It’s strangely anticlimactic, frankly, finishing your PhD.
One day you do a song and dance in front of a crowd, wise elders ask perplexing questions and then say “Congratulations!” (the academic equivalent of “You’ve done enough, dear one”) and then it’s over.
Next comes the doctoral hooding ceremony; it’s a funeral of sorts, marking both an exit and an entry. UNC prints your name, department, dissertation title, and Chair in the program for posterity:
And you walk across a stage, draped in the $100 black polyester gown, noting the few graduates whose parents clearly paid for the $700 premium, silky Carolina-blue gown.
Careful not to trip on the stairs.
At center stage you receive your doctoral hood. Careful not to knock off the hat. Smile for the camera! A man, the Provost? – What does he do?, says “I know how much this means.”
Shake the Chancellor’s hand. Take the empty blue tube, with letter as placeholder for your diploma.
Down the stairs. Pose for a picture. Back to your seat.
And that’s it.
OUT into the world you go, fledgling.