The other side of the graduation ceremony

Graduation ceremonies may be great for parents and students, but it’s a different story for those on the faculty side of the aisle. I’ve been on both sides a few times, and there is a difference.

I won’t mention the name of the school, but picture this: There I am standing in line with my fellow faculty members in 100 degree weather. Eventually, getting out of this black robe, goofy cap and royal blue hood — all contributing to my sweating body, are primary concerns.

At this moment, what I wouldn’t give to be a normal person again — sitting in front of the AC with a cold drink while watching the Giants lose another ballgame.

But that fantasy will have to wait for at least two hours — maybe three. In the meantime, the band plays Pomp and Circumstance while the parade of graduates begins. Parents in the stands are snapping pictures. Two are telling relatives they can’t believe Johnny finally made it.

“Our family’s first college graduate and with a degree in bag piping!” they say.

So far, not many job offers for Johnny, but there is a position at Tony’s Tacoria. He’ll probably take it, but only with a guarantee that his birthday will be a paid holiday and the assurance he’ll move into national corporate management by end of the week.

Suddenly, I hear a voice from a fellow faculty member:

“Hansen, you son of a baker! (He didn’t say “baker.”) “You ratted me out!” “Huh?” I reply. “You told the dean about my affair with Cindy Lou!” (She’s a graduating senior with a major in “adventure education.”)

His unwarranted attack really takes chutzpa. Why he thinks I would have an interest in his predatory relationship is beyond me. After the initial shock, my denial comes quickly.

Later, I learned this selfaggrandizing Don Juan had been pulling this same accusatory routine all day on a number of people — hoping someone would take the bait.

But not knowing that fact at the time, my evening is now really ruined. I’ll cope by simply directing my thoughts elsewhere — especially thinking about the Giants game. Maybe I’ll be able to catch the sixth inning.

The invocation begins. But of course, it can’t be short and succinct. Apparently, Pastor Pontificator hasn’t done many of these and wants to make sure he’s remembered. Unfortunately, the crowd won’t recall his words — just precious time stolen.

Next the valedictorian does her thing. She’s studious, smart and saddled with a hairdo that probably set daddy back enough bucks for a down payment on a new Durango. She states the usual by encouraging her classmates to symbolically set the world on fire, although preferably not with nuclear weapons.

Then the main speaker for the event. Because he’s a card-carrying communist, there is no need to worry about students (who think “freedom” means unlimited texting) turning their backs on him. The speaker asserts that it is far more virtuous to be a greedy government worker, as opposed to a greedy Wall Street capitalist.

Finally, the individual graduates’ names are called one by one. But at the last minute, a school administrator gets cold feet and asks me to read his share. Now I can catch the flack for mispronunciations of Kowalczyk, Tsawwassen, and Zhang!

There are a lot of names on this sheet. If I read and stumble through them quickly, maybe I can make it home in time for the bottom of the eighth.

But no such luck. At the end of the ceremony, I’m spotted by a few students who want me in their selfies. Putting on a fake smile, I wish them best of luck and head for the congested parking lot. I get home just in time for the close of the postgame show. Amazingly, the Giants won.

So congratulations to this year’s class. May you live long and prosper — and if you like your doctor, may you keep him until you’re 26.

Personally, I won’t be joining the festivities next year. I just don’t need the stress. And besides: To me, a Bay Area baseball game seems far more interesting.