Degrees of Difficulty

 

There’s this idea circulating that college diplomas aren’t worth the expensive paper they’re printed on. For reasons, which are just tedious enough to recount now, I have two degrees due to an unforeseen, minor ink staining thankfully rectified by my splotchy alma mater.

 

For the first couple years after graduation, where you went to college is a frequent topic of inane conversation. A stranger may ask if you know one former member of your gigantic student body.  

 

Then there’s a period in your late twenties and early thirties, when gainfully employed, most college grads realize no one cares about their degree. No one cares where they went, what they studied, or whether their quad was mathematically quadrilateral, or their green was truly verdant. 

 

Unless you went to Harvard. If you go to a place like Harvard, then it’s always top-of-mind. Sentences begin with the purposefully opaque, “When I was in Cambridge…” You sign off retirement emails with your class year. You hum the fight song on crowded buses. You refer to a prospective colleague as “a real Harvard man.” People that go to Harvard peak early. It’s like summitting Everest in your youth and spending the remainder of your days at sea level. Nothing compares to the air from your glorious salad days. 

 

There’s a reason why John Belushi wore a sweatshirt that simply said, “college” on it. How do we know it wasn’t Harvard? He would’ve said so. Because going to Harvard is a lot like jogging, it’s worthless unless you tell everyone you meet.