This week, my shiny, sparkly classmates and I received our official Print Futures diplomas. Some chose to wait for theirs in the mail while the rest of us showed up one last time in order to don black gowns (but no mortarboard hats?), march in a procession, listen to sappy speeches, and walk across the stage as our names were read. The stylish and articulate Melanie sums it up best, actually.

Aside: It’s hard looking for work as a writer/editor – one typo in your cover letter and you’re banished from consideration. So much pressure.

I wasn’t going to go to the ceremony, or invite anyone to it, since I figure a high school and university graduation is enough with the pomp and circumstance. But Donovan convinced me I should go, and so I did. Then I discovered they were giving me some special thing called “a gold cord” for having a high GPA. I had never heard of this gold cord business before but suddenly, clueless classmates are saying things like “Now you can help me with my homework when I go back to school again.” Uh, no, I think, as my academic life flashes before my eyes.

It’s kind of a neat honour, but I can’t help thinking about the plaques and certificates collected at past graduations. These little academic distinctions mean jack squat in life, really. They make a nice moment, the recognition and parents taking pictures, but that’s all. I squirm to mention them on a resume.

My Grandpa wrote a poem about me when I graduated from high school. He wrote: “Christine may be well-educated/but she will soon smarten up.”

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