Musings on Graduation

I’ve been thinking about the future a lot lately - specifically that day in twelve months time when I get to don the silly hat and gown and (hopefully) conclude my time at university with a graduation ceremony. Now, anyone who lives in Portsmouth will know why this is, since it’s been hard to miss the hordes of proud parents and gradu-ees massing outside Guildhall for the past week. But, rather than get sentimental on the topic (save that for next year!), I’m going to share with you a small glimpse into the future, and the Wilson family, and tell you what I envision my graduation day will be like.

Right off, I can tell I’m going to have “shoe issues”. Boys can skip this paragraph, but girls will know exactly that I’m on about. In the daft gown, the shoes will really be the only fashion statement anyone can make, so the obvious choice is to go for gorgeous ones that stand out, while matching the purple ribbons on the garment. Buuut, that usually implies heels, and as anyone will know I am far from graceful at the best of times, let alone when I’m three inches taller and walking on the balls of my feet. So, it will be a catch 22 between pretty feet and not risking tripping and falling flat on my face!

But enough about my vain thoughts. I’m sure that shoe issues aside, it will be a day to remember always, a day of pride. For me, yes, but especially for my parents. My mother – who has always been my biggest fan and my harshest critic – will be there dressed in something colourful and bold, and will be fussing and fretting about where I need to be and whether I’m going to get there on time or not. She will take over a hundred photos – Laura in gown, Laura with Claire, Laura with course mates takes 1, 2 and 3, Laura with father, Laura with boyfriend, Laura with randomer who got too close, Laura with tree... – and appear in perhaps one, as a token gesture. Claire will be on her best behaviour, having had a roaring good fight with me the night before (over shoes, most likely), and we will drive our mother mad with our mucking about with the daft hat and quoting movies endlessly. She will have just finished her own First Year, and will no doubt be comparing the entire process to the way they do it in Bath. Dad will be quiet, secretly sad that I’m all grown up now and no longer his little girl, but also proud that everything he did to get me here really finally got me here. He will cry, but he will deny it.

My course mates and I, once free from the camera’s glare, will file into the hall, solemn and thoughtful. We will tune out midway through a dull speech by some person we’ve never heard of, and I will lean over to Fleur and say “We may not know where we are going on this ol’ river, but at least education has provided a map!” She will laugh, and the rest of the Creative Writing bunch will roll their eyes and just not ask because they know it’s an in-joke.

And, when it comes my turn to walk up to that dais and collect that piece of paper that cost me £10,000 and at least a few years off my life in levels of stress, a sound will emerge from the crowd. It will come from roughly the corner my family are sitting in, and it will sound something like “whuuooo-ooo-ooo-ooo-ooo”. That is my mother, and all I will do is smile, because that is the same sound she made when I appeared as Mary in our pre-school nativity, when I danced as a duck in my ballet school’s version of Beatrix Potter and when I told her I had gotten an A in Advanced Higher English – it is the sound of her love and pride and years of endless nagging made worth it.

But, I still have one year to go before this joyous day, and a lot of ‘earning’ to do before I get that “whoo” (and diploma). Part of me cannot wait for graduation, but most of me wants it to come as slowly as possible. Bring on Third Year guys, I know we can do it!