The University of Chicago has given us Amos Alonzo Stagg, the atomic bomb and Milton Friedman, as well as a steamer trunk full of Nobel Prize winners. As of last weekend, we can add to that list two of my grandchildren: the one graduated last year and the one just graduated. I calculate that I can account for 1/4th the genes of each, unless My Life’s Editor tarried with the UPS driver. I would like to take credit for their success in graduating from such a swell college, but since they took degrees in areas involving numbers, I will have to demur on two counts. First, I had to take Calculus over and bombed Statistics, so you may take any figures I provide cum grano salis. Second, I started college as an engineer but was chucked out by the engineering faculty, as well as several janitors who were loitering in the hall when my case was discussed.
I do claim any genes that would result in my grandchildren being chronically late to class and being grossed out by baba ganoush.
My Life’s Editor and I flew out for the weekend for the event and took an Uber to Hyde Park, the southside Chicago community where the university lives. Hyde Park and the university straddle The Midway, a strip of land conceived by Frederick Law Olmstead, who used his middle name to gussy himself up, like Jerry Lee Lewis and Francis Ford Coppola. The Midway was intended for an amusement park. The university is not in the amusement business.
By the time we arrived, our hotel was thronging with families of prospective graduates. There were granddads, grandmothers, mothers, fathers and surly teenage brothers and sisters, focused on brain-sucking iPhones. There was a man in a Stetson hat and boots, his jeans secured by a silver belt buckle the size of a catcher’s mitt. There were Indian grannies in swirling saris and ebony ladies in bright Dashikis. A graceful gentleman named Chuck was the hotel majordomo, directing guests and pulling out chairs. His sneakers were spectacular.
We were famished from our trip. Being old hands, we knew the place to nosh – the Valois, a cafeteria-styled eatery favored by Barack Obama when he is in town. The entry requirements are cash and an empty stomach. Last year, when we came to watch our first graduate take her diploma, we were rookies to the Hyde Park experience. We had heard about the Valois and asked the front desk where the “Val-wah” Restaurant was. Heads shook. “No, sir. Haven’t heard about that.” The bellman was summoned. Same result: “Val-wah? Can’t say that I do.” Inspired, My Life’s Editor spelled out, “V-a-l-o-i-s.” The lights went on. “Oh, you mean the Valoise! It’s just around the corner.”
Having lived in Illinois for ten years, we should have expected this of a state that has towns pronounced KAY-ro (Cairo) and DEZ-Planes (Des Plaines), and a city with a street pronounced Go-EE-thee (Goethe).
The University of Chicago’s graduation ceremony is called a “Convocation.” This symbolizes a gathering of the entire university, from the groundskeeper to the President. English majors are expected to cozy up to nuclear physicists, all draped in black gowns and mortar boards with a maroon stole, the official color since 1894. The university’s sports teams are known as the “Maroons.” In coach Stagg’s epoch, the football team was known as the “Monsters of the Midway.” Today, the most monstrous aspect of the football team would be their collective SAT scores.
The university crest shows a Phoenix rising from the ashes with a book above carrying a Latin inscription, freely translated as “Let knowledge grow from more to more; and so be human life enriched.” Around the quads and the athletic fields, there is another motto: “The place where fun goes to die.”
On convocation day, my cohort gathered along the sidewalk leading from the ornate iron entrance gate to the main quad where all would gather to hear the commencement addresses. The students would be processing in front of us. We numbered two grandmothers, one grandfather, a mom, a dad, and a sister. Wedged between other families, aligned side-by-side, we craned our necks. The university police force held the crowd back, roping off the sidewalk, keeping everyone at bay. There was genteel pushing and shoving. This was not the cops’ first rodeo.
Did I mention the heat?
We were sweating. Shirts were sticking to chests. My 72HR Unscented Speed Stick was challenged and found wanting. Then, “They’re coming! They’re coming!” The first to hove into view were two bagpipers skirling, striding along in Highland dress, pipes pointed up beside their bonnets. It all went together – Victorian Gothic buildings, ivy and gargoyles, and bagpipers. After them streamed a river of students.
As I watched the students pass, I studied them carefully to see evidence of abuse by the faculty, dour faces, other signs of a chronic lack of fun. They hid their dissatisfaction with laughter, giggling, poking at each other and smiling, smiling, smiling. Was that a smidgen of pride on their faces? Our student came by and we shouted for joy.
When we rejoined the main body of visitors on the quad, we found there was no place at the inn, no seats available out of the sun. We retired to a shady grass patch out of view of the stage and the jumbotrons, spread out disposable rain ponchos, listened to the brass ensemble and the university choir, and marinated in the moment.
The graduates snagged their diplomas at a smaller gathering that took place later, on an athletic field. One by one, their names were called by an AI-generated woman’s voice that missed nary a syllable, with perfect diction. There was a boatload of non-western European names. Some with a cacophony of consonants, some with a volume of vowels. I counted over 50 “Zhangs” in the program. When each name was announced, a claque of supporters would shout and wave. This public display is very foreign to a guy whose graduation ceremonies featured Gaudeamus igitur and modest hand claps. English majors crossing the stage were as scarce as Republicans at a soup kitchen. My Life’s Editor and I took refuge from the heat in temporary metal stadium seating at the very back. A jumbotron came to our rescue, showing our student taking the handoff of the precious document with a smile as wide as the Midway.
Marshall Craig 