At first I thought there was some sort of problem with the fabric. Maybe after all these years the warp and woof were giving way. My Stanford doctoral robe was somehow beginning to sag, perhaps reflecting the condition of the person wearing it. I bought the robe in the 1970s, soon after Professor Eric Hutchinson had designed the new Stanford regalia. The fabric had every reason to be tired. It had floated around or dragged behind me as I crossed commencement stages at seven different colleges and universities over five decades. It had hung on me, sometimes somewhat askew, as I read graduates' names, handed out diplomas, and heard, but seldom listened to, interminable commencement addresses.
I first noticed the fabric's apparent drooping tendency when, during a commencement ceremony, I found as I tried to stand up that the hem had somehow crept under the toes of my shoes, momentarily halting any forward movement. I thought the woman sitting in the chair next to me gave me a rather odd look. From then on, I learned to anticipate the problem: You stand, pause as if thinking, lift your toes. Then walk.
At about the same time, around 2006, the people designing my automobile changed, without notice, the position of the steering wheel. I have been driving the same model of the same make of car since about 1998. The wheel was originally placed well beneath the line of the driver's vision; now it appeared just at the bottom of my bifocals, giving me the feeling of steering from a position on the floor. I attributed this change to some inexplicable engineering problem occurring under the hood.
I was pleased, at the age of 20 or so, to measure 6 foot 1. I have reported my height to the United States Army and to the motor vehicle licensing departments in several states. No one questioned my own report of altitude. But having been last measured against a kitchen door frame, I decided to confirm my height before filling out my most recent driver's license application. My physician's assistant made the measurement. Unbelievably, astonishingly, I am now only 5 feet 10 inches tall. This change has occurred stealthily, without my knowledge or consent. It is humbling, but it does bring me somewhat closer to the ground, and I like to imagine that I am seeing new things down there.
Of course, my body's contraction in response to aging and gravity, two irreversible phenomena, explains both the problem with the gown and the mysterious change in the position of the steering wheel. I have found the lever that raises the driver's seat in the car and can now see the roadway. And I will keep the gown, but I think I will have it shortened. Chopping some of it off should restore my mobility and dignity, and bring an end to the odd glances from the woman in the next chair.
There is no particular moral to this story—except maybe one: No matter what forces conspire to compress the spine, otherwise restructure the body and make strange new arrangements of the skin, there need not be a corresponding compression of the spirit, even though it is more difficult and awkward to get out of a chair. One simply reaches for the lever and raises the driver's seat.
Robert Funk, PhD '67, lives in Corvallis, Ore., where he is writing a memoir, some of it inadvertently fictional, of his early life in eastern Washington state.
