I am on one of the school machines in the library in the Basement of the John

F. Kennedy School of Government. This is last official act before heading to

the airport. I write as a recent graduate of the shortest course (three

weeks) which officially qualify you as a Graduate of Harvard University. That

will qualify us to a lifetime of cocktail-party stories with asterisk’s, like

a strike-shortened baseball season. Just like the one we are about to have

this year. You know how they will go- “When I was at Harvard�.well no, not

the Long Course�.”

On the up side, Roger Porter told us we would also now be subject to a

lifetime of fundraising circulars from the Harvard Alumni Association.

It is a proud thing to be graduating from the Senior Manager’s in Government

program and more than a little strange. This has been an experience intense

enough to leave a physiological change. One quite aside from extra pounds we

have put on. The food has added to our general sense of gravitas.

In that light, Marie-Christine orchestrated a hell of a hell of a party for

us last night. Buses were waiting to take us to the Divinity School at 5:30

sharp. We were wearing our finest clothes. Actually, the only fine clothes we

brought. Out of our jeans and shorts and back into neckties for the men.

Before we left I introduced my room-mate Mr. Wu to the concept of “The

Traveler” which in ancient history was the drink you mixed for the trip to

wherever it was that you were going, something of a contingency in case you

didn’t get there. I explained it was not so common anymore, but it was an old

tradition. Loren thought it was a splendid idea. When we got to the buses,

Ikhlas was sitting down front by herself. I plopped down next to her. Life

does not get any better than this, no more pencils, no more books, no more

teachers dirty looks�

Cambridge traffic was snarled as we crossed the river and wound through the

town. The Divinity School is on the other side of Memorial Hall and the Fogg

Museum. When we pulled up there was a table set sup on the lawn and three

nice ladies waiting in white shirts to serve us. The backdrop of the

ivy-covered buildings. The wine, beer and mixed drinks poured freely on the

lawn. It was sweet and sentimental and all the professors were there. I wish

we had known just how special this was- we would have badgered people like

Phil Heymann with more questions in class. Some of us made up for that. I

heard later a very distinguished Senior Executive had quite a crush on him.

The realization that this was the penultimate meeting of this group was

starting to grow. We took hundreds more pictures. There was a stately Hall

and no air conditioning and speeches and great fun. It was also hotter than

blazes inside and there was no air conditioning. When it was my turn to speak

I couldn’t get the microphone to work and decided to run it more like a camp

meeting. My voice boomed in the best Revival-style  under the vaulted

ceiling.

“I want to thank the outstanding Staff for an incredible educational

experience! Say Amen!”

Roger said later that he had been attending these things for a decade and

never saw so many speeches and so much expression of class solidarity. I

certainly felt it. This class bonded. I think we will be at least hearing

from one another in the future, even if we do not have a formal reunion.

When the last toast was done, we filed out into the sultry night. I needed

some air. Abdulrahman was staying in town, so we walked back toward Harvard

Square together, talking about the event we had just witnesses. We shook

hands enthusiastically near the lozenge-shaped Harvard Lampoon building. I

walked the silent streets down to Memorial Drive, and across the footbridge

across the Charles. The homeless lay shapeless in their bags along the River,

quiet as the river, dark shapes in dimness. I fumbled with my keys on the

glass door on the patio. It was cool in the apartment. I was asleep as soon

as my head hit the pillow.

There was more, though. There seemed to be some excess beer from the

reception, and the Senior Executives threw a block party in the lane that

runs through the Business School Housing area. They were unwilling to let

this experience go.

I got up around five and finished writing about Thursday and threw the rest

of my crap into bags. I’ll carry what is breakable and the hell with the

rest. United Airlines can do their worst. Time to go home.

Marie-Christine had porters standing by to help us with our gear as we lugged

everything out of the dorms. We put them in the Commons Room where we had

checked in three weeks before. It was hot on the walk over to the JFK School.

The rush hour was thick on Memorial Drive, other people not graduating, just

going about their daily routines.

The Last Breakfast was in progress when we walked over to the Alfred Taubman

Center. They had three chefs cooking omelets and right at 0930 Roger started

the graduation ceremony. He explained we would be getting a lot of

solicitations in the Mail from our new alma Mater. He explained a little

about what they had tried to teach us over the last three weeks and concluded

with a reading from a piece that C.S. Lewis wrote fifty years ago for another

graduation in another country.

Lewis wrote “The Lion, The Witch and The Wardrobe” and “The Screwtape

Letters,” among other things. His words were cautionary. He warned about

selling your soul and principles to get to the innermost in-crowd. Roger said

he had shared it with some of his colleagues at the White House and the

University. Count on friendship and let the clawing for position to others.

Not a bad way to leave Harvard University, short course or no. There are some

high flyers in this crowd, people who will deeply influence their nations.

Me, I’m going to retire. Roger included a copy of the address in the package

they gave us with our Certificates.

Then Marie Christine read our names, one by one, and Roger handed us our

diplomas. There was enthusiastic applause for everyone. When I got mine, I

found the red folder included the Certificate of Matriculation, a class

photo, the Lewis essay and a personally signed copy of Roger’s book about

Presidential decision-making. Quite a guy, quite a program. Class act all the

way.

He concluded the ceremony by saying “You don’t have to go home.” Then he

smiled that little impish grin of his and said: “You just can’t stay here.”

We all laughed and no one seemed to be in a hurry to get going. There was an

amazing bond forged between these very dissimilar people. There was more food

by the door, box lunches to carry us back into the world.

I am going to finish typing this on the JFK computer and send it to myself

someplace else. There is a ton of laundry to do. Things have been piling up

for nearly a month. There is an e-mail informing me of major restructuring at

my office. I answer tersely and log off for the last time here at Harvard.

Now there is the trip to the airport and the big bird to take me south. This

class will scatter to the winds, certificates in hand, five point plans

already germinating for implementation at our offices. I will head back south

and be back on the ground before dinner. There is going to be hell to pay

when I open up that e-mail queue in DC.

But that is OK. We can handle it. We are Harvard Graduates, after all.

Copyright 2002 Vic Socotra