What a long, strange trip it’s been

Eight years ago, my big brother, Bill, graduated from college. He was 26, and it had taken… Eight years ago, my big brother, Bill, graduated from college. He was 26, and it had taken him seven patient years of mostly part-time attendance to earn his degree. Bill’s a pretty stoic guy, and I had never seen him cry, and I haven’t since, but when he finally had that diploma in his hands, he broke down and cried.

Eight years ago, I was a 16-year-old twerp, caught up in the throes of high school awkwardness and silly angst. My greatest worries were how I could scam my mom into letting me out of the house to get up to no good with my boyfriend and my two badass pals, Timmy and James, and whether I’d ever grow a pair of knockers like my friend Laura — or “Larz,” depending on who you asked — was sporting (ahem … I’m still waiting).

On that sunny afternoon in June, I thought my big brother was a big baby.

I mean, really, it’s just graduation — it’s not a big deal. And seven years? Um, isn’t college only supposed to take four?

Fast forward one year. I’m getting ready to graduate from the same high school Bill did, and my dad did, and my aunt and uncle and sister did, and that my other sister would, two years later.

High school had been a joke, with accolades falling into my lap, and the concept of work a complete farce. All the graduation speeches seemed silly, commending us for our hard work and complimenting us on our bright prospects for the future. My parents had a little party for me, which I was anxious to leave to go pound cheap beer in somebody’s woods somewhere. Blah blah blah, none of this matters, I thought.

I got to Pitt in August of 1997 and moved into a Holland Hall double with one of the most amazing people I have ever lost touch with. Two weeks into school, I met the man I was at one point sure I’d marry and am to this day privileged to call my best friend. The two of us actively pursued a rigorous double major in pot and beer until the end of my sophomore year, when it started to hit me — there’s more to this than partying, and it’s not as easy as high school. I stopped going to all my classes, and my grades took a nosedive.

I went home for the summer and had to present my parents with a zero grade-point average. They were unbelievably understanding, and so kind, despite their crushing disappointment with the kid who had been unstoppable in high school. That summer stretched into years, and I had a lot of work to do on myself.

It took an unbelievable effort, and I taxed my parents’ patience to the limit. But I grew up so much, and remembered why I had wanted to go to college in the first place. I’m sure my two jobs — one with my squeamish vegan hands deep in cold cuts, and one scooping poop and putting paw-tags on euthanized pets — contributed a bit to my desire to complete my education. I finally decided it was time to get reinstated to Pitt, and put my nose to the grindstone.

I had always known that writing was my passion. I had taken a lot of poetry classes, but I was curious about nonfiction writing as well. So I decided that I would take Intro to Journalism, and after seeing what I thought was one-too-many misplaced commas in The Pitt News, I decided to reply to an advertisement seeking copy editors. That was all I did that term, and damned if I didn’t pull my first 4.0!

I haven’t written a single poem since I set foot in the newsroom. Why would I? Sitting at copy desk, you read everything that’s going in the paper, and the opinions columns were without a doubt my favorite. By the time that section was hiring again, I knew what I had to do.

I’ve had the honor of writing columns at least once a week for the past 27 months, imposing my view on whoever cared to read it. It has been the biggest thrill of my life — I’ve been able to piss more people off in one fell swoop than I ever imagined possible.

My mom always tells me that as soon as you figure out one stage in your life, it ends. I feel like I’m finally hitting my stride as a college student, and in just a few days, I’m done. I’m out. Finito.

But not really. I’m keeping my digs in the Dirty South, and I’m lucky enough to have writing work waiting for me — the same kind of work I’m doing now. I’m going to be a professional overgrown college student, and I’m thrilled.

I’m something of a cynical chick, as some of you may have noticed. My fellow graduating seniors have been bawling and crying for weeks, and while I understood why they were crying more than I could relate to Bill crying all those years ago, I wasn’t really understanding … until last week, when I picked up my cap and gown.

Today, I took my last ride up the elevator in the Union to the fourth floor, my home away from home for these past years. Just punching that button made me tear up.

Bill, I hope you can make it all the way to Pittsburgh to see me graduate — I know I wasn’t always sure I would. Whether you do or don’t, I’ll feel a connection to you when my waterworks turn on after I graduate — finally.

Melissa Meinzer is not crying right now — honest. She will always be reachable at petitefemflower@hotmail.com.