By: Tribute from District Academia
The day the reaping email arrived, the clouds over Burnaby brooded deeper than usual. A message was broadcast to every graduating student from the registrar’s office: “Each graduate shall receive two tickets for the ceremony. For additional seats, please refer to . . . the Convocation Games.”
A hush fell over the deserted campus. The sound of rain beating down on our concrete haven echoed our collective dread. In a psychic vision, I saw a first-generation student fall to his knees outside Renaissance, whispering, “Another hurdle to graduate?” Just like that, we found ourselves facing an online lottery so cruel that Tolstoy would have found God — simply to file a complaint.
In District Academia, each day was a training in the art of superfluous discussions, frantic googling of “ontological vs. epistemological,” and repressing dreams of a tenure-track future. For years, we fought in classrooms without windows, running from the constant threat of asbestos in the ceilings. And now, to honour that sacrifice, I must battle for an extra seat so Grandma can see me graduate.
Leading up to the tribute parade, Joy Johnson holograms flickered across campus screens, declaring with a menacing smile, “The Convocation Games teach us about equity and resilience!” What she forgot to add was, “In the face of administrative cruelty.” To the administration, every student’s suffering was equally meaningless. So, I quietly prepared for battle.
I watched as SIAT graduates designed conceptual posters titled “Two Tickets, Infinite Disappointment.” I attended a seminar for physics graduates calculating the probabilities of winning extra seats across the multiverse. I hit repost when my fellow communication graduates live-tweeted their existential crises and called it “autoethnographic data.” And just like that, the day of all days had arrived. The ticket portal glowed an ominous red. My cursor hovered over the login button like Katniss drawing her bow at dawn. Then? Chaos.
I held my breath as the page froze. Refreshed. Loaded. Crashed. Revived. I faced the dreadful multifactor authentication gatekeeper, which asked me to prove my identity as if scalpers would actually be desperate to buy these tickets. My hands trembled. Foucault’s essays swirled before my eyes. Then I realized the code I was typing in had already expired . . .
Suddenly, an announcement flashed across my screen: “The two additional seats available were distributed by random draw.”
My eyes unfocused. The absurdity crashed over me. That night, as I drifted into uneasy sleep, I realized the Games were never about tickets. They were about teaching us submission to randomness. God may or may not play dice, but SFU sure does. I dreamt of Joy Johnson’s holograms hovering over my bed, repeating in a monotone drawl, “Free will is a neoliberal construct.”
But I awoke with a newfound calm. Ghalib’s hauntingly beautiful poetry rang in my ears, “The world is but a children’s playground.” I used to think he meant it metaphorically. Now I see he meant SFU. And Grandma would just have to watch from home.
After all, I had learned, the arena is in my mind. The Convocation Games are eternal. Each day is a battle to find worth in a system that sells struggle as ceremony. Still, I bought the limited-edition SFU Convocation Games hoodie for $149 plus tax — because, even in disillusionment, I remain loyal to the brand. Because every dystopia needs merch, and I look great in SFU red.
