Fancies, Toyes and Dreames

Commencement

It was the 208 th Commencement, and, as happens once a year, the sun did rise and set on Hanover. The day, said one observer, was like a flag fluttering in the wind. No two Commencements are alike (compare this one, for example, with the exercises in 1794, which featured a horse race and "jugglers, mountebanks, sideshows, and auctioneers") and yet in some undefined way they are the same. Nearly all the speeches on Class Dayand on Commencement day elaborated ona single theme: the meaning of Dartmouth.An iconoclast might view this as insularand parochial; a believer might see it asreflecting a profound truth.This personal account of Commencement is by one of the ALUMNI MAGAZINE'Sundergraduate editors who also happenedto be one of the 902 graduates. The assignment, he said, was "like reporting yourown wedding or your own funeral."

I CHOSE to see it as an augury. Sunday morning's triumphal glory was matched only by the dismal prospects of the first four days of the week. My last Dartmouth morning dawned a perfect day, the traces of preceding nights of wandering seemed to vanish, and I felt somehow prepared to stand up for my Dartmouth day of reckoning.

The thought of graduation exercises, once enough to ruin my day, now seemed only appropriate. After the collegial days untroubled by work, the large and small events in celebration of the work well done, and the moving ritual of breaking clay pipes on the stump of the Old Pine, all that could possibly remain was a memorable culmination. And graduation day at Dartmouth is, fittingly enough, the kind of unique (a word solemnly uttered by almost everyone having anything to do with the occasion) pageant that is necessary to carry the flavor of the "Dartmouth Experience" beyond the Hanover Plain through the agency of inspired graduates.

In a sense we were all prepared to be inspired. Four years of fine friends, rewarding activities, and meaningful scholastic effort left most of us with indelible bonds to the College. But in the midst of self-satisfaction there was nonetheless a clear voice of dissatisfaction, perhaps most eloquently stated by Ron Andrews '78 in his Class Day address. Those of us who had found Dartmouth a congenial environment might have been somewhat surprised to hear Andrews describe the difficulties faced by minority group members in such a homogeneous atmosphere. It was something we knew without being fully aware of its implications. But even these discordant notes reinforced the apparent theme of Commencement: talented individuals of different orientations coming together in good fellowship to develop skills, and then branching out into society with the energy, compassion, and considered values nurtured by the reflective college atmosphere. Even those who could not share the elation of mainstream Dartmouth life could certainly benefit from the varied facets of the experience.

Hanover, realizing the import of the day, put on its best face to send us off. The streets were cleared for our processions (imagine that at Columbia or Yale), colorful flags wafted with the breeze around Baker Library, rows and rows of chairs striped the stately lawn beneath the dominating library tower, and casual dress gave way to the crisp attire of proud parents, friends, and the graduates themselves. Thayer Hall outdid its usual breakfast splendor and set flaky pastries on silver trays before the families and friends, as if it, too, desired to make the day special.

From breakfast, we walked somnolently around the familiar buildings, dazed by the sudden rush of memories and associations. The only way to describe properly the final hours before the ceremony is in terms of Orwell's 1984; the measured gait and benign smiles of strollers suggested the influence of "soma" - happiness without critical awareness.

A quick look at my new watch - almost identical to the gift my father received on his graduation - sent me running for the gymnasium, where the Class of 1978 was assembling before its march up Wheelock to the Green and to Baker lawn. The 902 seniors were unusually quiet for a Dartmouth gathering, sensing perhaps that graduation was as important to them as it was to the administration and staff who had worked so hard to make the event properly momentous - from President Kemeny, who sighed each individual diploma, to the Green Key undergraduates, who stayed in Hanover to help run the various facets of the ceremony.

Seldom do I find ceremony very moving, perhaps because so many rituals have become divorced from their substance. But sitting in the gym I felt a wave of almost pleasurable melancholy sweep me away. Even the most hardened cynic would have been touched by Dean Ralph Manuel's farewell speech to the class. As I listened to him thank us for our friendship I could tell he meant it, and once again I realized that Dartmouth is really people, and the superiority of all those connected with the College is the basis of its institutional excellence. As we moved in four lines out of the gym I looked at the faces around me. Though some were unknown to me, I could understand the thoughts mirrored on virtually every face: We were thankful to have been a part of Dartmouth, and despite varieties of experience and opinion, we felt a genuine bond as the Class of 1978.

After this point my memory of the day blurs, and many of my friends report the same kind of amnesia. During the procession up Wheelock Street, a cold beer was pushed into my hand by some friends. I drank and passed the bottle on - the celebration was for later. Despite the mechanical nature of the proceedings themselves, we all seemed to have a sense of purpose as we marched across the Green. The class marshals halted the procession to allow the faculty to pass to the reviewing stand. The man I consider my mentor spotted me as he passed through our ranks and paused long enough to press my hand, and other professors repeated the gesture. If they could only know, I thought, how much their simple gestures meant to me. Four years of hard work rewarded merely by the opportunity to enjoy such a moment.

The actual ceremony raced by with surreal haste. The speeches, though not stirring as oratory, were germane to the issue, unlike some of the addresses of prior years. As we marched to the platform for our diplomas, a brass ensemble played selections from "Fancies, Toyes and Dreames." The two-hour event passed too quickly for reflection, until I found myself standing next to Dean John Hanson and holding a diploma. As I walked to the edge of the platform, I stopped to look out at the assembled crowd, and for an instant I felt everyone's gaze on me. How incredible to think that every one of over 900 graduates could have this same feeling of importance. At Dartmouth we have made a difference. What better way to prepare men and women to make a difference in the larger world?