We attended a graduation ceremony for University of Tennessee at Chattanooga students recently. It was filled with the kind of pomp and ceremony one might expect at any graduation.
Musicians played in the graduates-to-be, who marched onto the floor of McKenzie Arena in their blue gowns and took their place, row by row, in two sections of chairs that covered what is normally the school basketball team’s playing surface.
Creative students decorated their mortar boards both to display their individualism and to let Mom and Dad in Section 238 know which one was their graduate, the one for whom they’d paid four, five or six years of higher education.
The chancellor spoke words of welcome, words perhaps earnestly written but words that went in one ear of all attendees and out the other. An invited speaker challenged the students to do their best, live their dreams and strive their hardest, but even he admitted no one will remember his words because that is not why they were there. They were there either to graduate – to move their tassels from the right to the left once they received their pretend diplomas (the real ones come in the mail) – or to support the graduate and perhaps shed a tear in the doing.
After all students crossed the stage, each name duly announced, the school alma mater was played and dismissal announced.