I didn't attend my own convocation, which I've been wearing as a badge of pride, much like the satisfaction I have of never having gone to prom. I was (and possibly still am) quite stubborn, and after four tiring years at my institution, jumped on a plane, hollered peace out, and got as far away as physically possible from both the event and my classmates.
It's odd, then, that I'm now an official photographer at the University of Toronto, shooting someone else's convocation, interacting with new grads, their family and friends. And from this, a surprising revelation: admittedly, I get a little verklempt, and there's a part of me that wonders if my parents needed to see it all happen, hear my name called to stage, just as a symbol of closure. On a selfish level, Lorne Michaels received his Honourary Doctorate that year, which, at the time, would've been a super big deal. And it would've prevented my smug ex-boyfriend from thinking I didn't graduate when I bumped into him the next year.
But no regrets: knowing me and any moment that requires dressing up and possibly wearing borrowed heels, I probably would've tripped and smashed my face on stage. I like to think I've lived a longer life because of avoiding it?