What’s the difference between a Northern and Southern commencement ceremony? As this writer finds, a little… and a lot.
by CC Parker

Last May, my two eldest children graduated from different colleges — the University of North Carolina at Chapel Hill and the Fashion Institute of Technology in New York City — within two weeks of each other. Like the children themselves, the ceremonies were very different. 

My son graduated first. UNC graduation is always Mother’s Day weekend, but the preparations start 365 days earlier, as parents wait for the stroke of midnight to book The Carolina Inn’s graduation weekend rooms.

From there, the mothers of my son’s fraternity brothers circled up to begin party preparations. Activities included a pledge class photo shoot, graduation day brunch, father-son golf outing, sit-down family dinner at La Rez and food-truck dinner with subsequent beer party at Pantana Bob’s. That, plus custom t-shirts, tips for the fraternity house staff and personalized gifts for each boy. For 12 months, the mom text thread was humming.

Meanwhile, I hadn’t received any communication from FIT. I finally called and left a message, dismayed at how much my accent sounded like Aunt Bea from The Andy Griffith Show. Fortunately, the FIT representative who returned my call could understand me, pointedly noting that “commencement” information (not graduation — whoops), would be posted on the website when they get around to it. She ended our call with a quick click. We booked a nearby Hilton, just in case.

Ironically for this COVID class, UNC had a graduation date change, shifting the ceremony from Sunday morning to the evening before. This was a wonderful change for folks coming in from out of town, as well as the students who had been celebrating nonstop for three days. We gathered for a late Saturday lunch, then migrated through campus to Kenan Stadium around 6 p.m. I noticed that the dress was more casual than my 1991 graduation — more Peter Millar than Nowell’s. My youngest son was annoyed that I made him wear a tie and my husband regretted his dark suit. Still, we enjoyed a lovely jaunt through campus — and memory lane. My husband pointed out to the kids the exact spot where he and I met approximately 150 years ago. We were younger than our son who was graduating. How could that be? 

UNC graduation felt like a homecoming for us parents and the grandparents, too. So many of us attended the school and met lifelong friends there. At lunch, my husband’s great friend, there for his own son’s graduation, ran to hug my mother-in-law. It had been 35 years, but they have a shared history as well. 

The event ended with fireworks and then we were off for drinks around the firepit at The Carolina Inn. Even my father, a dyed-in-the-wool North Carolina State University fan, was all smiles. It was an event filled with family, history and tradition. 

Two weeks later, on a Tuesday afternoon, we reassembled in New York City’s Central Park for the FIT graduation. 

The festivities started the night before at Fraunces Tavern, a bar inside a Revolutionary-era building that’s a cross between a speakeasy and a museum. We started with hard cider and scotch eggs, then moved on to charcuterie and scotch. Next we visited The Dead Rabbit for a nightcap; its walls are covered in dollar bills. Then family time was over, and my son and daughter ambled up the street for their own adventures.

The next morning we headed to Grand Banks, a wooden sailboat turned restaurant, for a champagne and oyster brunch. (I’ll hand it to them: my kids did a great job of pretending to not be hungover — both calm, cool and collected, though a tad pale behind their sunglasses.) We had plum seats for beautiful people-watching. Then it was on to the Trailer Park Lounge, a kitschy dive where we were hosting a graduation party. They literally rolled out the Astroturf within a fenced-in area to create a patio for us, right on 23rd Street. We met our daughter’s friends and their families for the first time since she started school four years prior. 

We took a cab to Fifth Avenue and 79th Street to make our way to the commencement venue, which was nestled in the trees and hills of the park. There were street carts selling graduation balloons and teddy bears.

Entering the venue, there were dispensers of organic herb- and fruit-infused water at every turn. Snacks abounded — fresh fruit, chips, dips, ice cream — all free for the taking. The music was thumping, and there was no Peter Millar in sight: these folks were dressed for church. The students, many being in the fashion school, did fabulous jobs of personalizing their caps and gowns (we saw everything from satin wraps to boas to big fake rats). The commencement speaker, fashion icon Mickey Drexler, was so excited to talk to these kids. He truly wanted to send them out with his last piece of advice for their next step. The audience, I noticed, was primarily parents and siblings — few grandparents with our lower ticket allotment.

FIT may be a technical school, but the students’ friendships run just as deep as our state schools with their Greek systems. As the graduates walked across the stage, there were catcalls, giggles, tears and cheers. ABBA’s “Dancing Queen” played as our daughter got her diploma. Afterwards, we navigated past musicians, roller skaters, stroller-pushers and tourists to get our photos in front of the big pond. 

And then it was over. Our daughter flew out that night for a work commitment. We flew home. I reflected on the FIT graduation: urban excitement, grit and incredible creative energy.

My children were entering the “real” world. Their childhood, and my role in it, was over. I felt a profound sense of loss. 

Then sadness gave way to joy. My husband and I did some quick math about our tuition-less “pay raise” — how would we spend it? Elk hunting trip (my husband)? Fancy dining room wallpaper (me)? Facelift (speaking for a friend)? A few weeks later, our youngest child came home from high school and announced that he’d be going to a small boy’s college called Hampden-Sydney in Virginia starting in 2025. So much for the wallpaper. 

This article originally appeared in the May 2025 issue of WALTER magazine.