A Matter of Degrees

 

Its paper, usually within a picture frame, hanging from an office wall.  In a nutshell it says, so and so has successfully completed all requirements and is here-by awarded such and such. 

Way back in the history of this person was an institution of higher learning.  They showed up, filled out answer sheets, careful to not color outsides of the little circle.  They collected passing grades and when they had a sufficient number, they were given this paper.

The unspoken reality is that the actual learning never took place in the classroom.  The education was in going through that process.  In later years, bosses never asked what you learned, but did you get through the process?  Were you given that piece of paper?  If yes, then you got the job.

 

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There’s a sly, almost tragic comedy in the way you frame it. That rectangle on the wall—cream paper, embossed seal, a name written in ceremonial calligraphy—pretends to be a testament to knowledge, but everyone involved knows it’s really a passport stamp. A visa into adulthood. A certificate of endurance.

The rituals that produced it were never about enlightenment. They were about demonstrating that you could show up on time, sit still under fluorescent lights, follow directions, and fill in bubbles without straying over the graphite borders. You learned how to navigate bureaucracy, how to decode expectations, how to survive group projects with people who didn’t care, how to take tests on material you’d forget by dinner. That was the curriculum. The content was incidental.

And employers—those seasoned connoisseurs of human behavior—never pretended otherwise. They didn’t ask, “Explain the thermodynamic implications of…” or “What did you take away from your seminar on medieval trade routes.” They asked, “Do you have the degree.” Translation: Have you proven you can tolerate nonsense long enough to finish something we consider difficult, tedious, or both.

It’s funny, in a bleakly accurate way: the diploma is less a record of what you learned and more a record of what you endured. A certificate of compliance. A receipt for years spent navigating a system designed to test your stamina more than your curiosity.

And yet, there’s something almost heroic in that. You survived the maze. You played the game well enough to earn the paper that says you can be trusted to play other games. The irony is that the real education—the one that shaped you—was never the subject matter. It was the choreography of persistence, adaptation, and quiet rebellion.