The graduation situation

Dylan Hostetter, Executive Editor

There are some moments in your life that just feel more consequential than others. Graduating college is a big deal. I mean, the last time I wore a gown it was because I was hospitalized for doing a sleep study on myself. Take it from me, sleep-walking through a collegiate fencing tournament is no way to spend an afternoon.

That sleep study is actually one of my earliest memories in college. It’s really crazy to think about all I’ve been through; from that time I made a replica of myself using artificial intelligence, to when I befriended that leprechaun. I’m beginning to think the effects of that sleep study on my brain may be more intense than I previously realized — but I digress.

As my alarm clock blared on the morning of my graduation, it finally hit me. It was all over. No longer would I travel the world while in Zoom classes, solve mysteries in my oversized trench coat or fight off ram-filled tornadoes. OK really, what is wrong with my life?

After the flood of memories made its way through my mind, I finally took the time to realize I was 30 minutes late to graduation. So much for a consequential moment — after all I’d been through I might not even get to walk across the stage. This would be a more devastating blow than the time I wore a feather boa and “Spank Me” sweatpants around campus.

I grabbed my cap and gown, slung it over my shoulder and ran out the door. I knew I was already late, but seeing as how this would be one of my final walks across campus, I couldn’t help but to get nostalgic.

I would never again see the rush of fresh-eyed highschool students on campus tours, and their wide-eyed parents realizing what they are about to send their children into.

I would never again see the cabal of tabling organizations offering high-fives and muffins, or high-fives and popcorn, or just high-fives. Those tables are always empty.

I would never again see English students coming out of the library with bags of books in their arms, or biology students coming out of the library with bags under their eyes.

I would never again see student athletes riding around on Lime scooters, or couples riding around on Bird scooters, or receive VCU Alerts about stolen scooters. I would never really have to think about scooters again.

Picking up my pace, I finally arrived at the Convention Center. Diving through the crowd, I found my seat right as the ceremony began.

As I pulled my gown over my shoulders, I realized that I had not in fact grabbed my regalia, but instead had grabbed a trash bag and an old pizza box. Thankfully — and sadly — there was no pizza left.

I had no time to worry about what I was wearing, for I had to listen closely for my name to be called. I sat and I waited — and waited and waited. These ceremonies really do take forever, listening to some guy say name after name, like the world’s worst live poetry reading. 

After what felt like a century, the professor finally got to where my name should be. I waited for him to utter those syllables — and then kept waiting. He completely skipped over me. I was tired of listening, tired of sitting and tired of sweating bullets in that trash bag.

Next thing I knew I was rushing the stage. I was furious — how could I spend four years at a university and have them not acknowledge me?

I was told by campus security, long after they detained me, that I had in fact never been enrolled. It didn’t make sense to me at first, but then it dawned on me that I had never actually signed up for any classes. I had never had a meeting with an advisor. I always just kind of showed up. 

I would say that it was the experiences that made it worth it, but man I really wish I had that dumb piece of paper.