Recently I had the pleasure of awarding diplomas to graduates. I have done nothing to help these individuals reach this milestone. I stood on a stage across from the students, who had overcome countless adversities to reach their place on the steps to the stage.
I stood in front of all the people left and right, sitting in the bleachers, who had had to beg them to get out of bed to go to school. I stood in front of the entire faculty, who alternately screamed with joy and frustration for the years that culminated in this hour-long celebration. All the people in that gymnasium were living witnesses to determination and hope and expectation and sacrifice and folly and faith and doubt and, most importantly, to the existence of, the effectiveness of, the accessibility of public education.
It was fitting that the faculty stood behind the students. Behind is appropriate because they have stood behind these students, lifting them, controlling them, and pushing them forward through this challenging journey.
Some of us were born to thrive in academia; the rest of us struggle our way through the equipment of education: requirements, curriculum, technology, teaching, new personalities, old customs, textbooks, lectures, traditions and innovations.
This diploma represents the equivalent of Indiana Jones stepping into space in search of the Holy Grail.
This degree has prepared our students for “what if?” What if I take a step and find a solid foundation? What if I take a step and fall into space? We know the faculty has prepared them for welding, nursing, growing, teaching, cooking, and dozens of other careers, but our students are stepping into the space of the real world, a world that doesn’t even come close to the predictable environment. of public education.
This diploma is part of the stories of hundreds of individuals, as varied as the shoes they wear, as varied as their DNA.
This is the one time they all look alike, wearing caps and gowns, not sure if that cap will stay on, sweating under the robe. They sit closer together than ever before on this journey through libraries, classrooms, internships and coffee shops.
They line up to go up the stairs, hand their name tag to the dean, who checks that she pronounces their name correctly, and they walk a few meters to a person they don’t know who gives them this valuable folder hands over.
I’m the person they don’t know. I didn’t share a cup of coffee or a beer with any of them. I’ve never read a single word they wrote. I didn’t help them choose a major, I didn’t help them find a book, I didn’t suggest they redo an assignment. I didn’t give them tissues while they cried in my office. I didn’t celebrate with them when they outdid themselves. I didn’t do anything to get them on that stage.
But I represent everything that is amazing and noble about a map of Eastern Iowa Community College, of any institution of public education. I am on the Supervisory Board. How I ended up on this stage with the “dignitaries” is another journey that started somewhere. Maybe it started in a rural school with one room, one room, two aisles, a large bell in the belfry and several students, K-8, sitting in that one room with one teacher. By the time I finished kindergarten, I had an eighth-grade education.
Perhaps it began in a high school built by the Works Progress Administration, whose architectural style called for forty granite steps between creaking wooden floors.
Perhaps it started when I sampled, rejected, and ultimately accepted a career in public education.
Regardless, my passion for public education has, shall we say, been exacerbated by the actions of our state legislators as they have taken away not only the pillars, but the foundations of public education. They have turned public education, even in the public schools, into a cutthroat battle for money. Not for students. Not for staff. Not for communities. For profit. We used to limit competition to the playing field, the gym, the court. Now public schools are forced to compete for services – the services of booksellers, the services of social workers and counselors. Our elected officials have taken away the kind of funding that likely supported their own education.
So I shook hands with public education. Four Madisons, three Rileys, six Michaels, one Brecken, a couple of Brandons, and dozens more hands of real people with real names with real education. I shook hands with the future. I shook the hand that will build, guide, give, teach, save and protect. I shook hands with what has been the pride of Iowa: public education.
Interestingly, there were no legislators at that time. That is unusual and significant. Tell me why.
Dianne Prichard serves on the Board of Trustees of Davenport-based Eastern Iowa Community College.
This article originally appeared in the Des Moines Register: Degree-granting, I see Iowa closing the door on public education
