The following is the staff address I gave at the 2017 Bay Port High School graduation. When I began my first draft of this speech, I intended to poetically weave together great observations about life found in the novels I studied with many of you in D108 during ELA3 or IB English 12. My mind moved first to The Great Gatsby and Fitzgerald’s beautiful imagery to describe... the valley of ashes, an entrapment of poverty... I quickly realized that well, most of the novels we read together are not the most thematically uplifting. The stories center around destructive firefighters, disenfranchised prep-school-dropouts, guilt-ridden imperialists, and death... by speeding cars... and by poisoned swords... and at the hands of demons... and in flooded tunnels... and... well, you get the idea. These themes weren’t guides for what to do with your lives -- they were cautionary messages, not grand send-offs into bright futures. Writing, though, is a process and early drafts are never failures. They are instead opportunities to reflect and materials to revise. So, in lieu of discussing great works already written, the work of writing will guide my message. (I’m an English teacher. Puns and metaphors are my jam -- you had to have seen this coming). The work of writing is invigorating and exhausting, frustrating and fulfilling, perplexing and amazing. The work of writing makes your hands hurt and your brain search constantly for meaning. The work of writing is a lot like life. As a parent, I know the writing of your stories started as the drafting of many novels does: There were sleepless nights, nervous ambitions, and containers and containers of coffee. Even if your parents composed perfect outlines of how you would grow and whom you would become, plot twists occurred. Like unsure authors inviting in outside readers for the first time, they breathed deeply as little you rode that big yellow bus to new experiences and influences. Pens were passed between teachers, coaches, advisors, scout leaders, dance instructors, community members, and friends. The compositions of you -- individually in those seats -- and collectively as a class -- developed each day, ever more complicated and ever more beautiful. Then, in the drop of ink blot, here you sit: capped, gowned, and grown. Ray Bradbury opens Fahrenheit 451 with a writing quote that instructs “when they give you ruled paper, write the other way.” Most readers, like many of you former ELA3 students, understand this epigraph to encourage rebellion, prompting readers to stand up to people who would exploit us for their own sakes. I accept this interpretation, but today would like to extend it. Perhaps writing “the other way,” offers less about breaking limits and more about not limiting ourselves. As I was oft to tell you in class, write the best composition possible in the best way you can. As you grow into the future, write the best you in whatever ways you need. Do not confine your ideas to a single, set structure. While the five-paragraph is sometimes expected and the black pen (non-gel form, IBers) is often prescribed, whenever you can: write an original expression. Your thoughts need not develop within a word count. Your accomplishments will not be assessed with a rubric. Think boldly. Act daringly. Though the sky-blue lines on your notebook paper will always run in the same direction, doodle across them like Wade drawing sharks on an in-class essay. In a world that seems to be run by products and paychecks, graduates: be someone who breaks into verse using a purple pen, simply because you want to. Yes, leave here being “college and career ready.” Yes, have a plan for what you will study, where you will work, and how you will serve. There will always be bills to pay. But, please, remember to be world-ready, too. Be passionate. Be quirky. Be kind. Produce things that will never earn you money -- smiles in a stranger, art for art’s sake, a letter of appreciation to one of those people surrounding you today -- a family or friend who has carefully selected the perfect words to guide you, the best diction to teach you. Their hands were cramping, their eyes were tired... but they keep writing -- hoping to develop an exceptional character. And, write yourselves beyond the expected rules of your papers. More concisely: be beyond the expected. I’m a teacher who adores cradling a beautiful book and a warm cup of coffee... in hands taught by my carpenter father to measure, cut, nail, sand, and stain. I married a football player studying business at a small university -- the ultimate unoriginal combination -- who loves yoga and a good cry over This Is Us. You can be the lawyer who yodels, the nurse who skydives, the mechanic who recites poetry. The structure in which you choose to best develop yourselves should have no limitations. Write the other way. As I conclude -- feeling proud to know you, once seniors, now alums -- and honored to be speaking on your behalf, I’d like to leave with final advice from the writers by whom I am the most inspired: you. I estimate I’ve had the honor to write alongside about half of you and I’d like to offer you some insights you shared in those well-revised personal statements or those bravely pursued Human Experience reflections: Like Brandon, learning to fish with Dad: leverage yourself against life’s large tugs with all the counterweight of family and friends you can muster. Like Caleb, rushing off the bus to build a tree fort amidst chirping birds and wind-brushed leaves: have patience and work ethic to complete what you begin. Like Danny, warmed by heat radiating from an airplane on the busiest runway in the world: feel charged by your passions. Like Kayla, writing letters to reflect on the loss a loved one, have the courage to confront life’s moments of sadness and confusion. Like Lizzy, a bold girl jumping off a lighthouse into Lake Superior, leap past anyone who may prevent your successes. Like Chris and Gavin, journaling through life choices different than their own, approach the unknown by asking questions, not making judgements. And like Shae and Lindsay, rediscovering a friendship and passion once lost in kindergarten, do not limit the power of your creativity. Write the other way. Best of luck as you plan, revise, and compose your incredible futures and selves. I’m already proud. Thank you and congratulations. -Amy
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