I've spent over 40 years in high school. 4 years as a student, and another 40 as a teacher. In that time, I've seen quite a few graduation ceremonies. What was once a very solemn affair, sometimes turns into a raucous joke. Estranged parents arrive late with flowers and balloons hoping to make amends by simply showing up. They are usually frantic and want special treatment. The antics of some graduates crossing the stage solidify the fact that this ceremony is anything but solemn. Flash cameras, phones ringing, all manner of shouting, cheering, keening, bellowing, and just plain shouting ensues. Get that graduation is a big deal for many folks. It's often the only rite of passage in our culture. But what it is marking these days, I'm not quite certain. College graduations have the look of a real ceremony despite the fact that it is in vogue to write messages on the graduates caps and invite controversial speakers. In recent years, everyone from pop music idols to Kermit the Frog have had the honor.
I would have liked to attended my own college graduation, but I made a conscious choice not to. That's because a few days after I completed my last final exam at UCLA I flew off to Texas to begin serving as a VISTA Volunteer. The year was 1969 and I was lucky to get my coursework completed on time because of a little disruption called "People's Park." The notorious all campus strike of the University of California system ends in the nick of time for me.
As the first college graduate in my family, I think my dad would have liked to attend the ceremony. I never gave him the chance. I was Texas bound, and nothing was going to stop me from getting out of California and out on my own. The previous year had seen the political assassinations of Martin Luther King Jr. and Robert Kennedy, as well as the violence at the Democratic National Convention. There was a generation gap and a draft to avoid. Hundreds of young people my age were being killed in Vietnam every week as Walter Cronkite reminded us. Crosses were being burned throughout the South, the Black Panther Party was mobilizing for self-defense, and Richard Nixon was in the wings with his "secret plan to end the war," We later found out that the plan was the use of tactical nuclear weapons. We now know only the sight of hundreds of thousands of people in the street prevented that from happening.
So, I left Southern California one overcast June morning and landed the same day in Austin, Texas. The humidity was enervating but it rained almost daily so there was still some green in the foliage.
I didn't think about skipping out on my college graduation ceremony very much that year. I was preoccupied with keeping some of the programs we started in VISTA going and dealing with the vicissitudes of a long-distance relationship. That all changed one weekday morning as I went out to collect the mail.
I'd been awaiting the delivery of my degree. As my VISTA service came to an end, I knew that the draft was waiting, but still I had to plan on making a living until that situation could be dealt with effectively. I had some friends who had secured teaching jobs in rural areas with just a Bachelor's Degree and others in urban settings made a living substituting until they could complete the necessary coursework and requirements for certification. In these days before the internet and instant communication and transfer of documents, we had to send away for things like our college degrees. The University of California protocol was fairly straight forward. I filled out an application and sent it in with a small fee and my transcripts and then had the degree sent to me in Texas by Certified mail. The day it arrived is why I'm telling you this story.
In my neighborhood in the Third Ward of Houston's inner city we had one of those mail carriers that was a beloved institution. An older Black man, he was beyond friendly and I always identified with the string of kids following him daily on his rounds. Whoever collected the mail in my household, he was always friendly though he must have wondered what a half dozen white kids were doing in this all Black neighborhood.
So, as the noon hour approached,, I came downstairs and went out on the front porch to see if there was any sign of Mr. Jackson, the mail carrier. There was. He was down the street on the opposite side and would make his way up my side of the street momentarily. I sat down on the steps and decided to wait for him. By the time he worked his way up to our mailbox I was still sitting there so I decided to walk over to the mailbox and intercept him.
"I've got a certified parcel for Bruce Greene," he said.
"That's me," I replied.
"You'll need to sign here," he said.
Along with the phone bill, and some junk mail, he handed me a small mailing tube adorned with the green Certified signature requested tag. I eyed the return address: The Regents of the University of California.
As Mr. Jackson placed the tube in my hand, I smiled and couldn't help saying.
"You know what this is?"
"What is it," he responded.
"My college degree, I was unable to go to the graduation, so I had it sent here."
"Well, then, he bellowed. "Wait a minute," he said taking the tube out of my hand.
As Mr. Jackson backed up to the far side of the porch, I moved back a few steps and he proceeded.
He called my name, and I approached.
He then laid the mailing tube in my left hand and shook the right hand.
"There, now it's official" he said.
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