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I may or may not have mentioned that two of my younger sisters followed in my footsteps by attending the Boston College. This is very wonderful because we share a the very unique experience of knowing what it is to spend four years on “The Heights” learning to be “women and men for others” educated to “set the world aflame” (read: we have the same fifteen t-shirts and an unhealthy obsession with Jesuits). This is a total pain in the ass because it means I have had to endure the very uniquely miserable experience of graduating from Boston College not one but three times.
SIX (my hands literally shook typing that number) years ago I graduated on a 45-degree late May day as Boston’s infamous “wintry mix” sloshed down on my poor family. I then proceeded to cry my eyes out for the four hours we were given to move out of my Gabelli Hall dorm while my parents packed the belongings I’d decided not to pack before their arrival. They still refer to it as the worst behavior of my entire life. “You were the meanest you’ve ever been on that day,” my Mom says.
I cried because it was the end of the most special time I’d experienced to date. A phase of my life was dying, and I was in deep, uncontrollable mourning. I was terrified of the unknown to come, overwhelmed by the journey it had taken to get there, and exhausted from the sleepless, drunk nights that preceded the big event. I had both a conscious and unconscious knowledge of what it meant to be crossing over into this next phase of my life – adulthood – and what I knew is that I didn’t want any part of it.
Four years after that my sister Dani graduated on a 52-degree late May day under cloudy skies that turned into a total downpour in the middle of her ceremony. I then proceeded to hide my half-dozen mini sob sessions for the far fewer hours it took to move her out of her Mod while her friends begged my for advice about when it was going to get less devastating (and their parents’ asked when they were going to stop being such assholes).
I cried because I knew exactly what my sister was going through, how painful it was, and the sad fact that it wasn’t getting better any time soon. I had the perspective of having seen some “success” in the “real world.” I was doing the whole “adult” thing, and it was going fairly well, but being back in that moment where life begins anew still filled me with all this crazy emotion. Was I doing it right? Was I becoming the person I intended when I left this place? Was there any way to take a pause, rewind, move into a dorm-style apartment with my five best friends and re-train ourselves to drink like fish without the risk of hangover? In other words, I cried for her but I was really still crying for myself.
Monday morning my sister Sara graduated on a 56-degree late May day under skies that went from pouring to threatening to pouring again all day long. (I guess the silver lining is that none of us can brag about our superior weather?) And after that, the strangest thing happened. I controlled myself and my tears for the fifteen minutes it took us to carry the neatly organized piles of things she’d prepared before our arrival (they call her “Best Rosen” for a reason).
Don’t get me wrong, I was just as sad for Sara as I’d been for Dani and myself. I don’t think the moment is any less devastating or worthy of misery. But this time my perspective on the event was totally…adult? I kept having these moments where I empathized with my parents and their pride/joy/sadness at their little girl accomplishing this major goal. On more than one bizarre occasion I looked around and thought about how I would be handling this if I were a parent. I think I actually hugged one of Sara’s friends and said, “It’s okay sweetheart. Being an adult is an incredibly exciting thing.”
Maybe it was just a passing phase on a day when I was excited more excited about my future than sad about missing the past. Maybe I now know that there is some semblance of life after college (even if I can’t guarantee that it starts anytime after the day you graduate). Or maybe it’s just that three’s a charm when it comes to handling BC graduations.
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That is EXACTLY how I felt and behaved at my college graduation. I still feel like such an asshole when I remember how immature I’d been.. pouting, rude to my family who was there enduring 110 degree Southern CA heat just to watch me be a horrible brat. I remember my older sister coming to see me before I lined up. Her only words? “Sack up, ho.”
It’s great to see that I wasn’t alone in feeling that way, and it’s also great to be on this side of things, realizing that it’s pretty cool to become more of yourself each year.
my parents ALSO say I’ve never been meaner than the I graduated/cried/yelled at them for moving boxes into the car. Must be a BC thing…=D
My brother graduated from BC on Monday, too and I was there (flew in from LA, too).
He was a dick to me for the first time ever, I think, but I was okay with it. He was a whiny brat about everything and wasn’t ready at all to leave, in fact I had to clean his whole dorm/apartment thing and carry 90% of his things to the car. But I felt his pain, sort of. When I graduated I got to leave the next morning, so I had one more night with my friends and only myself to pack up, in tears and throwing things into my trunk with reckless abandon.
This time I was more composed too.
I’d trade any of those days for the broiling heat we endured, in those offensively expensive poly-whoknowswhat gowns. BC’93