I never anticipated walking in my college graduation. To me, it was something that was more for those in attendance rather than a celebration for those who met their challenges head-on. I thought that walking in graduation was taboo; I thought that walking was something done solely for photo opportunities — not to rejoice and reflect on the hard work and effort that culminated in your certified, signed expensive piece of paper: a diploma.
No, never in a million years did I think I would attend such an event. To me, it was a hallmark occasion — much like Valentine’s Day (if you know me well, you understand my sentiments on that “holiday”). Then again, if you had asked me six or seven years ago, I wasn’t even sure if college was the right move for me — wasn’t sure if it was in my future.
It was Fall 2002 — the time of year where leaves fall from trees just as often intelligent youths fall to the wayside, never utilizing the gifts they are given. Fall 2002 was a special time in my life, it was when Henderson made a run at the AAA State Championship. I’m not writing this to reflect on my soccer days, though; rather, it was an important conversation, that Fall, that really changed my perspective on life.
We were waiting for our team bus to head to Owen J. Roberts to play Strath Haven — the defending State Champions — for the second time in a week. For whatever reason, the bus was late. Little did I know, though, that the lack of punctuality by our bus that day would lead to such a promising future. My best friend, Chuck Walter, was a goalkeeper on our team. To me, he should have been a starter that year, but that’s a debate for another time. At any rate, his father, Mr. Walter, was a constant at our games. Knowing the Walter family in the capacity that I did, Mr. Walter and I would commonly converse prior to or, sometimes, after games. Mr. Walter was at Henderson before the game, talking with some of us as we waited for the bus. On this day, though, our conversation was not about soccer or sports, rather it was about something more important — something that I, to be honest, did not put much thought into before that day: my future.
Mr. Walter pulled me aside that day and asked me about life. He asked me where I expected to be in five years; he asked me what thoughts I have put towards my life after graduation; he asked me what I wanted to get out of life. While these questions seemed quizzical to me at the time, I could certainly flesh out the value in each one. For the first time in my life, someone other than my parents really believed in me — someone cared enough to want to see me succeed. Mr. Walter asked me to keep my “doors” open. He urged me to remember that “small doors can lead to bigger rooms,” and that I don’t want to limit or, worse, squander opportunities at such a young age. I was moved by this. To date, I regard that conversation is one of the most important ones of my life.
You see, in 2002 I was stupid. No, not in a literal sense, silly people. I was a good student, but, rather, my efforts lacked purpose. I had no direction. Because athletics were such a big part of my life, I always consumed myself with the idea of being an athlete my whole life. Never — not one time — did I stop to think what would happen if athletics ended; never did I think about, god forbid, getting injured.
My grandfather used to always tell me, “work with your head, not with your hands.” This is a lasting, and interesting quotation. My grandfather was an operating engineer, my other grandfather was a District Manager for Acme Markets; my mother and father never attended college, so the idea of higher education was, to be honest, foreign to me. I come from a family of blue-collar workers.
Well, I chose to enroll at La Salle University — a private, Catholic institution located in Philadelphia, Pa. I worked hard and earned a degree in English. With a few months to go in my final semester, my parents asked me if I wanted to walk in graduation. For years I expressed my distaste for that ceremony, and, finally, my parents conceded — allowing me to do as I wish. On that particular day, though, I was changed: I finally understood what that day meant. No, in a sense, I was right: it was for the people in attendance; consequently, I was blinded by my own blanket of self-absorption, forgetting to see just how important that day was to everyone around me. I told them I would walk, asking them to invite my grandmother and anyone else who cared to attend. I said to tell them that it’s more than okay not to come, but, if you’re free and would like to see me walk, you’re more than invited.
Then it came: the big day.
I felt normal that morning, unfazed and unwilling to admit that I was probably a little nervous. I showered, had some orange juice, and motioned to the front door of my apartment for the last time as an undergraduate. Before I left, though, I had to thank someone: my grandfather.
Joseph A. Marmer, my grandfather, passed away on September 4, 2006. My grandfather meant the world to me. He passed from cirrhosis of the liver after years and years of hard drinking. “Work with my head and not with my hands,” and, on this day, I was living the endeavor he wished for me long before — I, his grandson, would proudly accept due compensation for my intellectual efforts. I approached my wall where his mass card lays, taped to my wall. I smiled at him. “I did it, Pop,” I said. It was then that I kissed my hand and touched the card. My journey was just beginning.
Dressed in my newly purchased academic attire, I departed for La Salle University one last time. I parked on Belfield, just below 20th Street’s long, treacherous hill. This had been the place I parked all year. I am a man of habit, so this felt like the appropriate place to leave my car. Before shutting the door on my jeep, I opened my glove box, taking out the mass card of my aunt, Deborah Thomas, who passed just months before. Aunt Debbie worked at the Acme across the street from where I lived, so, as you can imagine, we became close. It really hurt when I learned of her sudden passing. It really hurt. With the mass card, I looked at it and smiled. “We’re graduating today, Aunt Debbie. You and I,” I said. With her in hand, I walked up the hill.
This hill brought forth a lot of burrowed emotion. With each step, I thought back to moments past. I thought about how many times I had to run up this hill for track practice; I thought about my first day of school as a Freshman. My mom called me at 7:00am to make sure I was up for class; I thought about how after today things would be different for me, I would never see most of these people again; I thought about my ex-girlfriend, remembering how we met at a mutual friend’s room just three years before; I thought about all my favorite professors and classes; I thought about all the parties and good times I had; I thought about the dumb kid I saw sticking a doughnut in a toaster oven just a year before; I thought about how I thought this day would never come.
Then it was here: the moment.
We stood up and processed towards the stage. Me and my friend and teammate, Dave Alfano, were joking just moments before, but now it was our turn. People would smile and wave when they had their moment, but not me — my moment was far too important.
I remember looking up in the stands and seeing my well-dressed brother (with his hat on, of course) and my two beautiful younger sisters, both taking pictures and smiling as if this moment was theirs. I remember seeing my mother, my proud mother looking on happily. I saw my grandmother and great aunt in the stands, both proud as can be, for in just moments, I would become the first George ever to graduate college. Then, I turned towards the stage — overwhelmed with emotion — and saw my father just to the side. It was then that I truly knew this day meant much more.
With tears in his eyes, I saw my father, with his left fist over his heart, point at me, giving me a thumbs up. I almost crumbled. He mouthed to me, “we did it, son. we did it.” He was right. In mere moments I was graduating for all of us. For my mother, for my father, for Pop, for Nana, for Aunt Debbie, for my Pop-Pop George — for everyone. To think, just weeks before, I was so ignorant to this form of ceremony, I denounced such an occasion. To see my father’s face that day, to see the emotion shared by my family, to see the happiness in their eyes, was the happiest and most alive I have ever felt. All the big goals I’ve ever scored, all the home runs I’ve ever hit, all the big races I’ve ever won, all the trophies I’ve ever earned, seemed meaningless at that moment. They were dwarfed by the ten seconds I was about to endure.
Then, they called my name. I proudly walked towards the president, wearing the pride of my family and the scars of struggle I have endured. I took one look down at my Aunt Debbie’s mass card and kissed her. “We’re graduating now, Aunt Debbie,” I said. “I’m so glad to have you with me.”
I shook the president’s hand and exited the stage. It was official. Over. Done. I have fulfilled my obligations as a student to La Salle University. I left the stage and took one more look over towards my father. I remember him saying that he will be talking to his father the whole time I am up there. “The George’s aren’t dummies,” he would say. He often told me how proud my grandfather would be. He passed away three years before I was born, so, unfortunately, I didn’t have the luxury of meeting him. Trying to hold back his emotion my father smiled and said, “I’m so proud of you.” Those words, Dad, will stay with me forever.
My parents have given me every chance to succeed in every endeavor I have chosen to explore. I am truly blessed to have such parents who believe in me. I must say, if Mr. Walter never talked to me that day, in Fall 2002, my life could be drastically different. To him, I owe my everlasting thanks. He found a good kid that day and saw something in me. I am flattered that he thought enough of me to try to get me to see the bigger picture.
I sit here, today, and write this while holding back emotion. While joyful, some of my past isn’t quite as fond. Nevertheless, I write this as a graduate student at Towson University. Next spring, I anticipate graduating with my Master’s Degree in “Professional Writing.” Who knew I would come so far.
If you’ve made it this far, I commend you. To be honest, I don’t value my life to be that interesting. Throughout the course of my life, I have been criticized for keeping to myself, or not sharing enough of my personal feelings. This wasn’t an easy thing for me to write, to admit to these feelings; to share a focal point in my 23 years of existence. But, for one day, I will let my guard down. If you made it to the end, thank you for sharing the best moment of my life. To see the true emotion in my family awakened me from the emotional slumber that has bogged me down for many years. My brother, Scott, graduated from Williamson Trade School with a degree in Power Plant Technology; my sister, Victoria, a graduate of NMTI with a certification in Massage Therapy; my youngest sister, Sarah, is a Sophomore at Alvernia University; so, Dad, you were right. Tell Pop-Pop that “The George’s aren’t dummies.”
I couldn’t be prouder.
