A Supposedly Honorable Address I’ll Never Voice Again

My three-part address as the faculty speaker at the Founders Classical Academy of Leander Commencement on June 5th, 2020. Our graduation ceremony was postponed indefinitely, then scheduled based on *anticipated* social distancing measures, then changed to be entirely online once the actual social distancing measures were released, then re-re-scheduled to be in-person at the overwhelming urging of the seniors and their families. It was outside on our field, faculty/staff attendance was optional, workers were kept at a minimal, only in-house family members of our 34 graduates were allowed to attend and had to be checked in individually, and the students themselves were seated directly in front of the stage—each chair six feet apart. I found that last part to be an improvement in my speaking experience, as I got to talk directly to them, like it was one last class together (we had been separated indefinitely without warning over spring break). In our final Economics class of the third quarter, I had them all write down the date they predicted we would be together again. That was March 13th, so I imagine their guesses were much closer to March 5th than June 5th. I ended that class by telling them something like “just in case I never see you in class again, I want you to know it’s been an honor”. That’s what Jonah refers to in his speech (“no one could have guessed the year would end like this, except maybe Mr. McClallen”), and why I end mine with that phrase.

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ACT 1: Communication [starts at 23:33]

Have you ever thought about how many ways we have of saying we don’t know what to say?

Besides the classic “I don’t know what to say”, there’s “I’m at a loss for words”. Dumbfounded. Starstruck. Speechless.

{Thank You.}

I’ve been thinking about this for a while now, prompted by this class’s inevitable graduation, and specifically this speech. I keep returning to the same quote, from one of my favorite writers, Marilynne Robinson: “It all means more than I can tell you. So you must not judge what I know by what I find words for.” In other words, that is officially my favorite way to say I don’t know what to say.

David Foster Wallace phrased it this way: “How odd I can have all this inside me and to you it’s just words.” Words are tools meant to improve communication. We can communicate our experiences however we choose, but quality matters. Saying a waterfall was “indescribable” is only slightly better than saying it was “describable”. Words can be futile devices.

Elon Musk just sent Americans to space from U.S. soil for the first time in a decade, and he thinks in the next decade we’ll have the technology to form a symbiotic relationship with artificial intelligence—we may not need to communicate verbally with each other at all. Everything we think and feel could be transmitted directly, which sounds about as great as jabbing a metal fork into an electrical socket.

We all feel more than we can ever say—more than anyone else could possibly care to know. Language is a filter, and communication is a skill. Removing the filter will not make us better at communicating. Intentional practice will.

At this school, we intentionally practice communication skills every day—reading, writing, discussing—because we believe it is important to becoming a good person and citizen. Living the Good life. Even giving a live speech or a lecture involves two-way communication; for example, at any point in class students might choose to communicate with their teacher by rolling their eyes, working on homework for other classes, or falling asleep—I missed those moments during remote learning.

These seniors value community and interpersonal communication, too, that’s why they were so determined not to have an online graduation. We’re here on this field today because they wanted to be together.

This field has seen its share of epic battles, and has played the role of antagonist as well as protagonist, depending on the situation. {#LakeFounders} A year ago tomorrow, I was on a much more famous battlefield, feeling even more humbled and overwhelmed. Omaha beach in Normandy, France on June 6th, 2019—the 75th anniversary of D-Day. I was there with a school group, including twelve of our seniors: Anna Stephenson, Ben Jones, Emily Edwards, Eric Berry, Hudson Apel, John Spies, Jonah Apel, Kyle Spitz, Lauren Vandenhouten, Riley Brooke, Ruth Sullivan, and Sam Prewett.

One of those twelve is our Salutatorian, Hudson Apel, so he knows the feeling I’m trying to describe. Hudson played soccer for us, and last fall he wrote a computer program to help me run an Iterated Prisoner’s Dilemma competition in Economics. Hudson is going to University of Texas at Dallas to study Computer Science. I’m going to let him have a shot at commemorating this moment.

ACT 2: Graduates [starts at 33:52]

Thank you, Hudson. Hudson, you should know, is a National Merit Commended Scholar in addition to his other accomplishments.

Some of you may be aware I *adopted* this particular group of students six years ago, the first year of the school. Many have left and arrived since that first day of seventh grade, but I have tried not to forget the old ones, and the new ones have been grandfathered in.

It’s a risky thing, adopting 50 junior high students. What if it turns out they’re not as great as you thought? What if they don’t like you back? What if the other classes get jealous?

Working with junior high students is not dissimilar to taming wild horses. One of my favorite books, The Prince-I mean, The *Little* Prince-uses a similar analogy to describe love and friendship and loyalty: “‘People have forgotten this truth,’ the fox said. ‘But you mustn’t forget it. You become responsible forever for what you’ve tamed. You’re responsible for your rose.’”

[[side note: when I decided to use this quote, I thought I was being at least moderately original. Then one of my friends sent me that link to that convocation address from ten years ago, which I attended—as a student! I don’t consciously remember it, but it’s a fantastic speech from a legendary professor—Dr. Jackson gives the quote the attention it deserves]]

My primary love language is quality time. Over the rest of my life, the only way it is possible for me to imagine spending more time with any group of students is if they were my own children. Worth noting here, one of these graduates holds the unique distinction of being the first and only student to ever call me “mom”.

Our first two years on campus, we had History, P.E., lunch, study hall, Four Square Club, and Ultimate Frisbee Club together, plus volleyball, basketball, and track & field. I remember getting reprimanded by our headmaster {Dr. O’Toole} in the first few weeks of the first year for organizing an arm-wrestling tournament in the portables during *silent* study hall. I also remember who won.

In P.E., I remember giving the Fitnessgram toward the end of 8th grade and being absolutely floored by how much effort they gave, as a group. I still have the spreadsheet—the class average for the PACER test was 65.4. Across 49 random students in a mandatory P.E. class, a 65 average is unheard of; it may as well be a world record. For context, last season the Varsity Girls Basketball team, with 12 players on the team voluntarily, averaged a 61 on their midseason conditioning test. They went 20-2 last season, so they aren’t exactly scrubs.

Here’s the list of graduates who were in that P.E. class for that Fitnessgram test: Andrea Cid, Anne Stepek, Christine Johnson, Emily Swartz, Enoch Bradford, Grace Stepek, Jaden/Tyler Lehman, Julia Young, Karra Lopez, Kiana Fonseca, and Maximilian Tavarez (plus a few I already mentioned: Anna/ Ben/ Emily/ Kyle/ Lauren/ Sam).

This group built such a great culture in their first few years that they were able to add and subtract members of the cohort without losing momentum or fracturing into cliques. They developed leaders who stepped up in certain situations and weren’t above being followers in others. Their boys make the honor roll and lift weights and treat the girls right, and their girls make the honor roll and hold the boys accountable…and lift weights. The record for most athletes in a graduating class at this school so far had been seven. This year we had twenty-two. But this group isn’t just smart jocks, they are also excellent artists, musicians, actors, writers, debaters, even coders. When they compete they play to win, but they also recognize some games aren’t worth playing. They are, Truly, a great team.

One of the captains of this team is also their Valedictorian: Jonah Apel.

ACT 3: Community [starts at 46:46]

Thank you, Jonah. In addition to his required classes, Jonah elected to take my Advanced Personal Fitness class this year, so he is one of those boys who lifts weights, but he didn’t just make the honor roll, he is a National Merit Scholar. Jonah also played soccer for us, and he is going to Hillsdale College to study Politics.

I know a lot of teachers at a lot of schools, but I don’t know any school communities who responded to the past few months better than we did. It was a total effort. Our administration set high standards, our teachers and staff adapted and our parents supported our efforts. None of that would have mattered, however, if our students didn’t complete the circle. I’m here to pat our collective self on the back. Well done, we made it.

These seniors lost something every other high school graduating class in history has taken for granted. You lost the ability to be together, at the time when it mattered the most to you. And in response, we told you to do your homework. Your fourth quarter grades still count on your transcript. Other schools in the area gave up and named their Valedictorian months ago, our seniors were taking final exams weeks ago.

Viktor Frankl was an Austrian psychiatrist who was sent to Auschwitz during World War II and lived to write about it. In his book, Man’s Search For Meaning, he said this: “Everything can be taken from a man but one thing: the last of the human freedoms—to choose one’s attitude in any given set of circumstances, to choose one’s own way.”

If any group of students had the right to object to our expectations, it was our seniors. And I’m sure they had objections—they are human. But, ultimately, the way they chose to respond to their circumstances was by doing the work, by completing their mission. They set the tone for the rest of our students, which allowed us to accomplish something Beautiful here. The artificial support structure behind modern education collapsed, and our school community was left standing. We did not yield.

Some of you are distracted right now, wondering if I’m going to end without naming the final third of the graduates.

Ben Wigert, Bennett Stokes, Christian Vachira, Coby Gomez, Edward Stivers, Emma Escobedo, Hannah Freidenfeld, Michael Parrella, Rylie Rundell, Sarah Fischer, and Trinity Crawford.

Among this group, there are leaders of their school houses, there are captains of our teams, there are state champion athletes. They have two Hero award winners, and they earned five subject awards this year alone. I have taught each of them and coached half of them; they have earned their seat on this stage.

There is only one way our students could have the proper mindset and motivation to finish this school year as strong as they did. They understand, on some level, the value of learning for its own sake. The purpose of education is not to chase a high GPA, or to get into a good college, or even get a job. Learning is Good, full stop—it’s not something that ends when your teacher leaves the classroom.

Not all of our graduates go around quoting Socrates and Shakespeare in daily life, and they aren’t all continuing their liberal arts education in college, or even all going to college. If they did and were, I don’t think we could claim this type of education is for everyone. All of our graduates are curious and thoughtful; they know how to work and communicate with each other, and they live examined lives.

Watching these seniors band together and finish the year the way they did reminded me of watching those eighth graders push themselves to the limit on the PACER test five years ago. It’s like watching your favorite pitcher throw a perfect game heading into the ninth inning—amazed and apprehensive, afraid to say anything that may ruin the moment. Now that it’s over, I can tell them this: I can’t tell you how proud of you I am.

It’s been an honor.