In November, I will graduate from Carleton University as part of the Class of 2019.
As always, I'm a bit late. Forty years late.
Oh well, I was busy back in the late 70s forging a new career for myself. I didn't have time to finish that journalism degree. To the taxpayers of Ontario, who bankrolled my education, I offer my sincere apologies. I was just so excited to get out into the world, I had neglected to complete my "thesis". And I meant to finish it, I really did.
But life got in the way.
Career.
Motherhood.
Singlemotherhood.
Yadda, yadda.
Never got around to it.
Kids, take this as a lesson.
You can't go back.
After I lost my job due to my lack of educational credentials this past spring, I realized that I needed that degree. I couldn't qualify for all the jobs I was qualified for. That piece of paper was a deal breaker, the difference between me being a bona fide public servant, and a Walmart greeter.
Truth is, I don't have my Grade 12 diploma, either.
I skipped that one, too.
I do have Grade 13, I just convinced my guidance teacher that I had the necessary qualifications for 13 without finishing 12. That worked. Why do I need a university degree now?
The government says so, that's why.
It's a box that needs checking.
So I set out to check it.
Turns out, it's not that easy.
I must have talked to 10 people at the university; some of them actually laughed at me.
That degree program doesn't exist anymore, one said. Forty years ago! That's too long, said another.
It's as if I had gone to the gynaecologist and tried to offer my eggs for fertilization.
I nearly gave up. It took months, but a nice lady phoned me on Friday to say they'd put my courses through an audit, and my number came up. No honours journalism degree, that ship had sailed.
A general arts degree was offered, and I accepted.
I nearly kissed the woman through the phone.
When I got off, I actually started crying.
I had no idea what it meant to me.
A university grad, at long last.
Cap and gown. Maybe a stretch limo. A seafood dinner, for sure.
Brand new halter dress. Wait. Let's not get carried away.
Maybe a brand new pant suit and orthopaedic heels so I can proudly hobble up the stairs onto the stage, wiping the sweat pouring off my menopausal brow, and shake the hand of a university official whose likely the only person in the room who's as old as me.
Rose Simpson, BA.
I like the sound of that!
As always, I'm a bit late. Forty years late.
Oh well, I was busy back in the late 70s forging a new career for myself. I didn't have time to finish that journalism degree. To the taxpayers of Ontario, who bankrolled my education, I offer my sincere apologies. I was just so excited to get out into the world, I had neglected to complete my "thesis". And I meant to finish it, I really did.
But life got in the way.
Career.
Motherhood.
Singlemotherhood.
Yadda, yadda.
Never got around to it.
Kids, take this as a lesson.
You can't go back.
After I lost my job due to my lack of educational credentials this past spring, I realized that I needed that degree. I couldn't qualify for all the jobs I was qualified for. That piece of paper was a deal breaker, the difference between me being a bona fide public servant, and a Walmart greeter.
Truth is, I don't have my Grade 12 diploma, either.
I skipped that one, too.
I do have Grade 13, I just convinced my guidance teacher that I had the necessary qualifications for 13 without finishing 12. That worked. Why do I need a university degree now?
The government says so, that's why.
It's a box that needs checking.
So I set out to check it.
Turns out, it's not that easy.
I must have talked to 10 people at the university; some of them actually laughed at me.
That degree program doesn't exist anymore, one said. Forty years ago! That's too long, said another.
It's as if I had gone to the gynaecologist and tried to offer my eggs for fertilization.
I nearly gave up. It took months, but a nice lady phoned me on Friday to say they'd put my courses through an audit, and my number came up. No honours journalism degree, that ship had sailed.
A general arts degree was offered, and I accepted.
I nearly kissed the woman through the phone.
When I got off, I actually started crying.
I had no idea what it meant to me.
A university grad, at long last.
Cap and gown. Maybe a stretch limo. A seafood dinner, for sure.
Brand new halter dress. Wait. Let's not get carried away.
Maybe a brand new pant suit and orthopaedic heels so I can proudly hobble up the stairs onto the stage, wiping the sweat pouring off my menopausal brow, and shake the hand of a university official whose likely the only person in the room who's as old as me.
Rose Simpson, BA.
I like the sound of that!
Y'know. When you think about it, they owed you that BA in '77. You had completed all the courses for the general BA. The rest was the Honours Journalism. So, you definitely earned that BA and more. CONGRATULATIONS! Woohoo!
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