Note: this is effectively the text that I prepared beforehand. I followed it pretty closely, but there were some moments of improvisation that aren't reflected below. In other words, this should not be regarded as a transcript.
Esteemed faculty, family, friends, classmates: be not afraid. I come in peace to offer a message of hope. I shall lift your spirits and let them rise to the heavens where they shall be free to frolic. This is a moment of splendor, and I shall not desecrate that moment. This is a most glorious day. The sky is a unbroken vault of blue. Trust me.
But I am not here to lie or speak in platitudes and homilies. This speech has received a rating of PG-13 from the Motion Pictures Association of America for language, violence, and brief nudity. All unauthorized transmission or rebroadcast with out written consent is expressly forbidden. So parents, if you want to protect your children, usher them from the tent now.
(at this moment, I put on a spooky mask. In a dark voice) I will unleash the power of Satan upon thee.
Just kidding. That was a performance which I can't top, especially since I couldn't find any witch puppets.
I don't want to leave out the family and friends, so here's something for you. I speak for all of my classmates, as I am singularly qualified to do so, when I say that without your love and support, emotional and financial, especially financial, none of us could have reached this moment. So thank you.
Now that I got that over with, I can address the important people here, my class. The class of '98. You've touched me, I've touched you. The touching, you'd think, would be more on my side than on yours. But you've shaped who I am, whether we've played together on the fields or in the courts, acted together, or hiked together, or ate together, or sat (and slept) in class together, or partied, or danced, or sung together, or simply talked, studied, argued, cogitated, hypothesized, theorized together.
So I have some final questions for us to ponder. Deep, meaningful questions. Oozing, slithering questions. What does Amherst College stand for? We could have gone to any of the Ivies, the Little Ivies, and the various other colleges scattered around the nation such as Grinnell and the Pomona Colleges that we may as well call the New Ivies. All of these colleges promise four years of enriching education in beautifully groomed surroundings, so what makes Amherst special?
Does it even have a clear identity? I hope it's more than "You'll Be Able to Get a Job" or "We Produce Investment Bankers." But right now, that seems to be the closest thing to an identity that Amherst has. No more is it the "Fairest College," the "Singing College," or even the "Writing College." Then again, no longer is it the all-male fraternity college of yesteryear.
All I know is that our Amherst expected us to be mature from day one, mature enough to handle no core curriculum, freshman parking, mixed-class housing, co-ed bathrooms, and open keggers. Out RC's gave us condoms, not censure. And I think we are a pretty damn mature class, one that's composed of reasonably self-assured people.
But then again, I got elected to do this speech, which is damn
exciting. I'm trembling right now. I can feel delicious shivers
coursing through my body. After I was elected speaker, people pretty
much all said the same things:
I'm so glad that you're speaking.
I voted for you.
What are you going to say?
Give me a shout-out.
Give me a shout-out, or I'll kill you.
I've got some issues with that.
Honestly, I don't get why people threatened me. What the fuck is that? I certainly wouldn't have thought anything of it if only one person did. But at least three different people threatened bodily harm if I didn't mention them or their associated call-phrases. Unsurprisingly, they were all male. There definitely seems to be something in the air that encourages testosterone-driven behavior. But I had honestly thought that people would have grown up, past the point of using physical threats to get what they want. Unless of course, they're planning to move into an occupation where violence is necessary, like organized crime or teaching kindergarten. It bodes ill, it does. Even if it was meant in full humor, which I'm sure is what they would say, I was made very uncomfortable. And it saddened me, because it makes me wonder what they'll be like in the real world. C'mon people, you've been coddled enough. Act like a man. And that doesn't mean act like an asshole. Just try to be an adult. Well. Enough with the 'tude. Don't get me wrong; I love you, way more than I should. I'm just real grumpy this early--I made sure this semester I didn't have to get up before noon, and here I am in front of all of you, and my parents, and my grandparents, when I should be sleeping off a night of partying.
So I'll tell you what you want to hear: how to be like Brad in seven easy steps.
ONE. The ethos of jamais vu, as introduced in The Jamais Vu Papers: Or, Misadventures in the Worlds of Science, Myth, and Magic by Wim Coleman and Pat Perrin. Jamais vu is of course, the opposite of deja vu-the sense that you've never been there before. It's easy when you go to someplace new, or try something new, but it's more difficult when it's retread territory. The trick is to look upon the daily, the mundane, the familiar in a new light every time. Every person that you know can surprise you with who they are, were, will be. A gray dreary day in November becomes
...the soft, muted sky behind the solid grey building, its rough-hewn stones serious and commanding, and the startled branches of a bare tree reaching, dividing the sky into pockets of void, a solitary leaf hanging forlornly, alone daring the winds to strip it from its moorings. that leaf seems to me to be rather defiant in its solitary command of this entire tree... the entire sky even.
Well, whatever. Maybe it's just a damn leaf, but you never know. Trees are clever.
TWO. Let yourself be the center of attention. Even if you're not ready. Especially if you're not ready. Don't wait for people to force you into the center of the dance circle, chanting your name, to start freaking and jiggying. (doing the "Gettin' Jiggy Wit' It" dance) "Na na na na na...na na na na."
THREE. People will resent you for invading their precious personal bubbles. Do it anyway. They are driven crazy by someone who runs through Valentine and shouts and sings and drops trays, and whistles. But why? Some of it I'm sure has to do with the interruption of the wonderful dining experience that is Valentine, but more is simply this: you are involuntarily disturbed when someone else puts into question the reasons for your conformity. Why don't you break into song when you're happy? Why do you break into song when you're drunk?
FOUR. Break the mold, people.
Which of us has gone into the steam tunnels?
Which of us has gone to the planetarium?
Which of us has streaked through the computer center?
Which of us has played frisbee at midnight?
Which of us has read a book by candlelight, by choice?
Which of us went to a musical, or theatrical performance by a
classmate that you didn't know?
I can't say that I did all those things...but Ben Chang can. And it's so very very hard to break from the comfort of regularity. Life is a constant barrage of rhythms, regularities that can overtake your soul if you are not vigilant. The new becomes quotidian imperceptibly. Speaking of imperceptible, how about the hairlines of some of the faculty? Whoa, I just had to throw a snap in somewhere. Peace to you.
FIVE. Every single person you meet has something that could make you happy. Just some of them, it's not worth it. Like last summer, well, it's like this:
So there's this park in the east side of New York, hear, and I'm strolling through it and this dude comes up to me--he's wearing a tee shirt all red and black and ripped jean shorts and high tops all beat up like he's a serious skater, man, and he says to me, "Where were you on July 17, 1981?" And I don't know, that's a crazy question like to ask someone, especially that long ago, I mean I was five or something, and so I say, "I don't know, man," and he just looks at me and I can tell he's thinking something fierce and then he goes into his pocket and gives me a little wooden matchbox with a dragon embossed on the lid and he says, "You're gonna need this, dude," and he just walks on by me and dips out of sight. Man, that's some weird shit.
SIX. Let people laugh at you. Laughter is a beautiful thing-it's like a diamond in an eggshell; it's more valuable than it looks, but you can't eat it. If you shake it, it goes clunk rat-a-tat.
SEVEN AND LAST. Always ask yourself: what's the point? What's the fucking deal?
So now you've got an ideal to strive for the future, molding yourself into a new and better person. Now close your eyes, if you haven't already, and look back to freshman year, all the way back to 1994.
November 6, 1994. It's a gray day, it's gloomy outside, damp and cold. You're in James, hanging out in a two room triple. One of the roommates is in Psych 11, trying to memorize all the "personalities." Another is sitting at her desk, reading a book. For a Pritchard class. You see that, the cheap, crappy chairs the college gave us, pictures of parents scattered around in a quiet attempt to quell homesickness? So you sit down at a computer in the room and look, and think, and (remember, you're a pretentious freshman) you look at the person reading her book and write an e-mail to her:
. . . as your roommate was talking about personality types, classified as they are into the four classic humours (that is to say choleric, melancholy, phlegmatic, and sanguine) i thought of the intensity of words in medieval times, when language was so much more a precious commodity today for though we still value our ability to speak, to communicate we don't try to comprehend the magnitude of what that means. but when life was brief, when our actions were like those of a mayfly, seemingly fruitless in their brevity before the eternity of death, when people truly believed in death (for nowadays death is just something that happens; we no longer live our lives in expectation, anticipation (in its truest sense) of our inevitable demise) the ability to communicate to perpetuate our thoughts was how we could cheat death, cheat its finality. if you could cause a thought to live to exceed your own mind and body, it could live forever, and that is glorious could you imagine how precious a book would be? could you see why monks spents hundreds of hours on a single page until it was perfect, out of hundreds of others? could you see why people sacrificed themselves to save a single book? for the book was living, breathing, laughing thought for anyone, for all time..when life is short and unimportant, the lives of others, of civilization comes to thefore..its a powerful circle, that, for when civilization, the human race is in its dark hours, the instincts of people turn to survival, not just for themselves, but for the future (at least that is my juvenile hope that there is reason to hold onto a conviction that humankind can improve and care).. but all of this is no more important than a single drop of water or a forgotten pebble or a fleck of paint for each and all of these hold the world. it is for us to see it
That was pretty deep, huh? But that's what it's like to be a freshman, a kid who is learning how to think. But the years tick on.
College is a time of artificial boundaries, four years that burrow into one shining moment of ceremonial release, now. This is it, baby! Oh, behave. College focuses our accomplishments.
Freshman year we are broken free from our homes, our high school lives, our families. Many are drawn to the fun of keg parties. and they're great fun. But we realize that it's meeting new people, forming bonds, exploring a sense of freedom that is fun. It's not getting hammered and passing out. Some people don't recognize that.
Sophomore year Amherst becomes our home. We don't need to go to parties to find connections, for we have the connections. We own the campus; in the sense that we don't have to think about our time after Amherst, and we believe we know its secrets.
Junior year we learn to escape Amherst--we realize that now Amherst is too small to be our entire world. I think at this time we start being able to think.
Senior year we find that Amherst is our home; but no more so than our parents, our friends. Our world is the entire world-we can be home anywhere, because ties of friendship aren't bound to this soil. Who we are isn't dependent on any brick or slat or blade of grass.Where we are is home. Oh, please, spend your life searching for the green light, or searching for it inside of yourself, but don't stop rowing. Find a dream and make it grow, yeah? Senior year is also when I learned that when you say "I caught my dog" in Spanish, you don't say "Yo cogi mi perro." Well, yeah.
I'm going to finish up, finally, with a passage from one of my favorite books, in fact the very end, the one I just referred to a second ago, the green light and all. It's too deep to be hopeful, and maybe it's a real downer. But it's damn beautiful, and it makes me feel real, whatever that means. It's the Great Gatsby, by F. Scott Fitzgerald, über party animal.
I'm sorry, that's not the Great Gatsby, that's from Opticks by Newton. Sorry. Ah, here it is.
I spent my Saturday nights in New York because those gleaming, dazzling parties of his were with me so vividly that I could still hear the music and the laughter, faint and incessant, from his garden, and the cars going up and down his drive. One night I did hear a material car there, and saw its lights stop at his front steps. But I didn't investigate. Probably it was some final guest who had been away at the ends of the earth and didn't know that the party was over. On the last night, with my trunk packed and my car sold to the grocer, I went over and looked at that huge incoherent failure of a house once more. On the white steps an obscene word, scrawled by some boy with a piece of brick, stood out clearly in the moonlight, and I erased it, drawing my shoe raspingly along the stone. Then I wandered down to the beach and sprawled out on the sand.
Most of the big shore places were closed now and there were hardly any lights except the shadowy, moving glow of a ferryboat across the Sound. And as the moon rose higher the inessential houses began to melt away until gradually I became aware of the old island here that flowered once for Dutch sailors' eyes-a fresh, green breast of the new world. Its vanished trees, the trees that had made way for Gatsby's house, had once pandered in whispers to the last and greatest of all human dreams; for a transitory enchanted moment man must have held his breath in the presence of this continent, compelled into an asthetic contemplation he neither understood nor desired, face to face for the last time in history with something commensurate to his capacity for wonder.
And as I sat there brooding on the old, unknown world, I thought of Gatsby's wonder when he first picked out the green light at the end of Daisy's dock. He had come a long way to this blue lawn, and his dream must have seemed so close that he could hardly fail to grasp it. He did not know that it was already behind him, somewhere back in that vast obscurity beyond the city, where the dark fields of the republic rolled on under the night.
Gatsby believed in the green light, the orgiastic future that year by year recedes before us. It eluded us then, but that's no matter-tomorrow we will run faster, stretch out our arms farther. . . . And one fine morning-- So we beat on, boats against the current, borne ceaselessly back into the past.
This is a fine morning, but we still beat on.
That's right, beat on.
Beat on, baby! Be-be-beat on.
Let's give it up for the class of 98! Thank you, and good night.