Tuesday, May 18, 2010

For Duke alumni, the basketball court may very well be hallowed ground, a gleaming stretch of floor covered with the blood, sweat, and hopes of students from decades past. I’ve seen it on television, of course, but never in person until last Friday, when I had a chance to step onto it. There wasn’t a game happening, obviously. Far from it. Instead there was a convocation, and the holy plot had been covered by a massive tarp and rows of chairs, upon which sat the friends and family members of graduates. My sister had earned a master’s degree in something or another, and I was attending the ceremony.

The academic sector was fascinating to witness. I’ve been committed to the private sector, which has its own host of anthropological curiosities. I’m still trying to understand how nightcaps correlate with better business dealings, for example, or why certain meetings are called. Perhaps it’s because I’ve been away from the game for a while now, but the university setting was just plain strange. Arbitrary, in many respects. Consider graduation attire: according to the convocation pamphlet, the cap and gown were based on monastic traditions, with certain designs conceived to ward off cold weather. Except we were on basketball court! Not a monastery. And the only chill present was self-inflicted, pumped from the numerous air conditioning vents.

Maybe the idea of monks congregating and reading is just that appealing. I don’t know. Practically speaking, the cardboard used to make those funny-shaped hats would’ve been far more useful as, like, shipping boxes–possibly for the gowns themselves or something. Tradition, however, dictated that the paperboard be wrapped in cloth, then attached to a tassel, for headwear that–let’s be honest–is far more likely to invite a punch in the face than guard against the cold. It was the same deal with the diploma frame, which set me back just under 200 bucks. 200 bucks! The market decided, at some point, that diplomas needed to be encased in 1.5 pounds of wood, some glass, and a swatch of suede, and overvalued accordingly. Completely arbitrary, right? I imagine the cow in question would’ve gotten far more mileage out of the suede.

I have some other thoughts on the ivory tower, you may recall, though I certainly wasn’t going to voice these opinions like a douchebag. This was their day, after all, and fabricated or not the time belonged to them. It was also my day, in a way, because it was a chance to redeem myself. You see, a few years ago, during my sister’s undergraduate convocation, I offered to take her picture as she collected her degree. I made good on my offer. And took a picture of the wrong Asian girl. Goddamned end of the alphabet with its cluster of Asian surnames! This time, my execution was flawless. I snapped the right person. I think.