Slip of Paper
“Mom, it looks fine.”
The cap on my head, decorated with construction paper and kindergarten-craft amounts of glue, slightly shifted while walking from our car to the arena. Graduation always calls for looking your best, and with me being a first-generation graduate, my mother had unrealistic expectations.
“Baby, please fix it. It’s sitting too far back on your head. Plus, look at your gown. It’s not long enough, I can see your entire legs! I told you to order a size up.”
“Mom, I promise you I’m fine. I have to go downstairs and get in line.”
She gave me a look of concern but knew that there was no time remaining to make me look pampered. It was time for me to graduate college. I started walking downstairs to the staging area, where hundreds of people in the same black gown as I lined up. Everyone’s caps were different, remaining one of the only ways you could tell people apart. Some had fake rhinestones with sequins and glitter, others had construction paper with quotes or dated jokes. Some remained blank, causing them to blend into the background of black attire, while still standing out in the sea of decoration. I found a girl I knew handing out slips of paper with graduate names on it, and I approached her to get mine.
“Hey, here you go, go ahead and line up. Congrats on escaping this dump.”
Since I knew her, I saved a few seconds of interaction and grabbed a spot in line with the College of Business. The slip of paper with my name on it was shocking, yet understandable. There are hundreds of students every year, a dean cannot be expected to remember names. Still, the thought entered my head:
Paying a place six figures to not even know your name. Sad.
This slip would also display what distinction you earned, like “summa cum laude”, showing you were more important than everyone else, but mine only showed my name. I didn’t care if I was more important than other students, I didn’t need “summa cum laude” to feel accomplished, I was equal to them in the sense that I was also graduating. That was enough for me. I placed the slip in my pocket and waited.
When we were called to walk to our seats, the clicks of high-heels and Oxfords on the cement floor almost overpowered the music from the speakers. Most people, who attended the practice ceremony two days prior, walked the designated path and found their seats. Others, who didn’t attend, roamed from aisle to aisle before finally finding their place and sitting down. The music slowly faded away once there were no more decorated caps shuffling, and we were given permission to sit. The president of the college made his way from the black curtains behind the podium and tapped the microphone in cliché fashion. He opened with a prayer, asking God to watch over the ceremony, followed by an announcement that each dean would be given time to speak at the podium.
At a university with tens of colleges, this meant we could be expecting hours of pre-written scripts, stories, and tears from deans that only a specific college knew. The president turned away from the podium as the crowd let out a sigh in unison, and the formation began. As they spoke, the crowd became restless. Some played with the gold and white tassel hanging off their cap, some started nervous habits such as bouncing their legs or biting their nails. The parents, and even a select few of the students, snuck a prolonged peek at their phones. The longer I sat there, the more I didn’t want to be there. I didn’t want to hear multiple deans speak hollow words, but I couldn’t leave because this was graduation. I needed that degree, at any cost. I was stuck. A weird feeling came over me.
After an hour of speeches from multiple deans, it was finally time to accept my paper. This paper was thousands of dollars, hundreds of hours of work, hundreds of days of tears, stress, and anxiety medication, but now it was all over. It was mine. After a few rows from different colleges, it was finally my turn.
“Will the College of Business please rise and make your way to stage right.”
We stood up, the rustling of gowns sounding like the feathers of birds, ready to fly from their nest. We walked to the shallow staircase on the right side of the stage. I watched as one person became a college graduate, then another, all handing pieces of paper to the announcer so their name was known. The fact that I was just another student, nothing special, was not a concern of mine. The paper waiting at that podium in the middle of the stage was. When I ascended the stairs in front of me, it was finally my turn.
A lady in a white pant suit smiled, shook my hand, and said, “Congratulations, can I have your name slip?”
I smiled, and my hands became sweaty as I reached for the slip of paper in my pocket. When I felt inside, I found my car keys, my wallet, my lip balm, and a receipt from the soda I bought my mother earlier. No name slip.
“I’m sorry, I think I lost it. I put it in my pocket, but it must have fallen out. Is there any way I can tell you my name and my degree and walk the stage?”
The lady’s smile faded. Her eyes turned serious, and she leaned closer to me.
“I’m sorry, I need that name slip. You could tell me your name, but that doesn’t show me your distinction, your major or your degree. I need that information.”
I was starting to panic, sweat beading under my cap.
“I can go back and look for it. Just give me some time.”
Her lips were now bent to the shape of a frown. As I turned around to go back down the stairs, they were gone. The entire arena was gone. It was just the stage, my paper waiting for me, but the lady in the pant suit stopping me.
She asked me another question. “Are you a college graduate?”
I answered, “No, not yet. That’s why I’m standing here as we speak. I am trying to walk out there and earn that. I want to get that paper and be able to answer yes, but I can’t while you’re stopping me.”
She wasted no time responding. “Are you a college student?”
I waited to answer her. Not because of anger, not because of frustration or anxiety, but because of curiosity. Standing here, in this weird space with just the stage, I thought about my situation. I had no identity. I had no degree. I had done everything required. Without that degree, I was neither a college student, nor a college graduate. I was just a person. A nameless person, at that. No name slip, no diploma displaying my name, I don’t know who I would be. At this rate, I didn’t know who I was.
I finally replied, “No, I’m not a college student, technically.”
She pulled out her phone, her nails clicking against the screen as she typed rapidly.She asked me, “Ok, what is your name, then.”
I looked down in one final attempt to discover the lost slip of paper. However, now my gown was gone. I felt the top of my head, where my hands were met with hair instead of my cap. The slip of paper with my name lay behind me, possibly on the floor or in my chair. The piece of paper with my name lay in front of me, guarded by a pant suit. I had no way of knowing who I was as an answer was everywhere but here. The answer that could free me was the question that had me stuck.
I responded, “I don’t know,” as the entire stage faded. My chance to move forward, to find the answer, now gone. I was left with myself and the pant suit lady. I stared at her, longing, hoping she knew who I was.
“Please, I know you know me. Let me go.”
She responded, “Who are you, if you’re not told?”
