The first time I went to a convocation, I felt I could die of joy. My hummingbird heart, an anxious pet, sang a dawn song. It wasn’t the entrance hymn, “O For A Thousand Tongues To Sing.” It wasn’t the chancellor in his indigo-velvet cap and doily collar, although his literal orb and scepter made me weak and strong. It wasn’t the presence of so much earnestness, furnish me though it did with purpose and pleasure.