week 16 报刊阅读.docVIP

The Graduate May 25, 2013 4:45 am - by Miri Rosen Countdown to post-commencement freakout: 3...2...1... The night before my college graduation, I found myself on the corner of 95th Street and Broadway—talking to my mother on the phone—crying while gesticulating wildly with my unoccupied hand. The crying possessed a certain confrontational quality to it. My refrain was “You just don’t understand!” The hand gesture accompanying that specific line most readily resembled that of an angry conductor coaxing a sharp note out of a violinist. The sad truth—and what my mother was too kind and, really, too wise to admit—was that it was actually quite simple to understand: I was graduating the next day, did not have a job, did not have a place to live, was not sure what kind of job I wanted, was not sure what kind of place I wanted to live in, and most pressing of all: I had nothing to wear to graduation. The last was painlessly remedied after venturing to my sister’s apartment and digging through her wardrobe. But the rest remained unresolved even after I walked out of her west-side building, black wrap dress in tow. The graduation was going to happen whether or not I had a job. It was going to happen whether or not I knew what I wanted to be when I grow up. And, really, has anyone ever known what they want to be when they grow up—aside from firemen and policemen? And the occasional veterinarian? As a kid, I think I was too busy angling to become the pink Power Ranger to notice I should’ve developed practical aspirations. The following day came just as I knew it would. Yes, graduation day was beautiful. I would flick the person who wrote the previous line, but unfortunately, she’s right and she’s me. So it really wouldn’t be fair or comfortable. The day was beautiful because I huddled on a bus caught in a torrential downpour with people I admire, all in caps and gowns. I watched friends I love earn degrees. I heard inspiring calls to “step out of the shadows” and “to make the