Apple Crumble

Dear Graduates,

"You have come to believe many things in life. You've had to fight. Focus on the good parts. You are all apple crumbles — metaphorically speaking. Crushing your failures until they resemble biscuit crumbs layered in a pie. You shove that into the oven. Baked. Out comes you. And when people dig in, they realise how you've tried to patch up your crumbs — your failures. They won't laugh. They'll think you've done a good job stitching your life together. But it's short-lived, I suppose, when they find out what's underneath."

I take a slug of water. The room is a mix of silence and disinterest — people waiting to get wasted, tired of this speech I’ve rehearsed 24 times in my mirror before breakfast. I wish I had practiced more. I knew about this speech 50 days ago. The first week, I panicked. Why me? The second week, I procrastinated so hard I bought a hamster, named him Gerald, and watched 20-minute tutorials on how to enrich his twelve-year life. He's probably down to eleven now — I forgot to feed him while fixing my bushy hair, which somehow ended up even bushier.

The glare of the spotlight is unbearable. Did they think I was Madonna? My boyfriend smiles at me, despite the fact that, earlier, I barked at him — literally barked — because he didn’t wear the blue tie to match my blue dress. A dress which makes me look like a giant Smurf. I also casually mentioned I didn't like his mother. She was standing behind me at the time.

"Instead, they taste underneath the crumble. They bite into the apple. The apple is university — metaphorically speaking. They told you everything would work out great. Just come. We’ll give you a wonderful life. You’ll get a good job and find happiness. But instead, you end up with debt and 132 automated emails starting with: 'We regret to inform you...'"

A murmur of laughter. Turns out university pain is a shared experience. All of us carrying our own wooden crosses of rejection. A few people look up from their phones. One woman, who had been swiping through dating apps the whole time, locks eyes with me. Maybe she’s trying to find a millionaire to clear her debt and spend her evenings on a yacht. I don’t blame her. That sounds better than crying over applications on Indeed.

A few professors smile nervously. They look irritated. This will be the last time they ask a Black woman to speak — forget the diversity numbers. They were proud of me — until now. Unbeknownst to them (sophisticated word alert), I changed parts of this speech. Okay, all of it. This is the remix. Obviously the the unedited version. They were getting the full works. I try not to think of them. It was useless at this point. The grenade had already exploded.

Someone coughs. A mint is shoved into their mouth, only to be choked on seconds later. Someone — probably her daughter — performs the Heimlich, dislodging both the mint and a pair of false teeth.

"So you do what most people do. You hide the taste of the apple. You bash together cinnamon, sugar, all the spices. You say, 'Yeah, I went to university, I networked, I did everything right.' Apple crumble. It’s in the name. The apple crumbles. There’s nothing intact about debt and an arts degree."

A few of my mates laugh. They’ve passed with no job prospects, heading straight into another expensive, unrelated degree. I think about the tabs I have open: one for a dental apprenticeship I haven’t applied to. I have no idea how to express passion for teeth.

I glance at my boyfriend with the green tie. He smiles. I love him. My beautiful ginger. He once said I sound like Beyoncé. A man — already deaf — once turned off his hearing aid during one of my free gigs at a care home. Couldn’t bear the singing he already couldn’t hear. I still think about that. It pops into my head during random moments of peace.

I should’ve used mouthwash. The garlic bread from last night — with a meat feast pizza and wedges — is still haunting me. Also, I’m bloated. A stinky-breathed, bloated Smurf under a Madonna spotlight. Help me God. I just had a few more paragraphs to go. i could do this. Do this before I threw up. I'm not going to throw up. I pray mentally I won't throw up.

"Then you wonder — was it worth it? Why did I go to university? When should I care that I’m an apple crumble? I’m a failure. Beneath the surface, everything I worked for seems to amount to nothing. How pathetic was I to think I could be someone? Michelle Obama. Kamala Harris. Donald Trump."

Another laugh. Donald Trump’s an easy punchline.

I think back to crashing into my flatmate’s car — three times — while trying to parallel park. A manoeuvre reserved for rocket scientists. He didn’t laugh. Just a hysterical twitching that said, "I’m laughing so I don’t lose it." He had to rent an electric bike afterward. The wheels got stolen. Sort of. Half stolen. Enough to ruin it.

I still question the man who passed my driving test. He told me there are worse things in life. He was still gripping his seat. I made enough minor faults to wet his pants. I smelt it. Not enough faults to fail though — just like this speech.

This is the oven-heated-baking-apple-crumble-turnaround moment. Right?

"If you’re listening — really listening — you’ll see you focused too much on the crumble. Forget how it was made. Close your eyes."

Most people do and for that I'm grateful. I close my eyes too. Ready to hit it to them hard. My final goodbye to this university and myself as a student.

"Now imagine the golden crust. Then the apple — hot, soft, spiced, sweet. That’s what life is: a horrid mess assembled into something people enjoy. Your loved ones don’t care about the crumbs or the bruised apples. They just say, ‘That’s a good apple crumble. Best I’ve ever had.’

Only you see the mess. Only you think it’s not enough. But the people who matter? They see the whole thing — and they love it.

So be your apple crumble. Be messy. Be brilliant. Be you.Thank you."

A standing ovation? No. But strong applause. For an apple crumble.