MSG (not that one)

So I graduated. On a sunny May afternoon, Madison Square Garden was transformed into an elaborate theater, housing thousands of NYU graduates clad in violet drapey robes and black square hats.

[An aside—Jenn and I were talking, trying to figure out where the customary graduate attire originated. We imagined a cabal of men, rubbing their hands, smirking, coming up with ideas to humiliate us one last time. And for some reason, I imagine them with a 1940’s Humphrey Bogart* American accent tinged with the immediacy of a mad scientist: “Yes, yes, we’ll make them wear robes that are magnificently large! And for their hats, why, let’s make them square! And we’ll hang tassels upon their heads!”]

With parents in the stands and graduates on the court, we took our seats. There was a marching band (in kilts!), the requisite purple and ivory confetti, glowing family members, and a large, long, stage. But unlike the graduations you may see on television, (that is, where they call the individual’s name from a list, the individual walks up smiling, shakes a man’s hand, and receives his diploma, thereby pumping his fists repeatedly into the air), this graduation ran a bit different. Because of the sheer size of the graduating class and the inability of NYU to effectively organize such a large conglomerate, there was no list of graduates and there were no diplomas handed out. Instead, it worked like this: (1) We would randomly file in a line at the steps of the stage (2) We would have our names written on an index card (3) We would give it to a “reader” who would read our names aloud, and (4) We would walk across the stage to shake John Sexton’s hand. It was impersonal to say the least. I should also note that the “reader” read our names in a spit-fire fashion, literally cramming five names into seven seconds of speech. I will hereby demonstrate it with text:

“kathryhallstephenhopkinsrogerchaokatiechiousjuliegoodnessericgomez.”

Yeah, it was like that.

And while I waited in line for my name to be read, I realized that this ceremony was just that—a ceremony. It had and has no inherent value of transformation nor does it signal to my employers any advancements of achievement (I still had finals the next day). No, this graduation was merely a play, a farce that played itself out on this magnificent stage in this resplendent theater; it was all a mere show for family and friends.

For me, real realization came when talking to a friend whom I hardly ever see anymore. I enlisted her help in brainstorming a name for this blog, and a sudden realization dawned on me after a discussion of fondue and blog titles:

mistertofuman: help me come up with a name
a pinch of sugar: mistertofuman.blogspot.com
mistertofuman: hahahah
mistertofuman: that's so lame
a pinch of sugar: creative, yea?
mistertofuman: i'm A PROFESSIONAL NOW.
a pinch of sugar: that's right
pinch of sugar: you have a degree
mistertofuman: something less retarded
mistertofuman: whoa
mistertofuman: i do.

mistertofuman: that's so weird.

I have a degree? In Economics and History? But that implies…that I’m an adult! This notion scared me and I quickly absolved it with a series of inane talk:

mistertofuman: i just farted
a pinch of sugar: lol
a pinch of sugar: that's gross

The point of this blog: I guess technically, by the standards of society and under the guise of New York State law, I am now an adult. This is a painful realization that I’m constantly fighting, perhaps taking form by extending my academic career with law school. (But no, really, I have a huge passion for law I’ll expound on later.)

**Special props to Alice for the graduation card/gift, my h-bunches for coming to the boring inductions, award ceremonies, and graduation, and of course, my family. Your presence means the world.

*It is true that I have never seen a film with Humphrey Bogart, but for some reason I have his voice set in my head.