You never stop learning in the school of life
- Mike Dewey: Life Lines
- June 7, 2020
- 931
I couldn’t help it.
As I sat waiting patiently for the president of the United States to speak at my college graduation, my mind was on rock ‘n’ roll.
For it had been in that very same place on that very same floor that I had witnessed the greatest concert I had ever seen.
So as the minutes ticked by and the crowd grew restless, Secret Service agents spoke furtively into their shoulder mics and scanned the throng for potential troublemakers, I thought back to that night when Rod Stewart and his band, the Faces, must have given considerable thought to not playing at all.
They had doubtless witnessed how the opening act — the J. Geils Band, also known as the Bad Boys from Boston — had absolutely shredded the Notre Dame air, thick with redolent smoke, and turned the ACC into their own fiefdom.
Over the course of a tight 40-minute set that featured not one but two encores — highly unusual for an opening act — those in attendance showed their appreciation by not sitting down for a second, dancing in the aisles, standing on their chairs and pushing toward the stage to get closer to the R&B-powered rock that thundered off the ceiling and bounced off the walls.
I looked at my friend — both of us veterans of dozens of shows, not only in South Bend, but also Chicago, Indianapolis and Cleveland — and said something like, “Um, ever seen a headliner just say ‘screw it’ and head back to the plane?”
Just about then, though, nearly an hour late but psyched to play their blend of beautiful, sloppy, intense and rollicking rock, Rod and the Faces bounded onstage and, let history record, blew the roof off the place, proving good things come to those who wait.
That same friend was again seated next to me as we got to our feet to welcome Jimmy Carter, who finally took his place on the platform in fashionably late style, smiling his trademark toothy grin as peanuts flew out of the crowd and Notre Dame got ready to bid a fond farewell to its Class of 1977.
I don’t remember a lot of what of the president had to say that day — I think his speech involved peace in the Middle East — but that wasn’t because I found him dull or the occasion less than grand.
It’s that I was exhausted.
My girlfriend and I had argued bitterly the night before over a subject that I thought we’d resolved weeks before, specifically that because I was limited to five commencement tickets and they’d all go to my family, she’d have to, well, watch it on TV like everyone else who couldn’t get in.
“It’s just a matter of simple math,” I said, trying to sound my reasonable best as she managed to look simultaneously hurt and angry and incredulous, not an easy feat.
I counted on my fingers, “Mom and Dad, my sister and my brother, plus my aunt who, as you know from firsthand experience, gave me a place to crash when things weren’t, well, going smoothly.”
Which was absolutely true. She lived about a 10-minute ride from campus, and her house was always open to me when I found myself overwhelmed by the sheer weight of balancing classes and a social life over the course of winter that included a record amount of snowfall and the university’s first weather-related shutdown.
So by the time spring finally blossomed, I wasn’t exactly as focused on my academics as I might have been.
Again, it was a matter of simple math.
After having begun my freshman year with a dismal 2.75 GPA that first grading period, I’d rallied strongly to earn a spot on the dean’s list (3.50 or better) for six-straight semesters. Not to brag or anything, but that was a pretty good run.
And I knew if I could somehow extend that streak to seven, I could graduate cum laude, with honors, an achievement that would make my parents — both college professors — proud.
But as you can probably guess, the arrival of a long-overdue spring combined with the surprising revival of my stormy relationship with my on-again, off-again girlfriend doomed me.
Don’t think for a second I abandoned my classes altogether.
I wasn’t that far gone.
It was more than I didn’t have it in me to put in the extra effort necessary to remain among the best, what James Hart terms “the upper echelon” in “The Paper Chase.”
“The trouble with getting there,” he says to his girlfriend, “is that it takes so much work to stay there.”
Amen, Mr. Hart.
I can relate.
So when finals were over and the Great Registrar in the Sky handed down the tablets from on high, I had come up short.
Needing an aggregate GPA of 3.40, I finished with a 3.33.
Simple math yet again.
Somewhere along the line of four years and all those credit hours I amassed, if only I’d tacked on a “plus” to a random B, I’d probably have made it. Then again, if I’d arrived at ND knowing how to study and hadn’t put up that paltry 2.75 right out of the gate, I’d have danced down the aisle as President Carter looked on, grinning.
It wasn’t the first time I’d failed to make the grade.
As a senior in high school, I’d sat in a cluster with my friends as all their names were called and they strode to the gym floor where they were granted membership in the National Honor Society. I remember the empty feeling as they walked away from beside me, behind me and in front of me, leaving me exposed and mortified.
There was more to it than grades and class rank and extra-curriculars, though. Part of the process apparently involved giving teachers the chance to speak about any candidate they weren’t particularly fond of, and school legend has it they were lined up all the way from the library to the cafeteria to trash me.
Bad attitude, some said. Thinks he’s above the rules, said others.
If only I’d been afforded the opportunity to address my accusers, I might have been able to turn on the charm and change a few minds.
But that’s not how the game was played. So what have I learned?
Let’s see: Girls and grades don’t mix, it’s not good to get on the bad side of a vengeful teacher, getting your diploma with the president on hand is cool, and Rod Stewart and the Faces rock.
Class dismissed.