this brand of spectacle is never for the graduates. In pre-k, it was clearly for the parents. Pretty much the same for elementary, middle and high school. College graduation is for the college itself. The institution. Like a new line of luxury cars, fresh off of the assembly line, the graduates are products on display. Knowing this, I'm less than thrilled to be a part of it.
A year removed from 9/11/2001, the speeches were chock full of references to that sad day. Unfortunately, such oratory trends inevitably come off as forced and, for lack of a better adjective, hokey. I'd had about enough of it all when I decided to deploy the ace in my sleeve---or more to the point, the narcotics in my blazing hot robe. I removed an asthma inhaler from the pocket of my button down shirt, unscrewed the mouth piece and tapped three yellowish pills into my hand. Seated to my left was an old friend from the college radio station. We witnessed the unveiling of the meds and watched me swallow them, sans water. I don't think he blinked. Members of the radio station had watched me consume massive quantities of Robitussin over a two year span, so a few little pills was probably no cause for alarm.
I ended up feeling a bit cheated. The pills, a diet medication I pilfered from my father, had little or no effect on my state of mind. The speeches still sucked and I was still hot, bored and restless. A solitary common sense idea did pop into my head, very close to the end of the ceremony. Even though I was sitting in the middle of campus amongst a sea of hideous Burgundy Gowns of Success, I was a fraud. Deep down inside, I knew that I had probably failed the Physics class required to graduate. No sense in revealing that to my parents, though, since that would cost me a $200 graduation present and a fish and chips dinner at the local pub/restaurant.
About a week after the ceremony, my parents' mailbox started to become inundated with postcards from the college saying things like:
FINISH WHAT YOU STARTED
DON'T QUIT NOW
Whatever I told my mother to assuage her suspicions and paranoia, quite miraculously worked. Even a call home from my physics professor was explained to her as a personal congratulations for having passed his class. In actuality, Professor Bond phoned me with irrefutable proof that I had failed his class. His exact words?
A year removed from 9/11/2001, the speeches were chock full of references to that sad day. Unfortunately, such oratory trends inevitably come off as forced and, for lack of a better adjective, hokey. I'd had about enough of it all when I decided to deploy the ace in my sleeve---or more to the point, the narcotics in my blazing hot robe. I removed an asthma inhaler from the pocket of my button down shirt, unscrewed the mouth piece and tapped three yellowish pills into my hand. Seated to my left was an old friend from the college radio station. We witnessed the unveiling of the meds and watched me swallow them, sans water. I don't think he blinked. Members of the radio station had watched me consume massive quantities of Robitussin over a two year span, so a few little pills was probably no cause for alarm.
I ended up feeling a bit cheated. The pills, a diet medication I pilfered from my father, had little or no effect on my state of mind. The speeches still sucked and I was still hot, bored and restless. A solitary common sense idea did pop into my head, very close to the end of the ceremony. Even though I was sitting in the middle of campus amongst a sea of hideous Burgundy Gowns of Success, I was a fraud. Deep down inside, I knew that I had probably failed the Physics class required to graduate. No sense in revealing that to my parents, though, since that would cost me a $200 graduation present and a fish and chips dinner at the local pub/restaurant.
About a week after the ceremony, my parents' mailbox started to become inundated with postcards from the college saying things like:
FINISH WHAT YOU STARTED
DON'T QUIT NOW
Whatever I told my mother to assuage her suspicions and paranoia, quite miraculously worked. Even a call home from my physics professor was explained to her as a personal congratulations for having passed his class. In actuality, Professor Bond phoned me with irrefutable proof that I had failed his class. His exact words?
"I think you ought to consider signing up for summer classes this semester."
The charade was kept up for about two years. Sufficient time had passed and I no longer felt threatened by post cards and calls from Brooklyn College faculty. My mother had long since abandoned her efforts to "see" the diploma. I simply told her that I was way too busy at my new job sending faxes at a white shoe law firm in Midtown to ever make the trek to Flatbush and pick it up.
The charade was kept up for about two years. Sufficient time had passed and I no longer felt threatened by post cards and calls from Brooklyn College faculty. My mother had long since abandoned her efforts to "see" the diploma. I simply told her that I was way too busy at my new job sending faxes at a white shoe law firm in Midtown to ever make the trek to Flatbush and pick it up.
Years in the making, my moment of undoing was swift and less than epic. My mother fancied herself a sleuth, so I'm sure she took some satisfaction in discovering my deception. News travels fast and my brother called me from Cleveland later in the day to express his concern and disappointment. My sister, according to him, had taken all of this especially hard, a bit of foreshadowing for things to come when I would move in with her a year and a half later. I'm sure my sister and I discussed this at some point. My brain has done me a wonderful service by filtering out the details of that encounter.
In 2008, I was gainfully employed and doing a rather commendable job of managing my finances. I had just finished paying off nearly $20,000 in credit card debt accumulated during my years of drinking and using. Back then, I spent recklessly and often, always hoping that some wealthy benefactor would rescue me from financial ignominy. That incredibly generous, well bankrolled tutelary saint never descended from the heavens to assume my financial woes. Thank god for that. One goal I held onto, even through the miseries of addiction and homelessness, was graduating from college. So I did it. I enrolled, suffered through a shortened semester of core geology, complete with a lecture hall full of know-it-alls and the obligatory field trip in freezing weather to Central Park to discover the great mysteries of our earth. Yawn.
Graduation this time around was satisfying. No academic ambiguity, although there was more than enough red tape to overcome. I donned the burgundy gown and lined up in a stifling hot hallway, nestled uncomfortably in the thick of hundreds of other graduates. A throng of latecomers looked very lost. They were urgently herded to their proper lineup spots by faculty volunteers. I smiled to myself, knowing full well what so many of the other graduates were painfully unaware of. The hand-holding. The free counseling from advisers. The retroactive "pass-fail" option (don't ask, it's a City University of New York thing). It all ends when the tassel changes sides and the cap makes a brief but triumphant trip skyward.
The real world can be a cruel beast. Heartbreak, sickness, death, unemployment and despair await you. If your lucky, you'll get healthy doses of love, success and hope. Hope, above all, is the catalyst for success and love. I fill my life with hope, even when I don't feel deserving of it. Hope negates the same kind of despair that swallowed me whole and led me down a path of self ruin. Don't ever give up or you might deny yourself the opportunity to do something you never thought you could.
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