The Honest Graduation Speech

What an honor and a privilege it is to address the living members of the Class of 2018, and your teachers, parents, friends, and first responders.

I must admit however that I am somewhat at a loss for words. I wanted to say, “Today is the first day of the rest of your life,” but that is only true if, today, you are not shot to death by a classmate.

I could just say, “Today is a day that you woke up still alive,” a sentiment true and good, but also awful, haunted as it is by the students who will never wake again, shot by their classmates, at least one of your peers for every single week of 2018. And 2017. And 2016. And…

I want to say “Don’t be afraid to—” but I can’t fill in that blank.  Not when your fellow citizens are afraid that doing anything to protect you means giving up on a cherished lie, an old misconception of a mythic militia of which they were never a part.  Not when the right to bear every single kind of weapon is equally worth dying for—that is to say, worth you dying for.

I want to say, “Be true to yourself,” and I will. Be true to yourself! But you’ll have to live through today to do it.

What grim things to say on this happy day for platitudes and beatitudes! I won’t be invited back again if I keep it up with grave words of gravestones and graveyards full of students with no cap and gown.

I’m supposed to tell you to “go outside your comfort zone” and “seek new things!” But you’ve been seeking: The nearest exit. The best hiding spot. The classroom with the metal door. Or the one with the biggest desk to bar the door. A window to climb out--unless it’s a window to be shot through. You have gone outside your comfort zone already: emergency drills and lockdowns in Active Shooter scenarios, America’s newest curriculum.

I’m supposed to give advice. I’m supposed to say, “Here’s the Secret.” Before I do, I want to tell you a story, the way all graduation speakers do.

A gazillion tropical fish were washed ashore by a storm, the beach a breathing sunset of iridescent scales and vivid fins. And they lay there, alive but desperate, longing for the safety of the sea. A brave girl ran to the beach and began to fling fish back into the water where they could live and swim and be happy.

A group of grown-ups saw what she was doing, and they were puzzled. Clearly the task was beyond her. One of them shook his finger at her and said, “Don’t you know that it’s pointless? No matter how many fish you throw back, other fish will die anyway!” She looked at the adult like he was crazy. Lofting a gorgeous yellow parrotfish, she replied, “This one won’t.” She flung it into the sea. To live.

Another adult lectured her about all the ways other people had tried to save fish after other storms on other shores and how they’d failed because Nature always finds a way to strand fish. She scorned that adult too. “In the time it takes you to tell me I can’t save every fish, I will save some fish, and you will save none.”

They didn’t understand. They didn’t like her talking back. Was she being paid to talk back? Who did she think she was? 

The adults spent hours debating this girl and her plan and even the fish and the sea.

Until a boy walked right up through their midst and shot her dead.

The adults felt bad. (Sort of. She wasn’t their girl.) So they prayed for her family. And the boy’s.  And they left the fish right where they were. 

To die.

So, here’s the secret: The adults don’t care if you die. Not really. Not enough. Not as much as they care about, well, other things.

Which brings me to the only truth ever told in a graduation speech: You are the generation that will make it different. Your elders have proved they won’t. 

I’m sorry that the ones being mowed down are the ones who have to stand up. That the only way to light a fire is on the pyre of the lost. And that you have to turn tear-stained faces and trembling hands into bared teeth, just to get your parents and aunties and all the tios, your caregivers and neighbors, mayors and congresswomen, the Speaker of the House and the man in the White House, to pay any attention to your slaughter.

I have no advice but this: Haunt them. Replace them. Threaten to take their power wherever you can.

Shame them. 
Shame them more. 
Shame them without ceasing. 

Shame them for allowing even your best days to feel like this one: Risky. Dangerous. And maybe last.

Bitterly and with my whole heart, I say to you, Class of 2018:

Good luck.

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Copyright 2018 @DVG


Permissions: You have full permission to use this speech in any non-profit way. Deliver it live. Make a YouTube of your own rendition. Copy it and send it to others. Print it wherever you like. Post it on social media. Make people uncomfortable; this isn't a time for comfort.