The Michigan Daily — michigandaily.com
12 — Wednesday, April 21, 2021
statement
Saying the G word
W
alking through the Law Quadrangle
and waiting for my photographer, I
couldn’t help but notice them: the
group of girls doing their graduation photoshoot
at the same time, clad in white dresses, caps and
gowns. I, too, had purchased a white dress and a
new pair of heels for the occasion, but there was
a key difference: I was alone.
I booked the session in January with a pho-
tographer I knew. We booked my session for the
first week of April. Then came the question that
made my stomach lurch: “How many people?”
Long before it was time to book, I knew what
was coming. Girls at the University of Michi-
gan don’t take their graduation photos alone.
The more girlfriends surrounding you in pastel
dresses and nude pumps, the better. And taking
my photos alone felt pathetic, like I was send-
ing a message to the world that I didn’t have any
friends.
I didn’t have a choice. The friends I had
made at this school had largely graduated, in-
cluding my boyfriend, a member of the class
of 2019 with whom I’ve been long-distance for
nearly two years. Others were younger than me
or doing their photos with others. The women
I consider my closest friends all go to different
universities.
So, that Friday afternoon in the Law Quad, I
set aside my embarrassment and took the pho-
tos. A few days later, I plastered them over so-
cial media, captioning them with an ironic song
lyric from Taylor Swift’s Daylight: “Maybe I’ve
stormed out of every single room in this town.”
That’s the duality of being that person who’s
wanted to graduate for two-and-a-half years. My
grad photos embarrassed me, yes, but I still felt
the need to display them and tell everyone I was
graduating.
Finally, I was less than a month from getting
out of here.
***
There are a lot of clichés I heard entering col-
lege and starting as a sports writer at The Michi-
gan Daily: “The best four years of your life!” or,
“The best job you’ll ever have!” I hadn’t liked
high school much, so these phrases assured me
that college would be better. Michigan is huge, I
thought; here, I’d find my people.
Spoiler alert: I didn’t.
It’s been four years and while I have a few
close friends, I never found a place where I felt
I truly fit in. I wasn’t necessarily hated, but I
wasn’t liked, either. Most times, I felt, I was just
there.
During my freshman year in South Quad
Residence Hall, all the girls in my hall were join-
ing sororities and studying for organic chemistry,
while I stayed far away from STEM and spent
my weekends at field hockey games. Freshman
year, the one year I attended football games as a
fan, I went to every game alone because most of
the people I knew only cared about the tailgates.
Then, between sophomore and junior years, I fell
out with three people I considered close friends
in the span of eight months. As I posted on Insta-
gram about all the basketball games I’d covered,
I spent many late nights crying in my single resi-
dence hall room.
I was alone.
I tried to run from my status as a lonely girl.
I stopped posting much on my Instagram, only
showing photos of games I covered or places
I visited. Deep down inside, I constantly won-
dered if it was too late for me, or if I’d ever find a
space where I was truly wanted.
When the pandemic hit and took away the
majority of things I was looking forward to in
2020 — summer in Washington D.C., my sister’s
high school graduation, a football trip to Seattle
— I began clinging to graduation even more than
I had been before. Without anything in person,
suddenly, the clock had run out on chances to
join new clubs or meet new people. Following
COVID-19 restrictions was easy for me because
there was barely anyone in Ann Arbor I regularly
saw anyway. Every new restriction was just a fur-
ther reminder that nothing had changed for me
and nothing would: I was still alone, and I would
continue to be. This time, it was just government-
mandated.
The one thing I knew I still had going for
me was that with each passing day, graduation
ticked closer and closer. I counted down the
months until I could get out of here, get a real
job, go somewhere I wasn’t constantly reminded
of my loneliness.
I never had a lot of spending money in col-
lege. I turned down getting food with people be-
cause I was so budget-conscious. And yet, I went
all out for graduation in a way I hadn’t for any-
thing before. Dress. Heels. A haircut. Makeup.
Regalia. Photos. I spent hundreds of dollars on
the occasion. Sometimes I questioned why I was
even doing it. Did I really need grad photos? Did
I need a new dress when I didn’t even wear the
dresses I already had because I never got invited
to the right occasions?
But I decided to go forward with the purchas-
es because, after four years of feeling like I wasn’t
enough and could never be enough for anyone, I
needed something to feel good about. At least I
liked the way I looked. At least the photos were
a tangible reminder that I was so close to getting
out of here.
I
t was just my luck that the pandemic forced
graduation online. There was nothing I
wanted more than to graduate in Michigan
Stadium, with my loving family and boyfriend
beside me. At graduation, I would be celebrated.
It’s even more ironic that the University de-
cided to allow graduates into Michigan Stadium
to watch the virtual commencement, but just the
students. No family. No friends. I knew from the
moment they announced it that I wanted to go,
but it wasn’t lost on me that I’d be finishing col-
lege as I spent it: alone.
***
Every December, The Daily lets its graduat-
ing seniors write goodbye columns. I’d read pre-
vious ones, and they made me cry. Not because
they were sentimental, but because they were
largely filled with seniors reminiscing on the
number of friends they’d made and how they’d
never have a job as good as this. Who has it better
than us, after all?
For me, it seemed like the answer to that
question was everyone but me.
The Daily sent me a lot of places and gave me
a lot of opportunities. But I never found a home
there in the way everyone always talked about,
and if it’s the best job I’ll ever have, I’d leave the
journalism industry tomorrow.
So I summed it up in 800 words: how it feels
to want to leave a space where everyone is beg-
ging for extra time, how to sit there wondering if
it will ever be worth it. I wrote about being alone.
That was when the direct messages started to
flow in.
I got multiple messages that day from people
who’d graduated before me, people I looked up
to, telling me that my experience wasn’t unique.
They’d been in my shoes before. They were glad
I’d spoken my truth.
For once, I wasn’t alone.
“We don’t say the G word here,” one of my
professors said while we were discussing com-
mencement plans last week. It was another ex-
ample of the cliche that nobody graduating col-
lege wants to come to terms with leaving.
But I say it. I fixate on it. It’s the one thing in
my life I can hold tight to with everything I have.
And I’m not the only one — it’s just that those of
us with graduation circled on our calendars for
months or years tend to stay in the shadows.
I know this because I was finally willing to
open up. I was willing to write about my experi-
ence, I was willing to do my grad photos alone.
Only then did I realize how many shared my ex-
perience.
When I finally toss my cap up in the air, the
moment I’ve anticipated for years, it’ll be dedi-
cated to everyone who didn’t have the experi-
ence they wanted in college. For people like us,
this is an accomplishment, a door opening to a
fresh start and a life we get to make.
Knowing that, I don’t think taking pictures
alone should be embarrassing. It should be a sign
of resilience and of reclaiming the narrative.
It’s a constant reminder that while all good
things come to an end, all bad things — wheth-
er that be a suboptimal college experience or
a pandemic that torpedoed a senior year — do
too.
In a few weeks, it will all be over, and no one
can take that away from me.
BY ARIA GERSON, STATEMENT CONTRIBUTOR
ILLUSTRATION BY KATHERINE LEE