On commencement.

This past Monday marked two years since I graduated from high school. Is it wrong that I'm measuring that by the fact that this is the first time in my life that the desire to replace my phone, a graduation gift from my parents, has not arisen within two years of owning it?

I graduated two years ago as of Monday, and it feels like a lot longer than that. The college timeline warps things—my sophomore year ended in April. I'm a third of the way through my summer classes. "Last year" doesn't mean freshman year, or high school. It means my second year of college. I'm approximately halfway through my college career, whether I take that extra semester and get that third major or not.

I graduated two years ago as of Monday, and yet there are still parts of high school interwoven through my life. These last two years have been marked by lunch dates at the crepe place on Craig with some of the CMU crowd so that we could catch each other up on our lives—easy, simple conversations that require zero effort on our part because we know each other that well, because we knew each other during the awkward years and we don't have to apologize for anything. 

These years have been marked by the moments that I have on the way to class with people I still adore even though I didn't think that it would be their friendship that would last beyond commencement. These years have been marked by the little inside jokes that still hold weight, by the fact that I can snap someone a picture of a book I'm reading with the phrase "What, ho" underlined and have them know exactly what I'm talking about—the thought of that class still makes me want to laugh until I cry.

These years have been marked by the people that I've gone back to visit, by the fact that Mr. Weiss made me cry when he said he was proud of how far I've come when I stopped by in February (that's why I rushed out, by the way. If I hadn't, I would have been a sobbing mess in the hall outside of the history office. Just thinking about it makes me emotional). These years are marked by the fact that I got a message this past weekend asking if I would be at commencement today, as though there was ever any doubt that I'd be there for the last of my friends. 

With that, though, these years have been marked by other things too.

These years have been marked by the new friends I've made, the ones who take the contradiction that is the person I've become and run with it without hesitation (and give me phrases like "Jolly hockey sticks" to describe my high school classmates, the accuracy of which I cannot put into words). I've made a few missteps on the friends front along the way, but my little group in the corner of that coffee shop has become as close to a family as I think I'll find at college (even without the occasional appearance by my father), and I thank them for giving me something to look forward to every day. They're silly and ridiculous and together we span approximately a decade in age, but they also let me ramble on about what I'm learning—this week it was human sacrifice—and some of them are even capable of out-sarcasming me (something I once thought impossible).

These years have been marked by the fact that I get to learn about things like human sacrifice and prehistoric economies and ritual warfare, the fact that anthropology is now something I do, not just something that I've known for the entirety of my life (and I will talk your ear off about evolution and prehistoric cultural tendencies and the fact that humans aren't as special as we like to pretend we are, so be forewarned). These years have been marked by the fact that finally, finally I feel like I'm doing what I'm meant to—not the business, the business is just an aside—and I have to think but it doesn't feel like work. 

These years have been marked by the friendship that I've forged with my current roommate, who gets it when we have discussions like the one we had on Wednesday night, a friendship built on our ridiculous conversations in her car on the way to horse shows and all of those Saturday morning lessons together and the fact that we can talk for three hours or sit there in silence and be fine either way. These years have been marked by the fact that we both have the same feeling—when we move out at the end of July, we won't be able to replace each other (and we're not going to try)—and the fact that this is the first time I've known someone in real life that I can talk to about the things that have bothered me for so many years and know that they'll understand.

And so I sat there today and I watched the kids that I befriended when they were freshmen and sophomores walk across the stage and get their diplomas, and I remembered what it felt like to see my brick and walk down that ramp and know that I was done. I remembered what it felt like to know that it was over, to know that while there would always be visits, there was no going back, and I remembered how strange that was.

It was the oddest thing, knowing that I was done, that the place that had molded me for four years of my life was no longer mine, and yet... These years have passed faster than I ever thought they would. It feels like it's been longer. I know part of it is just due to getting older—after all, the older you are, the smaller a percentage of your life a year is—but part of me refuses to accept that it's only been two years because as far as I'm concerned, it might as well have been ten. Things have changed so much and so drastically that to go back to who I was the day I got that diploma would be impossible.

That's not to say that I've got it together, because that would be a blatant lie. I'm still making changes and trying to figure out what I want to do and I don't feel ready—though, as the PhD student told me very accurately a few weeks ago, "No one is ever ready for adulthood." 

With that being said, though, I've realized a few things. I've realized that I'm going to wind up back at school at some point in the future, whether it's for an MBA or a PhD or a law degree. I've realized that my love for anthropology is a part of me that I can't ignore—the fact that reading ~100 pages of articles in two days is fun for me proves that. I've realized that my mother was right—the people I get along best with, with a few rare exceptions, are several years older than me at minimum—and I wouldn't have it any other way.

I've realized that for all my insecurities, for all that it's taken me this long to sort myself out and become a person that I'm comfortable being, other people are still struggling with those things themselves. I've realized that all those people I went to school with, all the people who have made me feel small in my life, are just as lost as I was (and still am sometimes) and maybe we really aren't so different after all.

I've realized all of that, and I've realized that the discovery I made over the course of senior year holds true for more than just my senior sage—I will write a million drafts of a million things that I feel the need to say over the course of my life, because things are always changing and I'm always learning something that I feel compelled to share with people. That's why this blog is here, after all.

To my friends who made the walk today: Congratulations. You deserve it. I'm proud of you, especially given what you've told me about the situation since I graduated. Visiting you has been a regular highlight for me and I'll miss knowing you're right there, but don't doubt that I'll stay in touch—every once in a while I need to be reminded of who I used to be and where I came from. You're all absurd, but you're my kind of absurd, and that's the important thing.

Things are going to change for you, and some days it's going to feel like your life is dragging on at a snail's pace, while others will feel like someone hit the fast-forward button—if your experience is anything like mine, it will mostly be the latter. You'll get through it. If there are bad classes, you'll get through them. If there's things you don't understand, just work a little harder, and always remember that Rate My Professor is truly your best friend when you're registering for the semester.

Also remember that I'm only a text or Facebook message or phone call away if you need me, because I'm not going anywhere (and I'm sorry, but you'll always be my underclassmen. There's nothing to be done about that).

I put a portion of one of my favorite poems in a Facebook post after I graduated, but I'm going to leave it for you here too (and then some), because it helped me then and it has helped me since:

"If an eagle gives you a feather, keep it safe.
Remember: that giants sleep too soundly; that
witches are often betrayed by their appetites;
dragons have one soft spot, somewhere, always;
hearts can be well-hidden,
and you betray them with your tongue.

Do not be jealous of your sister.
Know that diamonds and roses
are as uncomfortable when they tumble from
one's lips as toads and frogs:
colder, too, and sharper, and they cut.
Remember your name.
Do not lose hope — what you seek will be found.
Trust ghosts. Trust those that you have helped
to help you in their turn.
Trust dreams.
Trust your heart, and trust your story.
When you come back, return the way you came.
Favors will be returned, debts will be repaid.
Do not forget your manners.
Do not look back.
Ride the wise eagle (you shall not fall).
Ride the silver fish (you will not drown).
Ride the grey wolf (hold tightly to his fur).

There is a worm at the heart of the tower; that is

why it will not stand.

When you reach the little house, the place your

journey started,

you will recognize it, although it will seem

much smaller than you remember.

Walk up the path, and through the garden gate

you never saw before but once.

And then go home. Or make a home.

And rest."

And you know something? That little house is smaller now, but I can still go home, and I've found plenty of new ones along the way.

You will too.

Until next time x