My Brass Rat

A few weeks ago, we attended my son John’s graduation from MIT. His second graduation, actually, but the first one we all went to. The year he had received his undergraduate degree, it was pouring rain on graduation day. When we met John near campus, after he had walked across the river, at around 7:30 am, the time for all the graduates to assemble in the Johnson athletic center, he was already drenched. We’re not going, he announced. His mom protested, and so John reconsidered, and advised that we could attend if we wanted, but no way he was going. So instead, we drove into Back Bay, had a big breakfast, and enjoyed each other’s company all morning, which was undoubtedly more pleasant than sitting through the downpour, waiting for that one moment when they announced John’s name as a graduate.

This year, by contrast, could hardly have been a prettier day. Sunny, warm, Killian Court bursting with families from all over the world. There must have been ten thousand chairs set up. Susan and I arrived shortly after nine, and found seats toward the back, in the shade of one of those huge trees close to Memorial Drive. It really didn’t matter that we weren’t close to the stage, as a couple giant video screens afforded a decent view of the festivities, and as one would expect, the sound system was perfectly clear. Not long after we had arrived, the kids began their march from the other side of Mass. Ave., winding their way through campus, then along Mem Drive, then, pretty much on schedule, right down the middle of Killian Court toward their seats in the front. Susan managed to pick out John as the procession came down Mem Drive, mainly because the architecture grads were at the front of the student procession. It took close to an hour for everyone to enter, and find their seats.

The ceremony was unremarkable, the speeches less than memorable, but for me, one moment stood out, and gave me one of those rare emotional epiphanies that come only a few times during our lives. A young woman spoke on behalf of the senior class, and at some point she talked about her brass rat, the MIT class ring. She explained how graduates turned their rats around, so they no longer dumped on the student, but on the rest of the world. Perhaps her description was more tasteful, I can’t recall exactly. But at that moment I thought of John, and how he was then wearing my brass rat, Class of 1971. I had purchased the ring not because I wanted it, but because my mother insisted. I think she pictured me someday wearing it among a gathering of auspicious alums, perhaps a private reception for MIT grads the day before I’d be sworn into the Supreme Court. In truth, the ring sat in Susan’s jewelry box for almost thirty years, never once worn, until the time came for John to receive his Bachelor’s Degree, Class of 2000. I passed the ring on to him, and it became his brass rat; and he actually wore it on occasion.

So this June, as we sat outside on a summer day in Cambridge, I thought of my son wearing my class ring. The ceremony, the spectacle of graduation, the mob of kids and families, all backdrop to that moment. And then not long thereafter, we heard John’s name called out, as he walked on stage to receive his diploma, his Masters Degree. And I realized that there had been a reason for me to purchase the rat, even if that reason didn’t become apparent for another 36 years.