Yeah, I know, the ceremony was about two months ago, but life has been so full of excitement (see: sitting in the basement studying for the bar exam) that I never had time to put it down on paper. Electrons. I never had time to write about it.
Truth is, it didn’t seem all that much different than any other graduation ceremony than the others I’ve been to. Yes, that’s right, I graduated from high school and college, too. (You’d be amazed at how little cash it takes to get those places to provide a little extra boost to my GPA.) We all got to dress up in neat little gowns like usual, it took place in the Rivercentre ballroom (a mall-sized facility used for… I don’t know what, but it’s big and looks pretty formal), and a good time was had by all. And if you’re anything like me, that last phrase sounds like something you’d read in a letter sent in to the Penthouse Forum. Hey, I admit it, I read it for the articles…
If I’m lucky, I’ll figure out how to post a couple pictures at the bottom of this entry. For the time being, you’ll have to picture this in your head: they were large black gowns, but they had purple strips going down the front and three wide, purple strips on the sides of the sleeves; the cap was an hexagon with a yellow tassel fixed on the left front side (we got a separate purple one that could be flipped around in any place and any direction as long as it wasn’t on our graduation garb); and there was a giant “hood” that we wore down the back, purple on the outside with a black and a vibrant red strip on the inside. The “hood” is in quotation marks just because little brother Justin tried putting it up on my head—it looked like I could have been a fruity member of the KKK.
So we all got to walk down the aisles and take our seats, then sit through the long and tedious process that would eventually lead to our receiving sheets of paper that validated the last three long and tedious years of our lives (or four or five if you were a part-time student). Wheeee… You could tell just how excited everyone was by watching the stage at the front of the room and counting all the professors who were nodding off during the course of the ceremony.
First, there were the speakers. Lots and lots of speakers. … Okay, technically, there were only four people talking to us on the stage, but one of those was running the ceremony, one was the valedictorian, and one who we apparently elected to give the charge to the class. Those two speakers managed to break up the monotony, though all I remember was some knowledge that the professor opted not to include in the class charge: “Don’t mix colors in the wash!” You’d think practical advice like that would be more common, but apparently speakers like to be more intellectual. Like the guest speaker.
A quick introduction: Harry Haynsworth… well, I’m not sure what he’s done for William Mitchell, but it was apparently important enough that they decided to honor his leaving the school by speaking to the outgoing class. Unfortunately, only one party in that sentence was outgoing. Maybe it was the topic, maybe it was his presentation, but he managed to bore the piss out of just about everyone in the Rivercentre ballroom that afternoon.
He started talking about justice and the rule of law… that’s all I remember. That’s about all anyone I talked to could remember. Remember in all those Charlie Brown TV specials where the teacher just went “Wa-wawa-wa-wa-wawa-wa…” Well, Harry Haynsworth managed to accomplish the exact same thing without being off-screen.
We have a clock in our family room that ticks and chimes every quarter-hour—in general, the only time I hear it is when I’m listening for it or I’m trying to hear an important part of a conversation on TV. Enter Haynsworth: my mind was roaming to bigger and better things, broken up occasionally by words like “justice” and “rule of law.” Honest to God, after it was all over, those two things were all that I could remember from his entire speech. And I wasn’t the only person that happened to. I asked all the people I invited to the ceremony: same thing. The speaker was talking, but no one was listening.
Eventually, it was time to head up to the stage and accept our diplomas. They were in these pretty red faux leather folders that you could flip open and make a little tent on your desk to show your school pride, you know… The only thing I regret about the ceremony is that I didn’t have them say my full name, “Shawn Clarke Bakken.” See, my middle name comes from my two grandfathers, Clarence and Folke. The latter was on my mother’s side and I guess he really wanted a lawyer in the family. He passed away while I was still an undergrad at Kenyon, but I thought walking across the stage and using his name would have been a good way to honor that wish.
But it was a short and sweet walk across the stage. Sorta. We all had to fold up our hoods a certain way on our arms and there were two people at the edge of the stage to put them on for us. We handed the hood to one, then turned towards the other so they could slip it over our heads and get it straight on the front of our necks, though there were a few of us who caught it in the face or got strangled in the process. There were also a few of us who handed the hood to one person, then turned to that same person, preventing them from flipping it over our heads. Naturally, with a last name starting with “B,” I was the first (but thankfully not the only) person in line to turn in the wrong direction.
He gave me a look, I asked him if I should turn the other way, and he told me, “You can turn however you want.” I swear to God, I was this close to spinning around in a circle before finally facing in the right direction. If you thought people were laughing at me before… But we got our hoods, walked across the stage, shook hands with the person handing out our little tents, and sat back down to wait for everyone else. And there were a lot of people.
So how did I waste my time? Well, I listened for the names of people I knew, watched some other people turn in the wrong direction, read through the program three or four times (I was recognized for significant public service! I don’t know what that means, but woo-hoo anyway!), and I opened up my tent. It was empty. Just like our educations!
Turns out the school was holding the diplomas hostage: you had to turn in your graduation gowns, hoods, specially-colored undies and everything else before getting your magical sheet of paper. I guess it involves weighing your priorities of what’s neater: a cool looking outfit or a not-so-cool looking sheet of paper to validate all the time and money you invested into… a not-so-cool looking sheet of paper. I opted to skip the gown, thinking that pictures of that might be more valuable than pictures of a diploma.
So it became official. They gave me my Juris Doctor in a public ceremony and you can’t have it back, you bastards! It’s mine, I’m not giving it back, and I’m going to insist that I earned it until I reach the deathbed and reveal all my dark and dirty secrets. And when that happens, a good time will be had by all.
[As a side-note, there was a professional photographer squatting at the end of the stage and we paid about $20 to get a 5×7 and 8×10 picture of me getting a handshake and a diploma. It looked really nice: firm handshake (no white knuckles from squeezing too hard), nice movement of the diploma towards me… and a fuzzy head. The portion of my body that included proud eyes and a gracious smile were out of focus. The photographer was a professional. He got paid to take the picture. We paid his employer to get copies of the picture. I swear to God, if I could hunt this guy down, I’d kick the crap out of him and a good time would be had by… me. I doubt he’d enjoy the experience very much, but as long as his face wasn’t bleeding profusely, he might be able to see the proud eyes clearly the second time around.]
