I hadn’t planned to go to my commencement ceremony, hadn’t even rented a cap and gown. “Do we have to watch you ‘walk,’” my dad asked. I probably shrugged. It wasn’t important. Not in the way that mattered to our family.

Studying, learning—that was different.

In middle school, I once brought home a report card full of B’s. My parents offered to drive me to McDonald’s and Taco Bell to scope my job prospects. “That’s your future,” they said at the time.

The both share six college degrees, though I’ve never seen a diploma. Probably just another paper my dad tossed in the recycling bin. Education is such a critical, natural part of life, why be all showy about it?

Well, why not? I had earned a special award, given to only one member of the graduating class, and I wanted my two-second moment of recognition. So in borrowed regalia, I sat, one of hundreds of English majors waiting to take the stage, and when I finally did, in that picture-perfect, simultaneous handshake and fake-diploma grab, someone must have called my name. “AR–recipient of the So-and-So Award for Excellence in Journalism.”

Or I assume that’s what happened. I don’t honestly remember. It was the whole reason I had subjected my family to a half-dozen commencement speeches on the humanities and world-is-your-oyster dribble.

But as I walked off stage, I saw a familiar face. A professor from my program whose classes I never took, whose office hours I only once attended, who always kept the announcement of each year’s award winner taped to his door, smiled and clapped when he saw me. An unexpected nod to my achievement that he’d probably never remember, and one I’ll never forget.

This will be his last semester teaching. I knew he was retiring, but didn’t realize it would be so soon. We had met for lunch this past Tuesday, and I had mentioned a story I wanted to write (and that I wanted this help to edit). Over the past year, I’d had the opportunity to see his various syllabi, to read the way he reviewed student papers, with such profound clarity, insight, and encouragement, that I kicked myself for never taking his courses as an undergrad.

When I told him about the essay I was planning—about the upcoming 35-year anniversary of Simon and Garfunkle’s Concert in Central Park; how the album takes me back to 1988, to my earliest childhood memories, but more importantly, to the experiences of my parents, two Indians, younger than I am today, starting a new life here in America—he told me about his class. “You should take it,” he said.

The next day, I interviewed someone who told me: “Education is on a continuum. There’s not really any one point at which anyone has to stop.”

That afternoon I asked my boss if I could take the course. “It’s professional development,” I said, ready to fight and plead. But there was no need. “Absolutely,” she replied. “Go for it.”

So here I am. 32 years old, back in school, and learning from the best.