Riding High and Long

Thirty-six years ago, I was making the final changes on my dissertation and prepping for my dissertation defense. I’d spent nine years working on a doctorate in urban affairs, had passed my prelims, had the blessing of my major advisor, a famous, if eccentric, figure in the field, and had my graduation robe with my doctoral hood hanging in my closet. We’d already planned the party, inviting everyone in my small Ph.D. cohort to celebrate at our house after graduation in mid-May.

I couldn’t believe it.

In the beginning, I’d complained to a favorite professor that it would take ten years for me to finish. “So what?” he responded. “Would you rather be ten years older with a Ph.D. or without one?”

I thrived on lack of sympathy.

When people ask me about getting a Ph.D., I tell them that it was hard. If they press me for details, I tell them it was very hard. I’m not sure it’s as hard now. At the risk of sounding like an old Marine who went through boot camp when it was really hard, I think programs are easier now. More humane, more conscious of work-life balance, more focused on academic essentials. Those are good things. Professors weren’t thinking about that stuff decades ago. They were just thinking about making things as rough as they’d been for them.

But because my doctoral program was hard, very hard, I treasure it, possibly beyond description. For thirty-six years, my degree has been an anchor, a shield, and a reminder of my own endurance. I thought of that tonight when I sent off an email and glanced at my signature line. My degree has become part of my name. It’s who I am.

Proud of myself – even after all this time.

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Photo by Filip Eliasson on Unsplash