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In my time, we did not have graduation ceremonies for pre-kindergarten, kindergarten or grade school. There may have been cookies and juice before we went to high school after Grade 8, but we were never gowned, portraited and diploma-ed. I vaguely remember a white poplin dress with a yellow bow somewhere along the way, but it is an image that drifts in and out of focus with a context I can’t verify.

I must have had some ceremony at the end of high school, but as a misfit, plump and bewildered, high school was no picnic and I have brushed away the particulars.

I did not attend my undergraduate university ceremony as I was readying myself for a May wedding my mother was not pleased to design. When I received my doctorate, years later, I had two boys and a husband who understood every one of my misgivings about whether or not I could succeed.

During that last graduation, I opened the manila envelope given to me as I walked across the stage only to find a rather severe notice stating I would not be degreed unless I returned outstanding library books.