The first thing I would like to say is, thank you. Thank you for inviting me, of all people, to come to tell you what you’ve already been told at multiple commencement ceremonies throughout your academic lives. In elementary school, this was most likely followed by a selection from the chorus, which you were probably a part of — “This Land Is Your Land,” or “This Little Light of Mine.” And in middle school, perhaps this same speech began with the squeaky-voiced class president professing, We made it, and ended with an earnest but pubescent charge of leadership. In high school there’s a good chance this began with your valedictorian also saying, We made it, then tearing into a borderline roast of certain teachers and administrators, with jokes about student superlatives peppered throughout. And of course, it too ended like the last, with that same charge of leadership. And in undergrad, if you attended the ceremony, I’m willing to bet the commencement speech opened with a scholar or a celebrity stating, You made it, followed by some exceptionally intelligent rhetoric, all bending into a narrative arc landing comfortably on, you guessed it, a charge of leadership. And, honestly, all these speeches can be boiled down to a simple cliché: Get out there, spread your wings, and change the world.
But before I try to inspire you to take on the characteristics of the animals that fly above us, I need to first tell you a story about the animals that dwell beneath.
It flipped and flopped and flapped, gasping, inflating, deflating, dying in front of us. We gathered around to watch it, mortified, afraid, confused, until finally two young ladies shuffled into the circle, scooped Confucius up like a live grenade, and tossed the fish back into the tank.
“The rules are the rules,” he said. “And I made it very clear that under no circumstance are you to touch the fish. So, unfortunately, you’re both suspended.”
“Hey,” he called. “Pick your heads up. You have no reason to hang them because you did the right thing. But sometimes doing the right thing has consequences.”
As for the rest of us, we then had to sit through the remainder of the class, wallowing in our guilt, in our fear, shifting uncomfortably in our skin.
There are those of us whose wings have been clipped. Those of us who dwell in unknown spaces. Those of us who are beautiful beyond belief, but that sometimes exist in environs too deep and murky to be seen from any stable surface. Those of us from raging waters, and crashing waves; beached, but trying desperately to breathe. Flipping, and flopping, and flapping, inflating, deflating, dying, only to be met by mortified and confused faces.
So the question is, what good is it for me to fly so far above them when they’ll only look smaller to me the higher I go? And how exactly will my grossly distorted perspective change the world…for the better? Is there a way to tether ourselves to one another? A way for us all to catch the wind?
That is the challenge. That’s what we must think about in our work, in our art, in our writing, our research, our activism, and advocacy.etoric about change that we will conveniently use to readjust the comfort level of our ill-fitting skin during moments of apathy.
So if you want to change the world, return to the chorus of your elementary school. But this time, when you sing out, “This Land Is Your Land,” or “This Little Light of Mine,” spread your wings, those broad wings you’ve been developing — the ones you’ve been fortunate enough to be reminded of over and over again — spread them as widely as possible, and in every direction, and ask if anyone else could use a feather or two.
Maybe then, more of us might also have a moment to say, We made it.
If not, our degrees will be nothing more than paper-thin pedestals. Talismans of ego, connected to more of the same blanket rhetoric about change that we will conveniently use to readjust the comfort level of our ill-fitting skin during moments of apathy.
So if you want to change the world, return to the chorus of your elementary school. But this time, when you sing out, “This Land Is Your Land,” or “This Little Light of Mine,” spread your wings, those broad wings you’ve been developing — the ones you’ve been fortunate enough to be reminded of over and over again — spread them as widely as possible, and in every direction, and ask if anyone else could use a feather or two.
Maybe then, more of us might also have a moment to say, We made it.
Explanation:
