Four weeks ago, I gathered at the South Bend Marriott with 100 other current and former Observer staff workers to celebrate the 35th anniversary of the founding of the paper.

Although many of us had never met before, we shared a common bond. The problems of the paper 30 years ago were very similar to the problems of the paper today. The war stories were all different but everyone understood them.

There was a connection between us all.

Ten days later, a smaller group of Observer editors from around the country gathered again in Sacred Heart Basilica. Ryan Ver Berkmoes, one of the managing editors from the early 1980s, had lost his mother to a stroke. Two editors and I arrived at the Basilica a little after 9:30 a.m. for the funeral. A few other faces from the reunion were there as well. We didn't really know Ryan very well. Other than a few short conversations before and during the reunion, I didn't really have a connection to him.

But for some reason, we knew we had to be at the funeral.

When I told people I would be attending a funeral that morning, many expressed sorrow for my loss. When I explained to them that I didn't know the deceased at all and only barely knew one of her family members, no one questioned why I was attending the funeral. They understood that somehow there was a connection that obligated me to be at the funeral.

As I walk away from this school with my degree in hand, I take with me much more than a sheet of paper. There is a strong bond I have between those who graduate with me, those who will graduate after me and those who have graduated before me.

I am not going to throw out clichés and pre-packaged Go Irish sappiness. I don't believe in the Notre Dame Family and I could fill this entire issue with bitter, spite-filled prose about this school and the administration that runs it.

But as I graduate I get to leave that all behind. Now, I get to treasure the connections that I have made and the experiences I have shared.

When I call The Observer's phone number in 15 years, I know that I will be speaking to an editor who has not slept more than five hours in the last four days, whose professors wonder if he is brain dead and who has listened to countless complaints about the crossword puzzle from angry history TAs.

There will be a shared experience that will somehow bond us together. Any way he can help me, he will. Any way I can give him assistance, I will offer it.

The same guys that I lost Bookstore Basketball games with will somehow still be there for me when we are all 20 years old, 30 pounds heavier and hoping to God that our kids never do the same things we did in college.

So as I transition from tuition-generating entity into donation-generating entity in the eyes of the University, I will hold fast to the connections that really matter. I will bind my checkbook to Notre Dame because if I don't, I won't get any football tickets. But my heart will remain connected to those common experiences, those shared memories and those in the future who will feel the same way.

None of us will be able to explain it or justify it, but we all understand the bond.

• A common bond