Recently I had the pleasure of handing diplomas to graduates. I did nothing to help these individuals reach this milestone. I was standing on a stage facing the students, who had surmounted myriad odds to achieve their place on the steps to the stage.

I was facing all the people to the left and right, sitting on bleachers, who had had to beg them to get out of bed to go to school. I was facing all the faculty, who screamed alternately with joy and frustration during the years that culminated in this one hour celebration. All the people in that gymnasium were living witnesses to determination and hope and expectations and sacrifice and silliness and confidence and doubt and, most importantly, to the existence of, the efficacy of, the accessibility of public education.

Fittingly, the faculty was sitting behind the students. Behind is fitting, because they have been behind these students, lifting them up, reigning them in, pushing them forward, through this challenging journey.

A few of us are born to thrive in academia; the rest of us wrestle our way through the accouterments of education: requirements, curriculum, technology, tuition, new personalities, old habits, textbooks, lectures, traditions and innovations.

This diploma represents the equivalent of Indiana Jones stepping into space in his quest for the holy grail.

This diploma has prepared our students for “what if?” What if I take a step and find solid footing? What if I take a step and fall into space? We know that the faculty has prepared them for welding, nursing, growing, teaching, cooking, and dozens of other careers, but our students are stepping out into the space of the real world, a world that is not even close to the predictable environment of public education.

This diploma is part of hundreds of individuals stories, as varied as the shoes they are wearing, as varied as their DNA.

This is the only time they’ll all look alike, in caps and gowns, not sure if that cap is going to stay on, sweating under the robe. They are sitting closer together than they ever have in this journey through libraries and classrooms and internships and coffeeshops.

They line up to climb the steps, hand their name card to the dean, who double-checks to make sure she pronounces their name correctly, and they walk a few feet to a person they don’t know who hands them this precious folder.

I am the person they don’t know. I have not shared a cup of coffee or a beer with any of them. I have never read a single word they have written. I did not help them choose a major, I did not help them find a book, I did not suggest they redo an assignment. I did not hand them tissues as they cried in my office. I did not celebrate with them when they outdid themselves. I did nothing to get them up on that stage.

But I represent everything that is amazing and noble about a folder from Eastern Iowa Community College, from any institution of public education. I serve on the Board of Trustees. How I got on this stage with the “dignitaries” is another journey, that started somewhere. Maybe it started in a one-room country school, one room, two paths, a big bell in the belfry and assorted students, K-8, sitting in that one room with one teacher. I had an eighth-grade education by the time I finished kindergarten.

Maybe it started in a Works Progress Administration-built high school whose architectural style required 40 granite steps between creaky wooden floors.

Maybe it started when I sampled and rejected and finally accepted a career in public education.

Regardless, my passion for public education has been, let’s say, exacerbated by the actions of our state legislators as they have stripped away not only the pillars, but the foundations of public education. They have turned public education, even in the public schools, into a cut-throat competition for — money. Not for students. Not for staff. Not for communities. For profit. We used to confine competition to the playing field, the gym, the court. Now public schools are being forced to compete for services — the services of book sellers, the services of social workers and counselors. Our elected officials have stripped away the kind of funding that probably supported their own educations.

So, I shook hands with public education. Four Madisons, three Rileys, six Michaels, one Brecken, a couple Brandons and dozens more hands of real people with real names with a real education.  I shook hands with the future. I shook hands that will build, guide, give, teach, save, protect. I shook hands with what has been the pride of Iowa: public education.

Interestingly, there were no legislators on that stage. That is unusual and significant.  You tell me why.

Dianne Prichard is on the Board of Trustees of Davenport-based Eastern Iowa Community College.

This article originally appeared on Des Moines Register: Conferring diplomas, I see Iowa shut the door on public education