a poem by Roger B. Rueda
Summa Cum Laude is a crown,
polished by long nights under library lamps,
filled with theories, equations, words
that blur into the dawn.
A distinction, a bright flare against
the ordinary—gold ink on paper,
a name called into a microphone,
applause rolling like waves, then fading
into the tide of forgotten honors.
It is an honor—so they say—
stitched onto résumés, printed on
certificates framed in glass,
displayed in houses where dust
settles just the same.
A mark of excellence, the pinnacle
of scholarly pursuit. But is it always?
Sometimes, it is a stroke of luck,
a decimal rounding in one’s favor,
a professor who sees promise
where another sees only effort.
Sometimes, it is just a matter
of chance, a dance of circumstances—
a schedule without distractions,
a semester without grief,
a mind unburdened by hunger
or homesickness, or love
that comes at the wrong time.
The brightest minds do not always
wear the medal; sometimes,
the medal finds its way
to those who slip through
the cracks of expectation,
who fall upward into the light.
A fraction of a point, a forgiving professor,
an exam taken on the right day,
when the brain was a river
instead of a drought—
luck, disguised as merit.
And so, the act betrays
the taxonomy of brilliance,
makes it a construct,
a shifting thing,
a phantom in a borrowed robe.
Not being a Summa Cum Laude
is not a disgrace, nor is it
a mark of mediocrity.
It is a label, too—
just one less spoken,
one less gilded in the mouths
of parents at dinner tables.
Sometimes, it is the product
of a single misstep—
a question misread,
a deadline missed
by the width of a second,
a flu that turned a final exam
into a fever dream.
Some walk in the shadows
of the ordinary, but others—
just as luminous, just as relentless—
are merely misplaced
by time and chance,
by a professor who saw
what was written
but not what was meant,
by a moment that slipped
between fingers reaching
for something grander.
Their brilliance does not dull
in the absence of a title;
instead, it flares defiantly,
like a match struck in the dark,
a fire that burns outside the margins
of certificates, diplomas, programs.
And so, the act betrays
the taxonomy of the ordinary,
for some rise beyond the weight
of distinctions, become something
uncatalogued, unmeasured, undeniable.
The world, then, is a potpourri
of contradictions—
where the summa falls
and the silent ascend,
where brilliance is neither
the name on the program
nor the tassel turned
but the thing that endures,
long after the last
clap has faded.
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