Today is my last day of school. Not just within the confines of this particular term or academic year, no. Today is my last day of school ever. Perhaps I ought not to say "ever." There is a continuing education certificate I'm seriously considering and I may yet pursue another undergraduate degree at an as-of-yet undetermined date, but that is of no matter right now. I remember my first day of school like it was yesterday. It was my birthday. I was five. I had no idea what "school" was, only that it involved a bus and some other children. When the day came, I was ushered onto the bus that stopped outside my house. I sat next to another little girl named Bianca. We were friends for a long time.
We got to school and met our teacher, Miss Lorraine. She had us introduce ourselves. I was last, most likely because of alphabetical order. I announced my name, as all the other children had done, and Miss Lorraine knowingly asked whether there was anything else I wanted to share. "Well," I said sheepishly, "it's my birthday." Miss Lorraine seemed to think that was a pretty big deal and went to great lengths to try to get the other children to sing. This was not a good idea. I was nervous enough about suddenly being surrounded by children I didn't know. I have never enjoyed being the centre of attention, and I've always thought the song was just dumb. So I burst into tears. A rather extreme reaction, yes, but it worked. The rest of the day was a blur; I got home and didn't want to go back.
Somewhere between that day and today, I moved, finished elementary school, started and finished high school and wound up in university. Am I glossing over nearly 17 years of schooling? Yes. Are those 17 years particularly unique or interesting? No. What is interesting to me is the way the start and ends dates are bookended: my birthday and Friday the 13th. Looking at the dates creates the impression that there was something special about the entire experience. No. It was mind-numbingly normal. The only thing that might seem even remotely strange about it is the fact that I embraced my geekness from the get-go.
I learned so much without feeling as though I was learning anything at all. It was odd in that sense. And I have regrets, too, but there's no sense in dwelling on our losses. We just keep on lighting the lights. I do regret not pursuing a history degree, or perhaps a degree in political science, but there is time for these things. Life is for living, and I have a lot of living to do. For 17 years I have thought of few things other than school. Even my writeups reflect this. Some are foot- and endnoted like an essay. Others are written in essay format. (dannye told me that someday I'll look back on those and cringe because I wrote them while a student. He's right.)
Yesterday I took the bus to work as I normally would. The last passenger to get on board stumbled through the aisle as he did so. He was muttering something under his breath, but it was loud enough to hear. "You're going to burn. You're all going to fucking burn. Fuck with God and you'll fucking burn." He was pointing at various passengers with his index and middle fingers, thumb pointed upwards. The universal symbol for gun. Oh God, I thought. This is just like some crappy movie where a police officer or fire fighter or oversized cowboy hat with a camera inside dies a horrible bloody death the day before he or she retires. Then the man sat down right across the aisle from me. In retrospect, I don't think he was armed. In retrospect, my life was probably in more danger because the roads were slippery. Nonetheless. Weird.
The transition from student to non-student is going to be strange and ridiculous. The transition from journalist to non-journalist is going to be so much more exciting. I've been looking forward to that one for so much longer. I'm anxious, but there's no sense in being anxious. I am at the edge, not at all sure where I'm going to land or how much it's going to hurt if I do. I could crash and burn, I could. I could just as easily fly.
Nonetheless, there is nothing else to say. I am no longer a student. I am no longer a journalist. I am quasi-employed, and it will be enough to get by with for the moment. Soon I will leave my co-op placement desk for the last time and, much like I did on my first day of school, get onto a bus. The paper's year-end party is tonight. I wouldn't miss it for the world. There are no other people I'd rather share the milestone with (apart from you, otherwise I wouldn't be writing this). I am finished with school but I am not finished. I am loved. I am happy. Who could ask for anything more?
Godspeed, academia.
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