Papers:

They were all so proud of him. He was the first one in his family to go to university; the first one to have a degree from anywhere besides high school or community college. When they arrived home from the campus, most of the relatives who were in town greeted him and his mother and brothers. People he knew as uncles gripped him with dangerous handshakes; the women who were known as aunts embraced him, smiled and went back to unwrapping casseroles and plates of still steaming piles of food. They all wanted to see the diploma he still had in the envelope, and he had almost forgotten about the gown and the mortarboard in a plastic bag until they all began making requests for him to put them both back on and pose with his degree without his family. They all wanted to remember this very special moment in their lives.

He stayed away from most of their kids, even the ones who were too young to really know him. Their parents’ old speeches about studies and hard work were playing in his head as he saw them gathered around the TV in the front room: Why can’t you be more like…? Why don’t you read like…? Why aren’t you like…? They never even tried to hide their thoughts from him. He overheard them while sitting in many familiar living rooms and kitchens; he heard them loudly at picnics and dinner parties. He also understood what was being said over phone calls filled with comments from only one side of the conversation (his mother always smiled when she saw him walk into the room and had to fill in her side of the talk). She never hid her pride and he never heard her compare him to anyone he knew of in their community, at least not on the phone. No, he really had to stay away from their kids.

The suit underneath the robe was light, but the summer heat brought out all the small irritations in the shoulders, sleeves and neck he had ignored at the hall. Also, the mortarboard felt uncomfortable (the tassel drummed against his head as he moved from relative to relative). The robe made him believe that he would soon step on it and trip (something he had worried about as he was on stage to receive his degree). And the sleeves made it difficult for him to pose for these extra photographs while holding the diploma. In a pause between shots, he found a space to breathe and head upstairs to his room. His mother and the relatives were now opening up the folding tables for rounds of dominoes. They had their pictures.

No one was curious about this part of the house. On the flight up to the second floor, no lights were on. With all of the doors closed, it was too gloomy for anyone other than his brothers or mother. He went to his room and stared at himself in the mirror over his desk. The ceremony was in his head. They had all looked the same as they sat in their folding chairs, stood up to receive their diplomas, and posed for photos. The dean, professors, and other members of the university had their own special look with multicoloured robes and hats that had more style, shades and fabric. They were less imposing this way. He took off the robe, put the mortarboard on the dresser, turned on a fan and lay on the bed in the now shifting air. He breathed and could hear the dominoes slamming into the cardboard of the folding tables.

Sleep? Rest? No, not yet. It would be time for the talk. There was always that talk. All the kids he knew had heard it all their lives. It was in their community, but it could not have been only their little secret: Get that paper. We came here for you, so you get that paper; do what you want with it, and live the life that you live. He knew how his father and mother had struggled for him and his brothers. He knew all of the jobs that his mother had to take to get him there after his father died. He knew how hard it was for her to give up on many of the dreams she had for her own life. And he also knew how hard it was to live as someone’s else dream. The fan buzzed and oscillated slowly.

The diploma was in his hands. He had barely noticed how hard-edged it was in its envelope. His mother had already bought a frame for it and wanted to put it next to his other diplomas and awards, and his brothers’ trophies and medals. She told him that it was perfect over their fireplace, right next to their photographs. There was nothing he could add to this.

He loosened his tie and collar. It had been a very long day and he just wanted to rest for a moment. Sunlight cheated him of this at it reflected into his eyes from a neighbour’s window. Did they know, too? When he had to shovel snow during their next shared blizzard, this would be very clear. He kept his eyes closed. Yeah, they knew. The dominoes were now louder than the television (his brothers would hate that – he could hear them yell about the baseball game they had wanted to watch). Soon, his mother would call everyone to the dinner table for prayer and a large meal. He needed this rest, even with the sunlight settling over him and making him sweat. Just a few minutes…

*

It really was not his fault. The prayer had gone well (he had refused to lead it; a small and energetic girl he only knew vaguely went through the words quickly). The food was good, as always, and he did get a chance to sample almost everything (many approving nods and smiles for this). Some did ask where he put the robe and mortarboard, but his mother soon hushed them back to the dominoes in the basement and the television in the living room. This had gone well.

It was his godfather who ruined the evening for him. He came up the stairs with another bottle in his hand (out of the next set of dominoes; no points for him and his partner, quite a terrible feeling since it was also his wife). The old man was faster than he knew him to be. That sad face was full of pride; the wrinkles of his forehead were from a life of his own private pains and weaknesses. They came from moments that he could not know and that he had no feelings for today. To try and guess at them all was something he had done too many times, but would not try today. This was his godson’s day, even if he had the bottle in his hand and no dominoes to look at. His godson had studied, worked hard, avoided the traps his elders knew or guessed at, and made it to the degree. That was done. But here was this familiar old man with his wrinkles and gestures that he knew too well. He needed an audience. It would be what he had heard many times before.

“Remember something…”

“Yes.”

“You listening?”

“Yes.”

“I am your godfather.”

He thought the man would cry in front of everyone in the kitchen. He had done it before and no one would be surprised, especially on this day. His mother observed it all and smiled (it was an old scene played well and often).

“I am your godfather and you must remember that.”

“I do.”

“Yes, yes.”

Another large hug, and he felt the eyes of his mother, aunts, family friends, relatives and acquaintances on him as he tried to accept the embrace. It felt better to him that it happened in front of the women and children only. He could not explain why, but it did.

“And now you have that paper.”

“Yes, I do.”

“What will you do?”

“Find a job, like everyone else at the graduation, uncle.”

“Godfather.”

His mother should not have laughed, even silently. He saw the pain in the old man’s face.

“You have something you can use.”

“Yes.”

“You can go anywhere with that, you.”

Now, he had never lost his patience or shown any real anger toward his uncle (godfather), not even when the man broke down recalling his godson’s father and cried like a baby in front of three high school friends he never again invited to the house when he thought the old man might stop by (no one said a thing at school the next day, and they soon understood). No, that was fine. He understood the patterns of pain and regret within the old man. He could respond to the physical gestures. No, that was fine. It was the next set of words that tumbled out that bothered him; the sentence that would cling to him as he tried to find a polite way out of the kitchen.

“Your father would have been so proud of you.”

He felt like he had been slapped. No one else had mentioned him. They knew enough not to mention him. He noted the odour of beer that he had often ignored, and the stickiness of the old man’s fingers as he placed his hand on the back of his neck.

“Yes, he would be proud.”

His face felt warm. He had to move. What his mother said to him later made some sense, but he would not care. He walked past his uncle, past the women at the table who noticed his new stride, past his mother and the now stilled laughter above the plates and trays of food, and went back up the stairs to his room and did not come down until the dominoes were quiet and he heard his mother’s heavy and slow steps on the stairs.

*

They ended the night in the wrong set of moods. His brothers wanted to beat him up, and only kept themselves from their anger by watching their mother lay into him with all the verbal skills she had often used against them. Don’t you know how it looks? Don’t you care about…? Your uncle always drinks and… She did not pursue the last argument. It was focused on how important it was that he know how important it was that he got the diploma. She left the envelope in his room with the frame, telling him that he had to put it in for her. The brothers, went to their room quietly and quickly. He felt too tired to care or feel that he could fix the paper into the frame. The day was over for him.

When he woke up, the house was still in darkness. Some light tried to enter his room through the blinds, but he still stumbled up and toward the door only half-knowing what he saw (desk, chair, frame, diploma, closet, shelves). In the hallway, he could smell the food from the night before now settling into the walls and carpet. His mother kept her door shut; his brothers made sure that their lives were available for anyone who wanted a look. And he was always glad that they did this. He now had a plan.

There were things in their room that he knew very well. In the shoeboxes under their beds, he had figured out the problem of both of his brothers: a lot of name brands for a lot of sports or games he never followed; some papers from school that their mother would be interested in; and then the very secret stuff that he enjoyed as a rare treat. A baggie aged with use that never really changed, apart from its heaviness or lightness. Once, when they had both been out for one of their games (baseketball?), he had snooped around and discovered this stash near some old porn magazines he was just beginning to truly enjoy and understand. His first joint had been a mess that did not even get him high (he was too scared to take more than a slight pinch of the stuff). In the basement, he had finished it with their fan on full power, not actually lighting it properly before enjoying it. It was disappointing and he began to wonder if he could ever be addicted to anything except coffee and junk food. When no one noticed this first taste, he experimented with larger rolls until he found just the right quantity with the right fit. It was perfect after a day of formulas, facts and mindless part-time work. Before finishing high school, he had already figured out a routine for his smoking that worked. He knew exactly when to take a draw out of the baggie (the red-eyed looks on his brothers’ faces gave everything away). He enjoyed many samples over the years. And no one ever noticed.

The bag was heavier this time, but there were no rolling papers. This was a problem. On their dresser, he found one of his old handkerchiefs, pinched a fair portion of grass into it and knotted it up into a small pouch. His brothers slept face down in opposing beds and stirred with snores, but no one got up or awoke as he replaced the baggie and the shoebox. He could smell its sweetness in the hallway and contemplated putting a few hits into some leftover dish from the day before; maybe a half-eaten dessert. No, not this time. This one was for no one else. He needed this one.

Well, it was paper. The envelope was stiff, but a piece of diploma was easy to cut, crumple and make into a cone. Would his mother notice the gap inside the frame? It was still dark, and he noticed that all of the blinds in the front room were closed, even the ones their mother kept open for the plants. He checked the degree in the light. No, nothing to see there.

He could have lit the cone in the bathroom, but that would have been too easy. No, it had to be right here; right in the living room where he had to listen to all of them talking about his success and how it could be their kids’ story if they were just like him; the place where his very athletic brothers got told off because their grades could not touch his (as their mother repeated again and again). And it would be the place where he would announce his plans for the diploma and all that hard work once his mothers and brothers awoke, wondered about the odour and had to listen to him explain things. That was it. He took a long draw on the cone, taking in the sweet smoke through the thick paper. Yeah, he had plans for his diploma. He knew what to do with that paper.

*

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