001: They Cancelled Graduation
They put me in quarantine when I came home. I didn't process it.
They closed the Norwegian borders. I didn't process it.
They said they would close the English border for two months. At least. I didn't process it.
Graduation was cancelled.
Well, technically postponed (there would still be a celebration, though nobody knew when), but they might as well have told us that it was cancelled. It still hit me like a truck. I was working on an essay, struggling to join H. G. Wells' scientific persona, the traces of environmentalism in The War of the Worlds, and J.R.R. Tolkien's 'On Fairy-Stories' when the email came:
... very regretfully, the University has taken the decision to postpone this summer's planned Graduation ceremonies.
I had looked forward to Graduation. Not specifically the grey-robed flat-hatted part where we received a scroll and shook someone's hand (was that even how Graduation happened?), not specifically a fancy reception, not specifically a chance to wear a pretty gown.
Graduation had been a promise that both my parents would be in York at the same time. It had been a promise that I could show them the city I had come to love—the cobblestoned streets, the cat figures on the walls, the table in the upstairs corner of the Waterstones Café.
It had also been a promise that I would see my friends one last time.
And that was where it hit.
I had imagined that I would finish my dissertation and still have several weeks to read, write, to archery, to yoga, and hang out with friends. I had imagined lazy afternoons in the Museum Gardens with lunch and card games and books. I had imagined train-rides to the eastern coast to see the coastal villages, and train-rides down south to visit my little sister, and movie-nights in my room, and evenings at the Student Cinema, and long dinners in the Roger Kirk Centre, and discussions about Tolkien, and presenting at A Pint of Science, and ... and ...
They closed the Norwegian borders. I didn't process it.
They said they would close the English border for two months. At least. I didn't process it.
Graduation was cancelled.
Well, technically postponed (there would still be a celebration, though nobody knew when), but they might as well have told us that it was cancelled. It still hit me like a truck. I was working on an essay, struggling to join H. G. Wells' scientific persona, the traces of environmentalism in The War of the Worlds, and J.R.R. Tolkien's 'On Fairy-Stories' when the email came:
... very regretfully, the University has taken the decision to postpone this summer's planned Graduation ceremonies.
I had looked forward to Graduation. Not specifically the grey-robed flat-hatted part where we received a scroll and shook someone's hand (was that even how Graduation happened?), not specifically a fancy reception, not specifically a chance to wear a pretty gown.
Graduation had been a promise that both my parents would be in York at the same time. It had been a promise that I could show them the city I had come to love—the cobblestoned streets, the cat figures on the walls, the table in the upstairs corner of the Waterstones Café.
It had also been a promise that I would see my friends one last time.
And that was where it hit.
I had imagined that I would finish my dissertation and still have several weeks to read, write, to archery, to yoga, and hang out with friends. I had imagined lazy afternoons in the Museum Gardens with lunch and card games and books. I had imagined train-rides to the eastern coast to see the coastal villages, and train-rides down south to visit my little sister, and movie-nights in my room, and evenings at the Student Cinema, and long dinners in the Roger Kirk Centre, and discussions about Tolkien, and presenting at A Pint of Science, and ... and ...
And there was so much I still wanted to do. So many people I still wanted to see. So much I still wanted to say to those people.
It had barely been a week since I hugged them good bye—since I said, "I have to go," and heard, "Go go?"—since I wanted to stay on the train and go back to York. I still dreamt about it.
Written by: Katrine H.
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