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My mom’s plaques hung in a prominent spot in our family room. There were two of them. Both had walnut wood backings, one of them with blue painted metal engraved with my mother’s name, and the other with gold painted metal. The plaques commemorated my mother’s volunteer work for the annual synagogue bazaar, acknowledging her contributions. That’s it. But to me, they were sources of awe and inspiration.
In a home where no one had diplomas, never mind diplomas hung on walls—where there were no outward signs of achievement at all—those synagogue plaques meant the world to me. It meant that my family mattered, that my mom mattered.
Growing up, I wanted a plaque with my name on it. It would mean that I mattered, too.
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When I graduated high school and later McGill, my parents were very proud. They insisted on framing my diplomas and hanging them up for all to see. I was now one of those fancy people who had a degree. And I too was proud.
I went on to earn more degrees and even more diplomas. I even won a few awards and was ceremonially bestowed with the same sort of walnut and metal plaque engraved with my name; just like my mom. I was proud of these, too.
So, when I landed my job as a professor, I did what I thought all degreed professionals do: I hung up my diplomas and awards in my university office, like I’d seen in the countless doctor’s offices of my youth. I mean, we’re given these ornate degrees, they’re meant to be displayed, right?
Wrong...
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