Ten years ago today I hobbled on stage at Western University and received my Masters of Arts degree in organizational communication. Ten years. I cannot believe it has been that long and yet...with all that has happened since then, it seems like three times as long.
After high school I spent two years studying at Lansing Community College. It was a great experience mostly because I didn't know exactly what I wanted to study yet and I would have been swallowed up by a university system. I already had been during orientation at said university system. Then I spent two years at a small, tiny, private college where I flourished. I studied French every day at eight a.m., I wrote for the college newspaper, I captained the golf team and I was introduced to the concept of communication as a discipline.
When I decided to go to grad school, I knew I wanted to study communication further. I'd been instantly enamored with the subject in undergrad but being the tiny school that Olivet College is, there was only one professor in the comm department and I could only learn so much from him. To this day I still know the definition of communication he drilled into his students from the first day of class and would quiz you on at lunch, on the college square, any where he might see you -- even five years later on an alumni visit. (Communication is the intentional, transactional, symbolic process of managing one's environment. Wally would be proud!)
And so I went to Western Michigan University which had a stellar, top-rated communication program (and now has a communication school). Only I kinda lucked into going there. See, WMU was the only grad program I applied to, mostly because it was forty-five minutes from where I lived at the time and Angela and a bunch of my friends went there. But maybe it wasn't luck, maybe it really was just meant to be.
I had the best time at WMU. I became a teacher there, thrown into my own Interpersonal Communication classes on day one. But I wasn't thrown in alone. I had awesome comrades-in-arms. I had second year grad students who taught me how to be a good teacher. And for the first time I really truly loved what I was studying. And I was good at it. See, as much as I loved studying French (four years in high school and two years in college) I was not very good. I could ready a novel in French but I could barely remember how to introduce myself and order off the menu. (I really want to go to France someday soon and when I do, I hope they'll appreciate the effort I put forth but forgive the way I will surely mangle their native tongue). But communication? Communication made sense.
I took classes in conflict management, group comm, customer service, female/male comm, etc. I spent time learning statistics and what makes an excellent survey question. I graded papers, I struggled through tough theoretical concepts and I read more in those two years than I thought was humanly possible. I read so much. So much.
And papers? I became a whiz at citations and research. I helped professors with their own writing -- I spent a big chunk of time finding out how women scientists and mathematicians portrayed on TV help girls to think they can be scientists and mathematicians. I studied the way other countries use soap operas and other TV shows to disseminate health information. Little did I know that all these years later that info would stick with me as I write my own TV shows and movies.
And friends? I met wonderful people in grad school -- one of my best friends, Betsy, and I hit it off on day one and have been close ever since. I cannot imagine how I could have made it through without her, EeLin, Ratan, Angela and Noelle.
I cannot emphasize how much grad school changed me. How it affected me. Not just intellectually but emotionally, physically, spiritually. It was during those two years that I became a scholar. In college I never really felt challenged. Maybe in my senior year when I started taking history classes and anthropology classes. But it always came fairly easy to me, or maybe I made it come easy by taking easy classes, I don't know. But in grad school, I struggled. A lot. I spent countless hours before and after class on a professor's couch in her office with a small study group trying to make sense of statistics. And I was thrilled to B in that class, my only one in my whole program. I still don't know how I did that and I am positive all of the information flew right out of my head the minute the final was done. I spent weeks camped out at the dining room table in our apartment pouring over books and writing twenty page research papers. And I loved it. I don't know when I slept or how I managed to teach two classes on top of it all but I did it. And I really did love it.
It was also during that time that I was a youth group leader forty-five minutes away. I drove to twice weekly meetings. I went on mission trips. And I was active in campus ministry at WMU and went on my own mission trips and socialized constantly. And I loved it.
But ten years ago today I was also changed physically. I was broken. Specifically, my ankle. The day before graduation was a glorious day. I remember sleeping late, getting to campus in time to give a makeup test and then help set up for our campus ministry's hot dog/ice cream giveaway in the middle of campus. And then I remember stepping in a hole, twisting my right ankle and hearing three pops. And that was that. I ended up in the campus infirmary, luckily we had a great sports medicine program, and it was determined a day later after several x-rays that I had broken my ankle. And not for the first time. I constantly had twisted my ankle, turned it, bruised it, over the course of my walking life. And for that, I was finally paying the price. My leg looked like something out of a horror movie and I didn't want to walk across that stage later that night on crutches. But...
My friends and family had other plans. And I have to tell you, I felt so loved over those few days. The night I broke my ankle I still had one final left to take. A formality really because I was already getting an A, even if I bombed the test but still, I had a final to take. So Angela and Noelle, my fearless roommates, loaded me into the car and then out, got me into a campus-issued wheelchair and I made my way up to a classroom on a top floor. I hadn't taken any pain killers yet, because I had a final (I was a very strict student back then) and I somehow managed to write several long-winded pages about female/male communication.
And since it was the last night of classes our very large group of friends had decided to go out dancing. It was supposed to be a great night but, a cast is not very conducive to dancing. So what did my friends do? They showed up at my apartment (which conveniently was not on the first floor), helped me scoot upstairs (really, the guys half-carried me), brought pizza and watched a movie with me. It was a great night, all things considered.
The next day my parents arrived in time for another doctor's visit and then my mom shuttled me to a salon where they washed and set my hair (casts are not conducive to showering either). Then we shuffled to campus where I somehow managed to hobble across the stage and where my friends who'd insisted I be there that night regardless, cheered me on. I felt like a rockstar just taking those few steps on those crutches. And I remember, standing in line and later sitting off stage for a long time, having my statistics professor and the head of the department make funny faces at me all night long just to keep me smiling. And I loved it.
It would be months before my ankle would be healed. Weeks of complete bed rest except for PT appointments, weeks of casts and pain. But in the long run, all of that is forgotten. And what stays with me is the wonderful memories of those two years and all that I learned. Grad school completed my college education perfectly because it would set in motion so much to come. Because of that degree and that work I would go on to teach college classes for the next eight years (and counting!). I would go on to teach seventh grade at a public school for two years. I would go on to write for newspapers, develop course curriculum, edit an emergency preparedness plan and eventually, figure out what was next - Hollywood.
