WhenI had my vinyl floors put in recently, I had to empty the guest room closet. It’stiny, but it gets stuffed with all the holiday decorations plus clothing I onlyuse on occasion (like my snow jacket).

Oneof the items I pulled out was draped in a plastic garment bag, and for a momentI wasn’t sure what was inside. Was it the killer-sexy formal black dress Ibought to chaperone prom years ago? No. It was my cap and gown. From 1988.

The“flood” of memories was more like a tsunami.

Truestory:

In1984 I left my awful husband who swore he would never pay child support(and never did). At age 30, with no employment experience (despite being a published author), I was havingtrouble finding a job. A poet friend from my writers group cameover one night and read me Wordsworth’s “Lines Written a Few Miles Above TinternAbbey.” I fell in love that night—not with the friend, but with Wordsworth andcertainly the poem, which is still one of my favorites. (Thank you, William. Bythe way, I named a dog after you—but that’s another story entirely.) The poetfriend had been trying to convince me that, instead of getting a job, I couldgo to college and study such lovely compositions as Wordsworth’s poem. Thatnight, he finally convinced me.

Here'swhat happened next:

Ienrolled in our local community college (Chaffey—go Panthers!) and became afulltime student in the fall following my divorce. Keep in mind, I had four youngchildren, so mornings went like this: Get all five of us ready, including lunches made. (“Sam, for thefifth time, buddy, where are your shoes?!?”) Drop three of themat the elementary school, then drop Sam at pre-school, then drive up to thecollege and attend classes all day, then pick up Sam, pick up the other three,and head home to do homework, make dinner, get everyone bathed and sorted andbreak up one or two or ten fights, get everyone to bed. (Shali, I see you stillreading after lights out.)

Repeatevery day for five, then collapse exhausted on the weekend. Begin again the following Monday.

Intwo years, I had a 4.0 grade point average and an acceptance to the Universityof California Riverside—with a scholarship that paid my tuition. I also had alonger commute to school from Chino Hills, but the kids were two years older bythen, so things weren’t quite so crazy as they had been my first year but boyhowdy, they were still crazy.

There was that time I went out to the car, carrying backpacks and herdingkids as I went, only to find I had a flat tire on my little Toyota Corolla. Ihad a roommate at the time, and she helped me change the tire in ten minutes, Iswear. (I think she just wanted to make sure I was out of the house for theday.)

Somany memories….

Butthe kids were troopers and I passed my algebra classes and excelled in myliterature classes and two years after I transferred to UCR I was ready tograduate. by the end of my final quarter of school, I was exhausted, having written twenty English papers in ten weekswhile nursing three of my four kids through chicken pox. Shali, as a teen, hadit the absolute worst. She was so sick she laid in bed for days, commanding meto stay out of her room lest I become sick and miss my graduation. As it was, she missed it, something I felt sad about until, years later, she had her own college graduation.

ButI did it, damn it. I did it. Booyah!

At34, I was the first of my mother’s children to earn a bachelor’s degree, and Idid it with a 3.73 grade point average, awarding me, along with 19 otherstudents, the cum laude appellation in the commencement program. Momcame to my graduation and quickly noted—poking her finger repeatedly into thecommencement program page—that I had not graduated summa cum laude (“withthe highest distinction”) as only three other students had. She wantedto know why.

“Ithought you were a good student,” she said. “Why aren’t you over here?” sheasked, poking her finger at the page once again.

Shewasn’t kidding, y’all. Sigh. That was Mom. All I could do was stare at her.

Dr.Wayne Hubert, one of my favorite profs at Chaffey, gave me some great advicewhen I let him know I was headed to a career in teaching.

“Ifyou’re going to teach,” he said, “learn how to pat yourself on the back.” Hereached his arm around to indicate how I should do so. “Because you may do anexcellent job, but most years, no one is going to notice.”

His words remained with me, and despite my mother’s attempt to diminish mysuccess, I gave myself many pats on the back for being, in fact, a stellarstudent while raising four rambunctious kiddos and somehow keeping us afloatfinancially until I could get my teaching credential and get a job.

Irocked it. I am prouder of that accomplishment than anything else I’ve everdone.

SoI kept that cap and gown (and the stole I received when I earned my master’sdegree four years later—while teaching high school fulltime with threeteenagers at home so yeah, booyah again, Kay!).

Butwhen I slid the garment bag away, I saw that the gown and the stole had faded.With a sigh, I decided it was time to let them go. I’m retired now, and 70. Idon’t want my kids to take on the drudgery of determining what should go in thedumpster after I die. I’ll get this one, my loves.

Sothe gown and stole were taken out to the trash. I kept the mortarboard, though, tossing itin a drawer of the same nightstand I’ve had since I was a kid. At some point, I’lltoss the cap, too. But for now, I just love remembering, from time to time, howindescribably difficult those years were—and subsequently how empowered I felt when Ifinally achieved what I had worked so hard for.