When I graduated last year on May 21, I had been attending college for eight years, first at Long Beach City College and then at California State University, Long Beach. I had learned a lot, even for a then-75-year-old.

what is eight years in seventy-five years but time measured in wake-ups and morning routines rushing into traffic and preparing for exams and sweating over grades and wondering-(no, agonizing)-over that last essay and whether I should have written what I had written or should have written something about the birds and the bees instead-(at least everyone can spell that)-what do you think I was doing hunched over my computer and my notebook and the countless books and journals with too many words that I can’t spell or pronounce and the tests-(who the hell designed the statistics problem that I couldn’t solve forcing me to walk out of my final costing me a 90 or more grade)-you know I’m not good at arithmetic and formulas and equations and algebra and advanced mathematics except maybe with a calculator-(and I had to wear ear plugs in a small room because I get really anxious and distracted by noise and other people breathing hard and sweating)-as I too sweated over astronomy and history-(while I was dying from the flu)-and political philosophy and subjects and topics that I will never use again except in polite conversations at country club parties-(if I was ever invited to a country club party)-to impress them with the length and breadth of my knowledge where I can speak of english literature and shakespeare-(and I don’t get shakespeare)-and world literature and political philosophy and latinx cultural production and u.s. protest literature-(power to the people)-and subjects I will be sure to use in my next conversation with the bank teller and the cashier at lazy acres and the nice person serving up the best tacos and sushi within a ten mile radius but it’s all good because eight years of killing a million trees for their invaluable paper products for professor handouts and essays and the notebooks and scholarly journals and textbooks-(now, there’s a racket. has anyone heard of digital?)-and carrying the future of human civilization on my back and in the small moments as I sit hunched over my computer and notebook writing a poem and a narrative essay/short story/play/the first chapter of a novel/memoir about a lost memory that sucked the air out of my lungs and mind because I swore I had buried it so deep that I could never find it again. this is why/what eight years meant to me than all the fears and hesitation and talk of my gpa-(not bad for an old codger like me)-and grades and the paper diplomas and the honor’s list-(okay, I’m lying. it felt good. no, damn good)-this is the moment when I realized that I had unlocked my brain and my soul, the deepest wells, the bottomless parts of my imagination to write, to share and confess and sometimes even vomit feelings, emotions of terror, of fear or its equivalent and sometimes even laughter and sarcasm and irony-(and once in a while a truth or two)-just to justify the last eight years and that I am still above ground and breathing and thinking those years were not only worth it but more important than the previous sixty-seven years, these last eight years of college at my age confirmed that these were lessons for turning dreams into the reality of living. to turn mind over matter so I could stand up and shout I made it. no, I fucking made it. I’ve been to the mountaintop, and I intend to stay there and fuck you if you think I’m coming down or that you will ever bring me down because it feels damn good up here-(and I can see everything)-and I like it for the first time in my life this feeling without drugs or alcohol fuel-(or any other artificial sweeteners)-this emotion of triumph over every other stupid shit I’ve ever done-(and that list is longer than any reading list that I was ever given during eight years of college)-let me tell you this is some higher level of good shit, this is accomplishment, this is victory at seventy-five, hell, I have nothing else to prove to myself-(except maybe that I can live to a hundred)-I now know that I am one badass mofo. cool.