Devonne Brown

Long before the boys left home, I got a dose of empty nest syndrome when I finished my masters degree online. For two years, every spare moment I had was devoted to research, reading, and writing about curriculum, instruction, and technology in the classroom, educational ethics, even statistics. There may have been math involved. The boys were six when I started, 8 when I finished.

There were always twelve to fifteen people in every class. We were assigned either partners or groups in which to work. It was both frustrating and rewarding, but I always came away from every class better. I felt that my PowerPoint skills had grown with each class, at least. I joke and say, “I have a masters in PowerPoint,” before I say “Curriculum and Technology.”

Every group project had to be distilled to a ten slide presentation. The accompanying paper was a different story, but the slides had to be perfect. I didn’t trust anyone to make the slides but me. It worked out fine. No one else wanted to make them anyway. We always got our A.

I thought my thesis was too easy. It examined the effectiveness of alternative schools in the United States. My conclusion was that they weren’t effective, and in fact, kids came out worse than when they went in. I had to present my thesis to somebody, and it didn’t go well when I presented it to my principal, and another faculty member. But, I faxed their signatures on the official document to my advisors anyway. Later, when I tried to log into my student account, it was gone. 

My account closed with the last piece of paper, the log of my presentation. I had turned in my last assignment, so my account was shut down. I checked it every hour for two days. No groups, no members, no messages, no email. There was no way to reach the professor, no way to reach my cohort. It was finished, I was finished. 

I got an email that said, “Congratulations, You’re done, would you  like to order a class ring or cap and gown? Are you coming to the graduation ceremony?”

I stared at the computer screen. No pomp, no circumstance. I guess I could play solitaire. I looked around the room, notebooks, pens, and papers were stacked and strewn about the room. Most of them were from the frenzy of the masters program. I tidied the room by putting all the notebooks in a box, labeled it and carried it to the basement. 

An epoch of my life was over. I had earned a masters degree, and all I had was a box and a mountain of debt I’d never resolve in my lifetime. I wish I’d never done it.