Where did you come from, where did you go? Huh, good question, funny you should ask...
So it’s been a while since I poked my head back into this neck of the woods. Things have been pretty busy, working at camp while the rest of the world blew up into an increasingly out of control wildfire. But, as of one week ago today, I’ve officially graduated from Taylor University. My long journey studying the arts of communication has come to an end.
It was, of course, a strange adventure, coming back to campus after nearly five months of quarantined exile to rush through as many of the senior traditions as possible: Painting my brick in the Theatre Quadrant. Traversing the hallowed Samuel Morris Frolf course. Making a final Love’s run. Praising the Monolith one last time as a Taylor student.
And then the day of – waking up bright and early at six in the morning to assemble on the dewy football field, squinting through the sea of identical caps and gowns to recognize the upper halves of masked faces. Bouncing about as if shot into a giant pinball machine, we rush to catch up and pass on wishes to as many of the friends and acquaintances with whom our final months were cut short and farewells postponed indefinitely. Above all, like the heavy Indiana morning mist, hangs that ever ominous sense that many of the people smiling and waving now, who passed you by on the sidewalk every day for the last four years, may never cross your path again.
And then comes the voice through the bullhorn, directing the masses to their single file lines to march across campus, past faculty members who may or may not recognize you beneath your mask and who you’ve been quickly shuffled past before you can shout their name and hope they remember your voice. Then there’s the chairs, the bagpipes (because Bishop William Taylor’s Scottish ancestry somehow ordained them to accompany every senior class departing the school named for him) and lots and lots of sitting.
The sitting, of course, is interrupted only by evenly paced bursts of applause and, for each individual graduate in turn, a wait in line, just long enough to imagine every clumsy mishap that could possibly go wrong before at last achieving those shining thirty seconds - walking across the stage, blinking and being back in your seat with your hands suddenly filled by a Bible, a towel and a fancy diploma depository. And then, unless you’re the lucky final soul on the list, it's back to the sitting and the applause, and then marching back out, just the way you came, only this time, your tassel is on the other side of your goofy cardboard head-square. Which means you’ve graduated.
Once the scramble to take pictures is done and you’ve finally lifted your heavy feet off campus soil to turn back towards whatever counts as home now, the new waiting starts. Waiting for adulthood to begin. It seems like it should feel different. Like in exchange for wearing those ridiculous wizard clothes and trekking across that stage I should be receiving a newfound sense of confidence and authority. For I Am Adult!
Of course, the present environment is not exactly conducive to bestowing those gifts. I've watched my initial plans, one after one, disappear with the rising COVID-19 cases. While many friends began their careers, got married and/or moved on to Grad School, I’ve found myself back at Square One in pretty much every sense. Never before have I found Rapunzel belting "When Will My Life Begin" so relatable. It’s hard to feel like an adult when you’re sleeping in the same bed you kept for the last 22 years.
I remember way back in March, the blurry roller-coaster of emotions of our final week on campus flying by, as I clung to the increasingly baseless hope that classes would resume. And when that didn’t happen, when internships started going up in smoke, I returned to serve at The Brethren Retreat at Camp Shipshewana. The thought was that a summer job would bide the time until the whole virus thing blew over.
Sadly, despite living here my whole life, I somehow managed to underestimate America’s capacity to completely fumble any effort that regards believing in science and/or being concerned for anyone other than ourselves. So here I am, back at home, still stuck in the hazy limbo that is entering the workforce in the middle of a pandemic.
But, luckily for the handful of faithful friends who actually read these posts, one of the bright sides of not knowing what to do with my life is that, in between the odd jobs and endless applications, I now have more time than ever to write! Thus I can proudly announce that, greatly to the relief of our Tawny Frogmouth mascot, “Words Are Hard” lives again!
Starting with this life update, I’ve got all sorts of stuff to talk about, whether its unpacking the trials and tribulations of communication, performing autopsies on high profile media mistakes or helping you find great movies to stream while waiting for the theaters to reopen.
So if all goes according to plan, as things so rarely do these days, you’ll be hearing from me a lot more often from here on out. I hope you’ll looking forward to it. I know I am.
Comments