| Written by Dr. Aaron Hostetter, Associate Professor of Old and Middle English |
Rutgers–Camden graduation brings many feelings. Part of me wonders why I agree to serve as a Marshall. I have to climb into an academic robe each time, in essence a large polyester bag that does not breathe in the heat and humidity. There’s the problem of the funny-looking hat perching on my head and the doctoral hood draped around my throat. It’s not a recipe for comfort.
But, each time I repeat the procedure and start lining up my graduates for their procession, I soon forget my discomfort and awkwardness. I see familiar faces from my classes, sometimes from years before. I remember names. I shake hands and give hugs, wishing these students all the best. The English majors are even better to meet here. Many of these kids I’ve had in several classes. Heard about in admiring terms from my colleagues. Considered for prizes and awards.
This year I had a particularly poignant moment. One of those rare students in my major who comes in as a first-year and for some reason continues to take my classes. I watched this young man grow from a raw talent, smart but still needing polish, eager and impossible to dissuade. I saw this person in five classes over his time, and have grown to look forward to his contribution to classroom discussions, his unusual yet probing questions. Those genuinely surprising moments when he pulls some random nugget from his own reading that fits perfectly into the conversation.
He was walking across that stage destined for the Rutgers–Camden Law School, where he will continue to chase his dreams of social advocacy and justice. Not too long ago he was impressing me in his first classes with his knowledge of Latin which picked up in high school (probably showing off to be honest but in a kind, humble sort of way). He had achieved much of what anybody could hope for in his undergraduate career. Summa cum laude, cumulative GPA of 4.0. A slam poet and a skilled wordsmith.
Vaguely itching from the heat in my unreasonable robe, I thought about the paths we take to join up with our ambitions. How I intersect with many on their arc of accomplishment, at random, just the luck of a chance choice of classes. I remember the comfort of the classroom, the familiarity of spun conversation that wraps us all up in it. A few of them are nodding off, of course. I think about what I provide to these students, how the seeds we plant as professors lay dormant until the proper season. But they sprout in their moment. And the change comes to that student. Our accord is complete. I know that these students go forth better individuals, and they find this improvement themselves. I assist only, prune a stray branch here and there, weed the bed. The students form themselves and I can only stand back and admire what has become.