Here's what it looks like, and even though I took the picture myself with my handy little pocket camera, I think it's pretty neat, too; the cool blues and the expanse of water always give me what the Eagles used to call "an easy, peaceful feeling."
But the real story is in the simple line of text that appears from the soft shades of the beach:
Your love, hope, and faith lifted me to the stars and let me dream.
That line actually came from DD's graduation ceremony from USC. It's a story I love.
I didn't attend my own college graduations; before I finished the BS degree, I went to see my roommate graduate, and I decided sitting through a long speech and a longer roll call of names (even in a summer ceremony for her) really didn't tug at my heartstrings. I was proud of myself for putting myself through school—only the second of the five of us to graduate—but I earned the degree because I had to have it to teach, not because the piece of paper meant much to me. By the time I finished the MS degree, I had a home and family and husband who was jealous enough of me that dragging him to a long graduation seemed antithetical. And, frankly, I had finished that degree in hopes of getting a job, and that piece of paper wasn't a promise that would happen, either.
But DD was eager to to go to her graduation and excited that I was planning to be there, and since I was bursting with pride in her, I was eager to be there, too.
I love California in the spring, so walking across the gorgeous campus at USC in May was pure joy. A couple of her friends guided me to a large central area of the campus where a stage had been set up for speakers and special guests, and row after row of white folding chairs had been lined up for the graduates and their guests. When the processional started, students filed in from six different directions to fill the seats. Probably less than half of the families found seating, and I wasn't among them, so I was a little concerned about how long I might have to stand, even in the gentle morning sun.
The university president spoke briefly and introduced the valedictorian, salutatorian, and Neil Armstrong, each of whom made the somewhat typical speeches I expected of a university graduation. A few students who were graduating with dual degrees were announced, and before I knew it—certainly before the graduates' names were called—the music started again and all the students filed out. I thought that was odd, but since I was seeing a whole lot of graduates in front of me, I was sort of relieved that I wouldn't have to wait till our end of the alphabet to hear the only one I cared much about.
DD's friends steered me in the direction of the drama department, where DD caught up with us a few minutes later. She pointed us to the front of the campus theater, then scooted around to the back, where other graduates were assembling.
A few minutes later, a processional started up again, and this time only about 100 graduates filed onto the small stage for the very intimate ceremony of the school of drama. The dean said a few words before introducing the analogs to the university's valedictorian and salutatorian: elected representatives of each graduating group—MFAs, BFAs, and BAs. The BA "speakers" were actually a couple of students who were already working the comedy tour and spent their time spoofing the faculty, much to the delight of the graduates and plenty of fun for the audience.
That was followed by another "graduation" speech, this time from Andy Tennant, a successful director and alumnus of the program. Since his work is also mostly in comedy, his talk was plenty of fun.
But the best part of the ceremony was, ironically, the calling of the names. Instead of just calling out one name after another, the two professors on duty read from scripts (it is a theater arts department) that included information about each graduate and, for most of them, a few words of thanks to friends or family who had contributed to their years in school. In some cases, the lists seemed to go on forever; DD and I felt pretty certain they must have listed every living relative they had. So when one had only one word—caffeine—most of us took a few seconds to register exactly what had been said.
One student obviously had not filled out that part of the form, so the professor just read off his name and stopped. The other professor, whose reputation has mostly been in comedy, looked over to her script as if to read the entry again, checked his script, looked back to hers and pretended to read, "Paul [or Johnny or whoever he was] would like to thank anybody and everybody who has ever said or done anything to help him get through this program."
DD explained to me later that the thank yous were coming from a sheet each student had filled out that had an explicit limit for the number of words they could use, and she was somewhat chagrined that some students had ignored the limit, thereby infringing on other students' time.
When we finally got far enough down the alphabet for DD's turn, the professor who read her name didn't even pronounce it right, and I was disappointed that DD had nothing to say about honor societies, club offices, or acting opportunities.
But I saw the evidence of careful editing when I heard the terse thank you she had crafted to fit the word limit exactly:
Your love, hope, and faith lifted me to the stars and let me dream. Thank you, Mom.
I was so proud I almost cried.
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