Mort de francais

Walking into the small library where the ceremony was going to be was like walking into an international party in which no one knew what they were supposed to be doing. Rather, that's exactly what it was. The group of French graduates was small, and the library was even smaller. Of the French majors graduating -- there were seven or eight of us -- only three had shown up. It was combined with the Classics department to add a few more bodies to the entire thing.

I came in wearing my black gown over my dress, but once there for a few minutes I took it off. Only the three Classics graduates were wearing their caps and gowns, and who wants to look like one of them, anyhow? Maybe I shouldn't make fun of them too much; I did take a semester of Latin once upon a time in high school...

So we entered and no one really did anything. The cliques stood in their circles and stared at eachother, and every once in a while one of them would venture a glance at the table in the middle of the room, whose aroma of colors was enticing everybody. The food in the middle of the room was calling my name, too. Marshmallows, hors d'oeuvres, fondue, strawberries...it was all just sitting there, waiting. But no one was eating any of it; none of us were sure if it was open to eat or not.

Then one of the Dean dudes (no idea what his name is, oh well) told us to hurry up and start eating. Can I just say, fondue is awesome? Melting delicious things and pouring them on top of other delicious things is rather a brilliant idea, if I do say so myself. And I do.

Of all the moments that happened after trying to look like I wasn't hoarding food, I believe my favorite was the instant the French Dean dude informed us that he wanted the graduates to tell the room about our senior capstone theses. Hm. The Classics Dean dude had known everything about his students--where they were from, where they were going, that sort of thing. You can imagine how much his French Dean dude counterpart knew about me, considering that I still don't know his name.

After he announced that he'd like us all to share about our papers, I glanced around the room and found my acquaintances, whose faces were suddenly in contortions of pain, fear, and a little bit of annoyance. It was a little silly; they'd only written 15 pages or so on their respective topics, and there I was, 45 pages floating somewhere in my mind, and they had the nerve to pretend to complain. I glanced at the list of alphabetical graduates in my hand. I would be second to speak, and with this in mind, I gathered my thoughts as succinctly as possible.

All I did next was lift my chin, square my shoulders, and speak a little above my normal volume. Apparently the effect was commanding, because the whispered side conversations stopped and everyone I looked at was looking right back at me. Does this mean that I'm a good public speaker? Maybe. Think of it this way: I like showing off, and being praised. I'm trying very hard not to brag. And now this blog has turned completely away from my intent of telling stories. Well, I mean, minor intent, anyways.

Before we left I rethanked my French advisor/prof for helping me this past semester. She told my dad that I was a hard worker. Thinking about that thesis now....well...let's just say that I'm ecstatically happy that it happened. Emphasis on the past tense.

Death of Journalism

I was wearing the fancy dress and the leather boots with the top folded over. The dangling earrings, a single bracelet. Mascara was layered a couple of times over my eyelashes, creating a somewhat fancy effect. Looking around, I didn't feel over or under dressed. Other girls were wearing five-inch heels and dresses that almost hit them in appropriate places on their legs, but that was pretty much the only difference.

The line of people wasn't moving anywhere, and I didn't know anyone. I mean, of course I recognized people. I'd taken classes with them for the past three years. They'd been in and out of my life on Tuesdays and Thursdays as long as I had been around. So I sort of knew who they were. They're all the same, anyway. "What're you doing after?" "Getting drunk, hells yeah."

No one has any original responses. Even my "I'm baking Christmas cookies with one of my friends" was met with a few raised eyebrows and one "I'll bet you could totally down a couple shots in between batches." After that was a "Ooh, yeah, I guess you couldn't put vodka in cookies."

I smirked a little and shook my head, and chose to look at my phone. I was talking to a couple of my friends, none of whom were at the ceremony, but I didn't mind that at all. When I finished a reply, the line suddenly started moving. My black gown billowed in the breeze that followed immediately afterwards, and I lifted up a hand to steady my cap. The tassels were pulling it forward and their fringe was whipping itself into my eyes. We were all taking tiny, tiny steps up to the doors to go inside, and when I glanced back at the rest of the line I had to laugh: every other girl behind me was also delicately gripping the four-cornered horror on her head with wide eyes.

Once inside, we entered the auditorium to the sound of clapping and catcalls and probably some recorded music that we couldn't really hear. The walk down to our rows of seats was slightly dangerous -- the incline of the floor tilted so much that they almost could have used stairs. I held my head up and grinned at my family as I walked past. We plopped down into our chairs and pretended to listen to the Dean and to the speaker, a supposed hot-shot advertiser who spent more time reading his notes than speaking. I felt almost ridiculous for texting during my own graduation ceremony, but really, once I heard "You can't be afraid to fail", I felt I had learned enough for the day.

They hooded the masters students before the undergrads, which makes complete sense. As the four of them came up individually and were given their honors and applause, I couldn't help but wonder what kind of person would actually want to acquire a master's degree in journalism. I still don't have an answer. A very curious person or a person who really loves people?

With the master's degrees out of the way, they had the rest of us stand up and line up against the wall as they read our names off of the index cards we handed them. I had slipped my phone into my boot, and with every step I took it fell a little further into the boot, rubbing against the thin cloth and making a slightly strange vibration on top of my foot. When it was my turn I handed over the index card and lifted my head so my jawline was level with the floor, and when my name was called I concentrated on making a beeline for Dean Voakes, who was smiling at me emptily -- he had no idea who I was. Later my family told me that I walked across the stage like a snobby ballerina. Graceful and proud. I was only walking.

The chocolate cake they had at the reception upstairs was utterly boring and fifteen minutes after walking across the stage, we were returning to the cars and driving back home. I ran my fingertips over the glossy black diploma cover and closed my eyes. It was a pretty nice feeling.

Hardly random

I am in love with a fictitious character. It's really quite pathetic. I suppose, at the very least, it's not quite so pathetic, since I am able to keep John Krasinksi and Jim Halpert separate in my head. Jim is..... sigh...... he's Jim. Enough said.

There is a hole in my oldest pair of jeans. I almost said they are my favorite pair, but since I got my new skinnies, it's a tough call. Sometimes I pretend to despise myself for being a wannabe hipster from the 40s, but then I get over it. Why fight it?

My little sister changed her Facebook relationship status before talking to the boy about it. I'm slightly ashamed of her. The announcement of the aforementioned fact was the catalyst to several seconds of open-mouthed horror shared with our other sister.

I read other people's blogs and gasp with their heart-rending angst and wish I were more compelling like that. And then I wonder, why would I want to be depressed all the time? Even if I weren't, why would I want to pretend to be?

Final project in Magazine writing: A Day in the Life. Subjects from classmates include a high school freshman who has cerebral palsy and is blind, a stripper from Philly, the guy who runs Suburban Home Records (used to be run in his basement), and a kindergarten teacher who is going blind while her husband goes deaf. I hung out with an ex-"drunk-a$$ college student" who works at the Children's Museum. It seems like a situation I should be laughing at. Like one of those super awkward jokes that only one person in the room laughs at, but only because it reminds them of another, more funny, joke.

I spent 60 bucks today on graduation announcements and a cap and gown and tassels. 60. There's a sticker on the gown that reads, "Do not wash. Do not dry clean." Hm. So, in other words, "Single use only. Place in proper trash receptacle, you taken-in idiot." Thanks a lot, University. I'm very glad to be leaving you, too.

Does anyone know of a job that includes creative writing, arts and crafts, making enough money to pay off college loans, and people who aren't boring? I'd like one.