I wasn’t planning on walking. To be honest, I was a little embarrassed. Folks in roles like mine usually have fancier degrees than the one I’m getting, so it was hard to feel proud of something that my peers and students would already assume that I have. Putting on a cap, gown and an overpriced lei felt a little funny because it also drew attention to something that I have to admit I was self conscious about. It would’ve been easy enough to get my degree on the down low and go about my merry way, playing it cool, like nothing was ever wrong (much of my life is predicated on this ability). Mix in the fact that I don’t like the pomp and fanfare of these types of events and it was clear to me that I wasn’t going to commencement. 

But then I made the mistake of mentioning graduation to Stephy and she looked at me as if to say, “obviously you’re going to walk and we’re bringing the kids to come watch.” Somewhere in my own neuroses I forgot that there were other people in my life that might be happy for me. There were people who weren’t embarrassed by the fact I didn’t already have it or the fact that I wussed out of the M. Div in the end (After fatherhood, my brain lost it’s capacity for learning Greek and Hebrew). They were just excited for me to get the degree that I’ve been working on since before I met them. 

That’s right. I’ve been working on this thing since before I had either kid or met Stephy at all. I looked back at my emails to see that I enrolled at Alliance Theological Seminary in the summer of 2014. I remember taking classes high up on 2 Washington, overlooking Bowling Green and the Hudson river. Seminary started so many lifetimes ago for me and I ended up taking the longer, stranger route to the finish school.

Despite working at one, my relationship with schools has always been a complicated one. A long convoluted path is the only one I’ve known. 

When I was in elementary school, my standardized test scores got me an interview for a fancy middle school that my mom had been wanting me to go to since before I learned to read. It was a ticket to the pathway that was the dream of every immigrant parent in NYC. I remember the school administrators gauging my knowledge on different subjects, then ending the interview with a hypothetical question, “if you had a friend who was desperate and they asked you for help during a test, would you help them cheat off of you?” I didn’t think about the right answer at the time—I told them the truth. Yes, I would. It wasn’t a moral stance I was taking, just a reflection of who I was at the time, but I’m fairly positive that answer put me on a different trajectory in life. 

Instead of Hunter, I was off to my zoned middle school George J. Ryan, JHS 216. I was mostly a snot-nosed know-it-all, biding time for the biggest test for every kid in NYC, the SSHSAT, aka the Stuy Test. I did fine, although I attest to this day that for one section, I screwed up the alignment on my answers and shifted them all down a question. My score was good enough to get me into Brooklyn Tech, but just a few points off from Bronx Science. Interestingly enough, I was close enough to the cutoff that if I could collect a few recommendations and take a summer class, I’d be on my way to the Bronx. The only problem was, my snot-nosed antics in one classroom made it so all of my teachers got together and came to an agreement not to write me any recommendations. That meant going back to my family to explain why I wasn’t taking the bus up to the Bronx, I was taking the train down to Brooklyn

Off to the prison of Brooklyn Tech I went. I spent my days reading novels and writing sad poems in class, then my evenings at Union Square or the basement of Hong Kong Supermarket slinging Yu-Gi-Oh and Magic the Gathering cards (IYKYK). When it came time to apply to college, I sent thick packets filled with poetry, prose and bombastic personal essays to every liberal arts school with a good fiction program in the Northeast. Then I sent some CUNY and SUNY applications too. Much to my chagrin, the only schools that accepted me were the ones that didn’t get a writing sample from me. One of these included my mom’s dream school (after giving up on the Ivy’s), the illustrious SUNY Binghamton. She couldn’t wait to brag about it, except, I wasn’t accepted in the Fall, I got a Spring acceptance. My great SAT scores couldn’t quite salvage my piss-poor grades, so I was going to have to spend a semester going to college locally at CUNY Queens, humbling the both of us in the process. 

At Bing, I had some freedom and like most city kids who dormed upstate, I finally learned to drive, and drive I did. I think I put 100,000 miles on my mom’s RAV 4 in about 2 years. I had myself a good time, a little too good. By the time I walked for graduation, I was quietly a few classes short of my degree. I was burnt out and ended up moving to California after walking, but then I had to move back for a semester to close it out. 

After properly finishing school, I was living in New York, broke, jobless, and recently heartbroken. Thats when I got my first stable gig out of college, working an afterschool program with the YMCA. That led to my first full-time job in Educational Access at AAFE and eventually led to me serving as a Youth Minister and heading into Seminary. 

My educational road is littered with diverging paths. It’s littered with “what-ifs.” This was not what it was supposed to be. I was supposed to go to “better schools.” I was supposed to finish in proper timelines with better grades. If only I had… but these bumps in the road matter. And the other what if’s matter too.  

If I went to Hunter, I wouldn’t have spent my middle school afternoons playing Smash Bros Melee and pretending to study. I wouldn’t have built a friendship that anchored me for most of my adult life and I wouldn’t have learned that if you take the Q17 the wrong way, it’s a three hour walk to get home. 

If I went to Bronx Science instead of Brooklyn Tech, I would’ve been on a bus, instead of experiencing the freedom of the MTA, discovering holy places like the Strand, drafting Legions in Flushing Mall and bouncing around the city with Seekers Christian Fellowship. 

If I had gone straight to Binghamton, I wouldn’t have spent a semester eating seasoned fries and writing corny songs with a fellow idiot before heading into the city to say what up to the NYU girls. I wouldn’t have learned the power of multi-cultural ministry and visionary leadership. 

I don’t think I remember a single thing I learned in a classroom at Bing outside Critical Theory, Understanding Graphic Novels and Backcountry Medicine. But, I learned about real ministry in the trenches and I learned how to draw boundaries and I learned the challenges and joys of being in Christian community. 

And If I didn’t have to go back to Bing a second time, maybe I’d still be working for my family at a job I hate and I certainly wouldn’t have experienced the most formative relationships and growth of my life. I wouldn’t have felt deeply and written so sadly and prolifically. I wouldn’t have learned that a basement roommate who believes in you could help you believe in yourself when it feels like there’s no reason to.

If I hadn’t started seminary at Nyack, I wouldn’t have learned how to tell a good commentary from a bad one. I never woud have somehow gotten invited to a living room bible study with Gordon Fee, the guy who wrote the book on how to study the bible.  I wouldn’t have shared classrooms with spiritual leaders I respect from the city I grew up in and gleaned from their wisdom and experience. I wouldn’t have gotten my first preaching gig at a small Indonesian church where I’m certain I used too many movie references. 

If I finished my program in New York, I might’ve never made out to California. 

If I didn’t start Talbot in the M. Div program (not the one I’m graduating with), I would’ve have never experienced Spiritual Direction, learned preaching from Don Sunukjian or met my legendary cohort, one of whom referred me for the job I’m working right now. 

Most importantly, If I hadn’t gone on the journey I’ve been on, my kids wouldn’t have seen their dad graduate.  They wouldn’t have seen their dad in a goofy robe, finishing a thing that been brewing since the Obama-era. 

Like I’ve mentioned, I’ve had a long complicated relationship with school as an institution. I’ve only ever fallen through the cracks at every level. Whether due to my own destructive ego, undiagnosed ADHD, or crippling depression, I know that schools are not built for people like me. I don’t belong here (I’m sure some of my coworkers will tell you so, too). But in my heart of hearts, I think I’d like to. And I’d like others who are like me to belong here too. I think that’s why I keep coming back to these places. I think it’s why I’m glad to put on the cap and gown and smile at people who think less of me for not having done this 10 years ago. Because one day, maybe one of my kids will fall through a crack. Maybe one of my non-biological kids will too. Then I’ll show them the way forward, because I’ve walked it before.