Twenty four years ago I started college.
Thirteen years ago I finished it.
(No, I'm not a doctor.)
(Shut up.)
When my college graduation commencement, um, commenced, I watched as all my classmates marched across the stage to shake hands with the university president before receiving the leather-bound book containing their diploma.
Prior to the ceremony, we were required to practice the receipt of our diplomas, as the grab-and-shake was an orchestrated move. If we reached with the wrong hands or employed bad timing, the ceremony would appear awkward and ungainly, like when two straight men attempt to hug each other.
The proper choreography entailed extending ones right hand to the President while the left was open to receive the star of the show, the raison d'etre, the reason we'd all gathered here in the first place.
I sat anxiously in my seat, mentally rehearsing my take on the grab-and-shake. Would I get all hammy like the kids who opened the leather covers and then did the Rocky Balboa victory dance off the stage? Would I be cool and staid like the adult students, giving the President a brisk nod before proceeding back to their seats, only then to peek at the grand prize inside?
I ended up somewhere in the middle. Although I flashed the President (and audience) a brilliant smile, I decided to wait to return to my seat to glance at the enclosed document.
The walk back to my chair was only a few yards, yet it felt like an eternity. My heart pounded out of my chest and I was breathless in anticipation.
What would it be like to finally see my name on that document?
How would I react?
Would I read and re-read the names of all the trustees who'd endorsed this document?
Would I simply hug it straight to my chest?
Would I run my fingers across the calligraphy that announced in no uncertain terms that regardless of everything I'd gone through to get here, that I'd finally finished what I'd started?
I paused in my seat for a moment, soaking in the gravity of what I was about to see.
This was it. This was to be my touchstone for all the hard work I'd put in after my initial failure. This document would sum up everything I'd been working for over the past eleven years.
I opened the cover...
... only to find a small scrap of paper that wished me a hearty congratulations on my achievement and further instructions that if I wanted my ACTUAL diploma, I needed to pay the Purdue parking facility thirty-five dollars for my outstanding ticket.
Motherfuckers.
While everyone else posed with their diplomas after the ceremony, I held up my encumbrance slip. Granted, I was angry, but moreso, I was amused. A big part of me thought that this was truly the most appropriate ending of a momentous college career.
As summer progressed and I settled into my post-grad life in Chicago, my parents would ask me when I was going to get my actual diploma. I said I'd get it as soon as I took care of my parking ticket. And by "take care of," I meant "get the university to waive."
You see, the ticket was bogus in my opinion. I was parked at a meter in the garage with plenty of time left on it. Purdue had a rule about no student vehicles parking in this particular garage but I happened to be driving my mother's car that day.
OK, fine, technically I was breaking the rule.
However, my little Tercel was registered with the university. My mother's Honda wasn't. How could campus parking cops possibly know it was me going to my philosophy class and not my mother attending to some pre-graduation business on campus? Plus, I was working full time and carrying a fifteen hour load. The only way I was able to get to my class in time from working the lunch shift was to drive. I didn't see a lot of choice in the matter and for Christ's sake, I graduated with a 4.0 that semester and could someone cut me a tiny break, please, please?
I documented all this information and set it to my university in hopes of an appeal.
Denied.
So I made a pledge right then and there that I would NEVER pay to get my diploma and that they'd never see a dime from me in donations until I received my diploma. Every year enthusiastic students would call me during fund-raising drives and every year I'd tell them no diploma, no check, no dice. I figured with all the money I'd given them over eleven years, they could look past the thirty five damn dollars.
They didn't.
We'd reached a stalemate.
This stalemate continued for thirteen years until some very nice university employees came to my Chicago book signing. They brought me a bag of Purdue College of Liberal Arts goodies and asked if I'd ever consider speaking on campus. I told them no, due to my grudge. They promised to look into the matter.
They were good to their word.
A couple of days ago I got a note saying if I contacted a certain person she might be able to get me my diploma. So I did and yesterday, I received confirmation that my diploma is on its way.
I didn't even have to pay thirty-five dollars.
All I had to do was wait thirteen years and write two New York Times best selling books.
So now I'm happy to speak on campus and when the fundraisers call, instead of giving them a piece of my mind, I'll give them a credit card number.
In short?
I WIN.
And now I'm going to throw the best graduation party EVER.
After all, I've had twenty four years to plan it.
