A recent alum shares the woes and wonders that come with the cap and gown

By: Jesse Greene

It didn’t hit me that I had graduated until late August. Moving back home in early May didn’t do it, as I had done this each year; neither had working in the summer, another regular happening (in spite of my aspirations to be a kept man / part time socialite / philanthropist / parasite).

Other than the two days of pomp and, well, champagne, that accompany the graduation ceremony, (in reality, a combination of prosecco and sparkling wine) nothing felt different.

I can still remember how one April night during my first year, while prepping for the following morning’s ECO 100 exam, and having just finished a NEW 150 exam at 10:04 PM (African Studies, yes, it was one of those alluring first year courses ending in “studies” that you, too, will mistakenly pursue), the thought of graduation was a refuge from stress.

The next morning, after writing the ECO exam, I grew confident I wouldn’t survive graduation, and I reconsidered my plans. I argued to my parents that Nippissing was the place for me, with its friendly, happy, white people that lived simple lives and tipped cows and had the odd abortion. My parents, of course, had none of it. I then argued to them the many benefits of studying more courses that ended in “studies,” with the assurance that it would make me a – wait for it – “compassionate, lifelong learner.” With that, I graduated with a major in Latin American Studies and Economics. Clearly, there was only so much budging to be had.

Despite the countless stressful nights preparing for tests, drafting papers, or worse yet, dealing with the melodramas that living in close quarters with your frenemies promises, I survived my undergrad. In fact, I think I did better than survive it. I made the experience my own -not to sound like the climax of a special on the Oprah Winfrey Network – with brash, occasionally “racialized” one-liners, most often targeted against my oppressor, the white girl with her Coach wristlets, blow out, and a Saturday evening thirst that only body shots could (and well, did) quench.

This September, though, I did feel like I was missing something. Whether it was the ambush of first years, whose anxiety, lack of self-awareness, and overwhelming yearning to make friends, characterized the good natured spirit of Frosh Week, or the carefree attitude that having vodka shots in preparation for the first evening’s (often very sober) party, student life at Trinity College left an insurmountable impact.

However, I’m a strong advocate that experiences don’t simply end. Rather, they evolve. This, of course, and not the fact that I haven’t waxed or jogged or ellipticalled in some time, doesn’t mean I’ll be back at Toga Party.

What used to be late nights cramming formulas with squiggles of Greek letters, is now assembling guest lists and seating charts long the last Brunny fight (mind you, I’ve gone to bed prior to last flush of vomit). While a year ago today I had a buzz from the Melinda Seaman party (was it artistry or alcohol?), today I get the same feeling following a launch of Moet and Chandon Imperial Ice at TIFF.In many ways, it feels like I haven’t left Trinity, I’ve just entered a new yet familiar place – one where my stress is compensated and Convocation Hall is a mere building, mind you, one where I did happen to graduate.

Pull Quotes: “I can still remember [when]…the thought of graduation was a refuge from

stress” melodramas…I survived”

“Despite the countless stressful nights preparing for tests…[and] dealing with