By Kenneth Swift ’77, ’85
B.S. physical education, M.B.A.
The admonishment from my wife, though gentle, was firm and direct, the way only a mom or a teacher can be, and she’s both.
“Honey, you should be proud of where you are from.” With a downtrodden countenance worthy of the most remorseful second-grader, my meek reply was of the kind she’s heard often in the course of raising two sons and educating countless 7-year-olds: “yeah, I know, but… .”
The “but” in this case is one letter short of what I might be labeled for behavior more commonly found in my wife’s classroom. The fact that I struggle with such conjunction dysfunction is symptomatic of a chronic crisis of confidence. Episodes are triggered by my hearing a simple inquiry from an otherwise benign inquisitor: “So, did you go to SC?”
Honesty requires that I respond in the negative, usually with the qualifier that I am, however, a Trojan by marriage.
Yes, the problem is with my B.U.T. – my Big University Trepidation. It is a cultural divide of my own making, a class struggle that exists only in the darkest recesses of my working-class mind.
The most recent episode occurred on a recent Saturday afternoon as a lounged with my wife, my Trojan in-laws and tens of thousands of their brethren outside the Los Angeles Memorial Coliseum. The tent was up, and the flag wafted in the warm breeze. Kickoff was still a few hours away.
I was appropriately attired in the cardinal and gold, gifts from my wife, and could easily have passed for a native-born Trojan rather than naturalized, as long as no one noticed my old pickup truck parked behind the tent. I even managed a few pointed sneers at the red-clad visitors from the other school (what is a Husker, anyway?). They seemed to like my truck.
It is said that the eyes are the windows to the soul, and through mine could be seen the naked falsity of my Trojan pedigree. I was both imposter and hypocrite, neither a true Trojan nor a proud Titan. Yes, after two years of junior college, affordable and commutable Cal State Fullerton many years ago became my school, home of championship baseball and lots of Disneyland employees, but invoking little cachet.
So, when I was introduced to a family friend and fellow USC alum Mr. Whatshisname, who apparently makes a slew of money doing deals developing something-or-other, and who presented his confident, close-the-deal handshake complete with laser-lock eye contact and perfect, gleaming smile, well, my soul’s open windows betrayed me. To the frightful question, “So, did you go to SC?”, I shrunk from the challenge and could muster only my hollow, second-grade reply, “Uh, no, but [insert marital qualifier].” Such a wimp.
Deep inside, I know that my ignominy is unfounded, for I am equally educated, often more so, than my imagined intimidators. The diplomas awarded me by my alma mater represent many years of scholarship, none of which was easy. I am the only college graduate in what had been a fairly large family that equated work with calloused hands, strong backs and lunch from a tin pail. It was my choice to attend college and my responsibility to pay for it.
My academic achievements are worthy of pride and in my quiet moments, I feel as such. Yet, which I find myself the lone Titan surrounded by an army of Trojans, I revert to the barefoot bumpkin who stumbled into the grand ballroom. I feel as out of place as Shrek with his still-spellbound Fiona, the sorrowful beast accompanied by his Trojan beauty. But, my Fiona has made it clear to me that the time for self-deprecation is past. It’s time to rear up and be a stallion. Move over, Traveler.
It seems to me that to have graduated as a Trojan is to have availed oneself of opportunity. But to have graduated a Titan is to have created one’s own opportunity. Each represents a different route to the same destination, both of which are equally worthy of merit.
As the football season wears on, the Trojan faithful again will gather on other Saturdays. I expect to be among them, wearing the usual full regalia, completely color coordinated and accessorized. “Fiona” will see to that. And when the dreaded question arises again, as it always does, I will offer my firmest not-a-dealmaker clasp, flash a clear-eyed smile, and confidently reply:
“Nope, I’m a Titan, baby. Fight on!” No B.U.T.s about it. 
Kenneth Swift is senior director of finance for Ingram Micro Worldwide. This essay is reprinted with permission from the Orange County Register.
