Speech to the SWS Graduating Class of 2019
Note: This is the address I gave to the 2019 graduating class of School-within-a-School, the democratic school at Brookline High School (Massachusetts) where I taught for 17 years. Like these graduates, 2019 was also my last year at Brookline High School, as I leave the classroom to write and embark on other adventures in education. I’m publishing it here by request.
Dear graduates, families, teachers, staff, and esteemed guests,
As most of you know, after 17 years at School-within-a-School, and 27 years teaching, I’m leaving the classroom. And so now I get to deliver my senior finale. Throughout this weird, sad, wonderful process of leaving SWS, I keep having these vignettes pop into my mind– little unbidden snapshots and stories from my time here. Some are big moments, for sure, but most are little scenes. And if you were to analyze these moments (and you know I will) you would notice that each is driven by connection: the yearning to connect, the assumption that we need to connect, the assumption that we will.
Here’s an example, an oldie but goodie. About 10 years ago, in Spirituality in Literature class, we were discussing the story “Cathedral” by Raymond Carver. There was one particular point on which everyone agreed. Everyone, that is, except for this one kid, a senior named Dan C. who was passionate and smart, goofy, kind, and occasionally serious. As the class volleyed arguments about the mental state of this story’s protagonist, Dan C. became more heated, pointing furiously at the page. “It’s right here! Can’t you see it? This character knows exactly what he’s doing!”
The final straw for Dan C. came when a girl named Hunter, who happened to be one of the most serene and earnest students we’ve had here, told Dan that no, she was sorry, but she just didn’t see it. At that, he flew up out of his seat. “I’m leaving!” he yelled to the class. This surprised us.
“What?” asked Hunter.
“Come on!” urged another student.
At the door, Dan C. turned to us before leaving. “Fuck you all!” he pronounced and slammed the door. In the silence afterwards, we looked at each other. Then we laughed, all at once and pretty hard. And then, we got back to discussing the story. Within about two minutes, Dan reappeared at the door as we all knew he would and looked at us sheepishly over his glasses and under his unruly bangs. “I’m sorry, guys,” he said. We said Come on in Dan. It’s okay. “You care, Dan,” said a sophomore boy. Then, someone hugged him, and we discussed the story some more. And that’s it.
Now, on the surface, to someone looking in who didn’t know us, this scene of a high school student’s temperamental outburst would seem problematic. On paper, the class’s response could seem unkind, and my response somewhat unprofessional. But in this SWS moment– like many others that don’t, by the way, involve cussing and storming out– we see the hallmarks of connection and engagement.
First, there is the assumption that what we are reading and saying and thinking is of consequence. It matters. As that sophomore boy pointed out, there is caring. There is investment. There is a 17-year-old kid taking a piece of literature very personally.
Now, don’t get me wrong; I don’t think that saying “F you all” and storming out is some metric of a successful lesson. I don’t. It was ridiculous. In SWS, you still get all the human and teen weirdness and irrationality and petty little jealousies and fears and pushing the edges of things. But here, it’s all nestled within the context of trust, a sense of common purpose, and community. And those things make all the difference. We give each other the benefit of the doubt here. We assume good intentions. We know each other. And that makes it okay for both kids and teachers to take risks, sometimes mess up, and apologize to each other. When we laughed and then carried on after Dan C. stormed out, it was because we knew and loved him, and we knew he just needed to sort of have a moment. We knew he’d be okay, and that he’d be back. And when he did come back and apologize, he got compassion and forgiveness, perhaps borne of the collective and implicit acknowledgement that when you care and you’re a teenager, sometimes things can get dramatic. Imagine if adults, especially adults in power, could do conflict like this.
Why, you may wonder though, am I making my final words to SWS about this? Why do I want things like the Dan C. “F you all” story to be my legacy here? Because it’s emblematic of what it’s been like to live in a community that values connection above all else. It’s an everyday story of an extraordinary family of learners.
One of the quotes I try to live by is E.M. Forster’s: “Only connect.” So simple. And yet in some contexts, risky and difficult: What if we try to connect and fail? We could be rejected. Worse– if we try, fail, and then get rejected, won’t we lose power? To which I say no; that’s not how you lose power. Shrinking away into disconnection, though? That’s the choice that brings the most dire of all consequences. Because while it is true that you won’t get your pride wounded if you keep to yourself, there’s no pride in keeping people and new ideas at arm’s length. There’s just plain loneliness. No one to feel for or with. No one to fight for. Connect as if your life depends on it, because it does.
Lastly, SWS: Thank you for giving me a remarkable 17 years defined by connection. Thank you for giving me a lifelong friend in Keira Flynn-Carson and thank you for the most talented colleagues whom I love and already miss so much, every day. Thank you for your trust in me and thank you for a retirement send-off I will never forget. Thank you for caring enough to lose it over a short story or cry over a poem, or laugh at me or pretend not to laugh as I cry over a poem. Thank you for teaching me how to be a good parent. Thank you for being exactly who you are. Connection and passion, humor and forgiveness. I want these to be what we SWS graduates leave behind, and take with us. Class of 2019, you are really something. My dear friends, I wish you only connection.