Post Graduation Dilemmas
My college graduation was on a sunny day in early June of 1965. At the time, the four most popular majors were: English, history, political science and economics. I don’t think that’s the case today.
The commencement speaker was David Elliott Bell, the Administrator for the Agency for International Development. A memorable day, however, I don’t remember much about his address. I do remember the confusion after the diplomas were awarded; the name on the diploma that I received was someone’s whose surname started with a “P”. The person who had received my diploma was several rows in front of me. The diplomas were passed around until every history major had received a diploma with their name.
My parents were pleased: I had graduated in four years; the lowest grade I received was a five unit C- in Geology that completed my undergraduate science requirement. I had been conflicted about that course: most rocks were there when I was born and they’ll be there when I die. Someone pointed out that there were valuable resources under those rocks; well, someone else would do the prospecting and extracting. However, it’s odd how tidbits of knowledge from college courses come to mind when facing current issues.
A case in point, we were living in Boston when the Big Dig was under way in the 1990s. The enormous project consisted of tunnels under Boston that were supposed to enhance the city’s sluggish traffic flow. In my college geology class, I learned that landfill was often unstable and unsuited for large projects. If the project’s managers and engineers had contacted me, I would have told them that a large and complicated tunnel system would be difficult to build and maintain on landfill. And sections of the Big Dig would be near the Charles and the Mystic Rivers’ confluences into the North Atlantic; therefore tunneling through landfill would be prone to leaks, flooding and cave-ins. Nevertheless several prestigious engineering companies signed off on the project. The original cost estimate was $2.5 billion; the finished cost was $25 billion. There was considerable leakage, and the traffic flow through downtown Boston was improved by an estimated forty-five seconds. Dividing $25 billion by forty-five seconds raised the question: Was the project worth it since Boston’s traffic remained tangled and frustrating? Thank God there were no pointless construction projects when Paul Revere spurred his horse and headed for the western suburbs to tell the Minute Men that the British were coming.
Enough of that, back to my autobiography. The country was gearing up for Vietnam, and the 1965 and 1966 drafts were huge. Before graduation, I visited my draft board in Napa with an acceptance letter from two law schools and was told I would be given a deferment as long as I was passing my courses. That base was covered, and I went to Europe for the summer. I traveled on a Eurail pass and visited most of Western Europe. While on the trains, thinking about a career in law became less appealing. Many of my father’s friends were real estate lawyers; they seemed content and successful, but not joyful. I concluded that law was not the road to the joyful and enriching life that I had envisioned. After spending a day at the Louvre, I was drinking apple cider outside of a bistro, when my burgeoning plans evolved into perfection — Stephen Jordan, art historian.
I minored in art history and did quite well; sitting in twilit rooms studying paintings was relaxing and culturally enriching. I wanted to return to college and complete a bachelor’s degree in art history. That would take three quarters and then on to a master’s degree that would take two years. But two problems arose: first, would my father fund my dream?
When I returned from Europe, I spoke to my father on a Friday evening when he had cocktails before supper. I explained my plan and noted that with a master’s degree I could become a teaching assistant and support myself while obtaining a doctorate.
“Steve, that’s a bleak existence. Imagine living over a garage reading piles upon piles of blue books and term papers for years upon years.”
“I know that. Those years will be my wretched artist phase; throwing myself on the altar of the arts requires such sacrifices.”
Dad rolled his eyes, “Why don’t you give me some numbers to think about, and we’ll talk more. Do you want a drink?”
The conversation went easier than I had expected. As I was pouring the drinks, Dad presented problem number two. “Steve, what are you going to do about the draft? They military is gearing up for a protracted war.”
“I’m pretty sure the draft board will extend my deferments.”
“What if they don’t?”
“I’ll apply for Navy OCS.”
“You’ll never know if the deferment policy will be changed down the line. If I were you, I get the military out of the way before starting on a doctorate.”
“Good point, I hadn’t thought of that; as always, you’re right”
“Ah, there’s a good fellow. Let me know what you plan to do before doing anything, okay?”
“I will, I promise.”
I applied to Navy OCS and learned that the line for aspirants was long. I waited a week before visiting my draft board. I was realizing my plans were about to be sacrificed to the gods of practicality and responsibility. Back then, I was over dramatic; fuming and sulky, I felt sorry for myself.
I introduced myself to a Mrs. Hildebrand who seemed to manage the draft board’s day-to-day business. She went to the files and leafed through mine and said, “You’re supposed to be in law school. What happened?”
“I don’t want to be a lawyer.” I presented my plans in detail and waited while she considered my situation.
I was about to say something, but she put her hand up, glanced at my file, and said, “Well, Stephen Jordan, President Johnson thinks this country needs second lieutenants more that we need art historians — time to grow up.”
