In the past year, I have been to my own graduation from nursing school, my daughter’s graduation from High School, Melissa’s graduation from Wesleyan (Master’s degree, thank you) and my son’s graduation from college.
Think of the sheep who have given their skin just for the matriculation of my family. Maybe Mary’s little lamb would be well-advised not to follow her to school so much.
Traditionally, millions of boring graduation orators have stressed the meaning of the word “commencement” at millions of graduation ceremonies, pointing out that the word does not connotate the end of something; rather it implies the beginning of something.
This is, traditionally true, of course, but nowadays, with the economy circling the drain and all, I heard more and more about how commencement really pointed the assembled mortarboards in a negative direction.
When I graduated from nursing school, hospitals, home care agencies, and any and all other manner of medical facilities, were climbing over each other to get us new nurses on their payrolls. This year, the graduating class of my alma mater is populated with frustrated job hunters. While the “nursing shortage” that is part of our culture still exists, the money shortage is currently overriding it.
Meanwhile, over at the Wesleyan podium, apologies were the word of the day. Speakers couldn’t help but bear some responsibility for the world into which their graduates were being thrust. No hyperbole would cushion the inevitable blow that would be struck upon the hung-over graduates, the soft, safe tablecloth of academia being yanked off the table in one resounding tug. The silverware of massive college loans crashing about their feet; the resounding din of reality wrapped in an awkward metaphor.
Back in the day, there was a job in Daddy’s firm awaiting, or headhunters had long since recruited you into a blue chip, Wall Street firm. Now Daddy’s firm is on bailout and the headhunters a looking for jobs for themselves.
At the Rhode Island School of Design, where my son was recently elevated to the ranks of alumni, artists prepared themselves for traditional lives in smelly garrets, painting, waiting tables and eating cold, canned spaghetti.
Advantage: artists. No longer a curse, for we no more can change our artistic destiny than we can our genetic code. Many are called but virtually none are chosen. Still, art is permanent, it cannot be killed. And the atmosphere at RISD was a deep contrast to the other graduations I had attended. A jazz band, perfectly piped into the speaker system set the tone, while conspicuous flat screen televisions, made the podium proceedings clearly visible to even the most inconvenienced parent. Sunny, jazzy, jolly; no apologies offered.
There was here, a sense of optimism. Much the same as there is inherent with all artists, since most of our future energies are directed toward a blank canvas or a lump of clay. While success is luscious, it is not as important as the drive to create. And the diploma, once a ticket to financial stability, is now a receipt for astronomical tuition bills. An artist, at least, can flip it over and use it to make a sketch.
Yes, the word “Commencement,” suggests beginning. Melissa, a working artist, got her Master’s degree creating art. Hannah, my daughter is studying art at Cooper Union. Alexander, my son, is hanging his diploma on the wall and hanging out his shingle as an artist. In an atmosphere where everything is upside-down, where Wall Street, once the central hub of enormous paydays, is now the center of insolvent sadness, and reliable juggernaut industries like American Chromium automobiles and hugely endowed banks are starving. A word traditionally reserved for artists.
Maybe it’s an finally even playing field. Maybe now artist’s can have the same opportunity as everyone else, especially since everyone else has no opportunity. And maybe we can get some of that bail-out money, allowing us to quit our menial day jobs to create the art we are destined to create. This would make jobs available to the brokers and bankers and automobile company executives who have found themselves in need of honest work.
I only regret that I didn’t stick it out myself. For I am an artist. There, I said it. And I have suppressed the drive to create, and yet, I just typed 744 words. And when I am done, I will draw a picture.
I just can’t help it.
You want fries with that?
