People say that the more often you do frightening things, the easier they become. Unfortunately, standing here today feels just as intimidating as it did two years ago when I gave my first Chapel talk. Despite the evidence to the contrary, I actually have a lot of anxiety about performing in public. I find I’m a lot better at convincing actors to perform than I am at commanding a stage myself.
When I gave my first Chapel talk, I wanted to share a very painful event that I was still processing relating to the early death of a close friend. It was my first real experience with death, and with the grief that follows loss into our homes, leaving holes and empty spaces where there should be none. It doesn’t get easier.
I could still tell you everything I did that day, down to the hour, because by the time I went to sleep, the world was much more changed than it had been that morning. But, I took the plunge and bore myself to many of you and many who have graduated in the years between then and now. What’s crazy is that in writing the angry, frustrated, tear-stained journal entry that became my Chapel talk, I was processing. As I remember that moment now, I have reflected on why I chose to do that in front of all of you: I had a feeling that this community could become a place where I truly belonged.
I could feel comfortable in, make my own, knowing that all of us strive to make our world a better place, and are there for each other. Looking back now, I was right. Even in the hard moments, all of you were there. It may have been hard to spot, but when some of you last saw me at Chapel two years ago, I wasn’t entirely sure if I was meant to stay at Hotchkiss. I was struggling with the people around me, and in turn I was questioning my own worth, and my mistakes felt like they were outweighing who I really am.
But even through that you were there: proctors in a new dorm giving me a tiny space to feel welcome, friends guiding me to make better decisions, and adults continuing to trust me. But I also should acknowledge, last time I stood up here I told you to be kind to everyone, because you don’t know what they’re going through. That’s true. That’s the way we should strive to be. But realistically, it doesn’t always work that way. It’s impossible to move through life loving everyone, and while forgiveness may be possible, forgetting is far more difficult.
So I’d like to amend my statement. Strive to see the best in those around you. See the best in those who are unkind to you, see the best in those who don’t believe in you, just as you see the best in those who do. So, knowing that, here are my favorite moments – a roll of film, if you will.
To my friends, thank you. I don’t know where I would be without you. In making friends here, I learned more about myself and built this community into a space I am proud of. So thank you to the people I have been friends with, and those with whom I still am. Thank you for making me better. Thank you for being here when I am at my lowest. And most importantly, as a cynic, thank you for pushing me to see the beautiful qualities in the world around me when I struggle to do so.
To my teachers, wow, what a ride. Coming from a school where I had always existed in the shadow of an overachieving older sister, I always thought I’d spend my school years trying to live up to that. But you gave me the freedom to carve out my own path, and I have spent the last four years trying to do exactly that.
Thank you for nurturing the things I love, and letting me exist as I am, and more importantly, as I could be – whether by helping manage the looming pile of work after a concussion, or nurturing a 15-page paper on Lolita, or explaining and reexplaining the reason why we should find the definite integral by hand, or pushing me to think through why Rasputin was not as a hero of Russian history.
Thank you to the people who exist in the little moments: the dining hall staff, the grounds crew, security, housekeeping, the health center (even though every time I come in, you send me home), and all the other people striving to maintain the small moments. Oftentimes, you are the ones creating our most lasting memories. Of course, being in the center of an 800-acre campus with the lake, the trees, and all the natural beauty and seasons of New England is a whole other thing to reflect on. I am sure some of us were not so enthralled when the temperature failed to crack ten degrees for weeks on end earlier this year, but you gotta take the good with the bad!
We will never again all exist together in this place at the same moment. Beyond college, many of us will head on to city centers and suburbs; I myself go to a completely new city. But I will always carry a kaleidoscope of images of my walks here inside me. So much of the amazing and inspiring art that adorns our hallways is a constant reminder that this is a special, soulful place on earth.
How could I conclude without reflecting on our learning journey during these past four years: emotional, spiritual, athletic, musical, artistic, and academic, to name a few dimensions in which we grew. I know that we have not all loved all our teachers equally, but I also know that we learned something distinct from each and every one of them, and that whether we do so consciously or not, our actions in the future will bear strands of DNA whose origins will be as varied as our teachers have been. I know that I am looking forward to college and feeling prepared because Hotchkiss provided me with an incredible foundation for my next experience.
I learned a lot of the good stuff here: how to win, how to grow, how to succeed, how to form friendships, how to love without fear, how to keep trying. But maybe more importantly, I learned the bad stuff too: how to fail, how to lose, and how to recognize that even if I had put my best effort into something, I needed to know how to accept defeat. I learned when I needed to cut my losses.
There’s nothing embarrassing or wrong about admitting you have been bested. It doesn’t mean you’re giving up—think of it as good sportsmanship. That is something that most people don’t learn early enough. Winning is great, getting what you want is great, but you have to know when to make difficult choices.
So now we reach the end: here are five predictions I had when I first drove through the main gates for the first time. One: coming from an all-girls school, I was going to have a boyfriend. Two: I was going to make the volleyball team, even if I had to pitch the coach every day of every week my freshman year. It took a year, but I made it. So Mr. Fenton, thanks for teaching me that sometimes the best quality is the ability to be everything. You truly transformed me into a shapeshifter this season. Three: my best friend and roommate was going to be a Korean violinist; of course I didn’t predict that, but life at Hotchkiss throws you some curve balls. Four: I was going to make movies. And lastly, five: I was going to turn this place into my home. And it really has become that. It’s hard for me to imagine that I won’t be moving back into one of the dorms here in August. I think that fact will only hit me once I’m moved into what will hopefully become my new home.
Being here has taught me that home is not where your family is, it’s not where your childhood books are, it’s not where your clothes are. Home isn’t in stuffed animals or old art projects. It’s where you find people who make you happy and safe. It’s where you can fall in love, build connections, play sports, sit out on main steps listening to country music, and take photographs. From Wieler and Tinker to the Chapel and the 49’s, and most importantly Elfers Patio, thank you for being home right now. It won’t always be that way, sure, but, as they say in Our Town, just for a moment we are all together now. Just for a moment, we’re happy.
Let’s really look at one another, and take it all in. Because after this, we’ll be off to new homes. Bilbo Baggins once said, “It’s a dangerous business, Frodo, going out your door. You step onto the road, and if you don’t keep your feet, there’s no knowing where you might be swept off to.” Well I hope that’s the case. I hope I get swept off to perfect places, and so do all of you. But it only happens if you go out your door. So as we walk out these doors together, let’s carry with us the nostalgia of leaving this place, the excitement of what lies ahead, and the certainty that long after we leave Hotchkiss, some part of us will always belong here. Thank you.
