The one to depend on: Me

By Edgar Sandoval
Minority-Affairs Reporter
The Morning Call, Allentown, Pa.

Posted: May 17, 2002

When I think of May, two things come to mind: Mother's Day (awww), and the day of my university graduation, exactly three years ago this month.

Neither is much fun to remember. Mother's Day, well -- first, I am not a mother, so that means I don't get any presents. But most importantly, my mother lives thousands of miles away, so ... you get the picture.

My graduation, May 1999 from the University of Texas Pan-American, elicits bittersweet memories. There's nothing more exciting -- or scary -- than ending an old routine and beginning a new adventure.

So I wake up that morning, full of energy and fresh ideas. But I am not the only thing that is full. So is the bathroom.

"Hurry up!" I yell to my sister. "I am graduating! And I am not even showered yet!"

My mom, dad and my two other sisters are waiting in line.

I'm not going to be late to my own graduation, I tell them. So, I calmly put on my gown and spray some cologne, hoping to make up for the lack of zest in my body. I rush to my morning ceremony, leaving them in line at my apartment bathroom.

I meet some college friends at the campus. We hug and talk about summer plans. In a matter of minutes, the ceremony begins, the deans in front of us wearing fancier gowns than ours, like something out of The Three Musketeers.

The commencement speakers talk about, you know, what-do-you-do-now, we-are-the-future-of- America, blah, blah, blah.

I am so busy trying to keep an eye out for my family and my best friend, Liza, that I don't hear the speech. The speaker begins to call those who have graduated with honors. To my surprise, there's my name on the program -- cum-laude! Where are my mom and dad and best friend? I want to share this moment with them.

The speaker gets closer to my name. I am thinking "Wow, hold up! My parents aren't here yet!" But can the speaker read my mind? Of course not! Typical selfish commencement speaker, I figure.

He calls my name: Edgar Sandoval.

I look out at the masses and see a bunch of strangers. The name "Edgar Sandoval" means nothing to them.

I look down and appreciate how shiny my black shoes look.

This is, after all, my moment. My little glory.

It was then and there that I realized the greatest lesson I had learned during my five -- yes, some people need more than four -- years of college: The one I was going to have to depend on, from this day hereafter, was me. Only me.

I had worked so hard those five years, sometimes taking three part-time jobs between classes, to get where I was.

I did it to make me proud of me. Not to make my parents proud, or my best friend. But me.

We all get our diplomas and I am walking down the aisle when I see my mother and my dad and my sisters and my brother who had driven from Arizona with his wife and daughter (but no best friend), all rushing up to see me.

My mother calls to me. She hands me my graduation ring. I grab the ring. The college insignia on the ring looks as if the jeweler carved it with a knife -- Picasso style. I had insisted that my graduation ring be made by a mom-and-pop jeweler to save money.

I did not realize the thing was going to be so ... unique.

"Put it on!" my mom says. "Hayyy, mijo, sorry we are late. We parked aaaaalllll the way in the back. You look so handsome. Let's take pictures."

Better late than never, I say, and we all hug, take pictures, smile and take more pictures.

The next day, my best friend told that she didn't have a car and couldn't find a ride. I told her there were buses and cabs and she looked at me as if trying to figure out what buses and cabs actually looked like or if they were out of this planet.

A few days after that, I began to live the lesson I had learned. I was to start a one-year gig at the Los Angeles Times. I was leaving a small town in the Texas-Mexico border for the big city. I packed everything I owned, which fit in the trunk of my Chevy Malibu, and began my two-day drive to the City of Angels.

I was with me, once again, just like that moment at graduation. I was about to begin my life as a college graduate, a budding professional, a grown-up.

Since then, I have moved from Los Angeles to Allentown, Pa., and I have met and written about many different people.

I have grown up some. I am more mature, and I call my mom on Mother's Day. But I am still doing things mostly for the person I want most to impress: me.

Edgar Sandoval was a Summer 1999 Scholar who interned at The Tennessean in Nashville. He is a graduate of the University of Texas-Pan American in Edinburg. Reach him at EdJSandoval@aol.com.

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