Like any job, there are days as a teacher when I wonder if I am just wasting my time. Then there are days like today, when I say goodbye to a class of seniors who remind me through their character, intelligence, and grace why I keep coming back.
In the tradition I started several years ago, my seniors ended their year by delivering ten minute long commencement speeches. Every year, I write one as well. Here is this year's.
This is the last time I will see you before you walk out onto that field Monday evening for a ceremony that recognizes not just your completion of four years of school, but the completion of the first phase of your life. While I am sure there is some sadness and maybe some anxiety, I hope there is also powerful mix of pride, expectation, and joy as you walk together out to that field. I hope you see in that ceremony the promise a future entirely of your own making. Others have run your life up to this point. Not anymore. Based on average life spans, you will be wrapping up the first 20-25% of your life when you walk out onto that field. That is a staggering statistic. While parts of this transition can be daunting, it is also wildly exciting. Don’t let my RBF fool you; I am so excited for all of you.
I want to talk to you today about two experiences that I believe offer some tips to survive the next few years as almost-adults, and thrive as fully fledged adults in the years to come. The first is a recent story about a sink. The second is an old story about a tattoo.
First, the sink. A couple weeks ago, I walked into the ND Hall bathroom to find a sink ripped from the wall. Maybe someone tried to sit on it, I thought, or for the more daring maybe even stand. Maybe it was a fit of rage. Maybe it was just an attempt to get a few more followers on Snapchat. Whatever the reason, it was a damn good illustration of a point I wanted to make: teenagers are not fully formed human beings. I know that may sound insulting, but hear me out. I mean, seriously, a fully formed human being simply washes his hands at that sink.
A teenager’s prefrontal cortex has not yet finished developing. It will not be finished until twenty-five according to most of the research out there. Teenagers, and people in their early twenties, still rely much more heavily on the amygdala when making decisions - the part of the brain that controls emotional response. The part controlling logic, good judgement, and understanding of long-term decisions is still very much a work in progress.
When I was a high school senior I would have taken great offense to some old man telling me I was not a fully developed human being. Now, a quarter of a century later, I look back at that truculent young boy and offer him as proof.
When I was a high school senior I was finishing up French I. I had dropped Spanish as a freshman, and two years of Latin was all I could stomach, but the college I went to required three years of a language. So, French I as a senior. It would be a gross understatement to say I did not like my teacher. On the last day I walked into his exam simmering with teenage angst and emotion. I sat down and got right to work. He eyed me distrustfully, but eventually decided I was making the “sincere effort” he had encouraged all year.
He did not know that I was not writing his essay, but instead writing all the words to the theme song from a cartoon called The Animaniacs. I was spelling every word carefully because, while I was writing the lyrics in English, I was working very hard to spell them phonetically with a French accent. I wrote every verse and every chorus. I thought it was a brilliant f-you. You see how the amygdala clouds judgement? When I finished, I walked up to the front of the room and tossed it on his desk. He stood, face reddening. “You can’t be finished,” he said with indignation. “Oui, oui.” I replied. Then I walked, no strode out the door. It felt awesome.
It was not until years later that I came to realize the chip on my shoulder had little to do with that teacher, and a lot more to do with my own insecurities about being a senior in a freshman class, about being bad at learning languages, and about my need to look like a tough guy after years of being bullied because I wasn’t one. In retrospect, I think the guy was just trying to help when he gave me a hard time about my lack of effort. I just wasn’t ready to see that. I was still seven years from a fully-functioning brain.
At graduation my brain was still a year away from deciding to start a pack-and-a-half-a-day love affair with cigarettes that would last five years, by far my longest and most stable relationship at the time. A fully developed brain does not choose cancer sticks. I was about to have my first taste of alcohol, a taste that in the hands of my undeveloped brain would soon turn into a tidal wave amid the unsupervised debauchery of college. College didn’t solve the issue either. While I grew a lot during that time, became a much more serious student, thought deeply about the injustices of the world, fell in love with the outdoors, I also drank too much, picked fights all the time, and tore down the goalpost on the school’s football field with some friends the night before graduation.
Saying you are not fully-formed human beings is not an insult. It is a scientific fact.
Your brains are good ones. I know this because of the thoughtful way you have read about, reflected upon, and written about our world this year. But they are incomplete. You will face lots of decisions filled with emotion in the coming years. Your amygdala will want you to hook up, lash out, and rage. When these moments come, I want you to think of that ND Hall sink. It might feel great to rip that thing from the wall. It might be a hilarious video when you sit down on it only to crash to the ground. But, tomorrow you are going to wake up and need a place to brush your teeth. You are going to go to the bathroom and need a place to wash your hands. Take a deep breath and give your prefrontal cortex a chance to catch up.
When it does, and you emerge as a fully formed human being, you will reflect on lessons you have learned. If you are like me you will see moments in your past when you made decisions based on what others think instead of what you think. With a brain now capable of emotion and logical future planning, you will set about forming the next version of you. The pressures to behave as others would like will persist. My hope for you is that you simply ignore them.
Because here is the news about who you really are: no one cares. When I got my first visible tattoo, I hid it beneath long sleeve shirts for half of a school year. I was nearly thirty, happily married, successful in my job, surrounded by good friends, and had just gotten a tattoo to celebrate the birth of my first son. I was so excited about that tattoo.
At the time I was still wearing a shirt and tie to work every day - another nod to the perceptions of others. I had a habit of always rolling up my sleeves. But once that tattoo had been inked on my skin, it was like I reverted. I reverted to the days in elementary school feeling like nobody liked me. I reverted to high school when I was starring in all the plays and musicals, still trying to hide the fact that I took tap dancing lessons and liked Broadway show tunes better than popular music. I reverted to the kid who used to drive with his windows open and music blaring on late summer nights, only to turn the music down at stop lights for fear some stranger in the car next to me would judge me for liking that song. I reverted to the college kid who pounded shitty beer to mask the fact that I never felt like I fit in.
I kept my tattoo - a representation of family and fatherhood - hidden like a dirty secret. I worried what the parents of my more conservative students would think. I worried what administration would think. I worried what my colleagues would think. And for months, even into the sweltering days of June, I kept my sleeves rolled down to my wrists and my carefully curated image intact.
I have fixated on the perceptions of others far too often in my life. It was only in my thirties that I really started to grow comfortable in my own skin, and early in my forties I still sometimes find myself wrestling with those insecurities of my youth. I tell you this, because I want you to know sooner than I did that absolutely no one cares. Nothing changed for me when I let that tattoo out into the light, just as nothing changed with each additional tattoo. If anything, they brought me closer to people by showing them a little glimpse into who I really am, by opening a door to conversations about the most important aspects of my life that I hide within myself far too often. It showed people who I really am, and only good can come of that.
This lesson is true too for opinions as much as for appearances. So use the work we have done this year to voice your opinions clearly and often. Embrace who you are.
I have now been teaching for more than two decades. I find I grow more sentimental with each passing year. My firstborn son is going into seventh grade next year, and I can feel his own graduation already looming in the distance. I can only imagine the strong cocktail of pride and loss your parents will all be sipping on as they watch you walk around that track, and then head out on your own.
I will send you off with the same words with which I have sent you off to every weekend this year, slightly edited for the realities of college and beyond. It is the weekend. Don’t drink to excess. Don’t abuse drugs. Don’t hang out with people who do those things. Make responsible decisions. Don’t pressure people into doing things they don’t want to do.
Trust your gut. Use your brain. Follow your heart. Above all, keep raising your voice so the world can hear what you have to say. I wish you all happiness and confidence. Congratulations.
In the tradition I started several years ago, my seniors ended their year by delivering ten minute long commencement speeches. Every year, I write one as well. Here is this year's.
This is the last time I will see you before you walk out onto that field Monday evening for a ceremony that recognizes not just your completion of four years of school, but the completion of the first phase of your life. While I am sure there is some sadness and maybe some anxiety, I hope there is also powerful mix of pride, expectation, and joy as you walk together out to that field. I hope you see in that ceremony the promise a future entirely of your own making. Others have run your life up to this point. Not anymore. Based on average life spans, you will be wrapping up the first 20-25% of your life when you walk out onto that field. That is a staggering statistic. While parts of this transition can be daunting, it is also wildly exciting. Don’t let my RBF fool you; I am so excited for all of you.
I want to talk to you today about two experiences that I believe offer some tips to survive the next few years as almost-adults, and thrive as fully fledged adults in the years to come. The first is a recent story about a sink. The second is an old story about a tattoo.
First, the sink. A couple weeks ago, I walked into the ND Hall bathroom to find a sink ripped from the wall. Maybe someone tried to sit on it, I thought, or for the more daring maybe even stand. Maybe it was a fit of rage. Maybe it was just an attempt to get a few more followers on Snapchat. Whatever the reason, it was a damn good illustration of a point I wanted to make: teenagers are not fully formed human beings. I know that may sound insulting, but hear me out. I mean, seriously, a fully formed human being simply washes his hands at that sink.
A teenager’s prefrontal cortex has not yet finished developing. It will not be finished until twenty-five according to most of the research out there. Teenagers, and people in their early twenties, still rely much more heavily on the amygdala when making decisions - the part of the brain that controls emotional response. The part controlling logic, good judgement, and understanding of long-term decisions is still very much a work in progress.
When I was a high school senior I would have taken great offense to some old man telling me I was not a fully developed human being. Now, a quarter of a century later, I look back at that truculent young boy and offer him as proof.
When I was a high school senior I was finishing up French I. I had dropped Spanish as a freshman, and two years of Latin was all I could stomach, but the college I went to required three years of a language. So, French I as a senior. It would be a gross understatement to say I did not like my teacher. On the last day I walked into his exam simmering with teenage angst and emotion. I sat down and got right to work. He eyed me distrustfully, but eventually decided I was making the “sincere effort” he had encouraged all year.
He did not know that I was not writing his essay, but instead writing all the words to the theme song from a cartoon called The Animaniacs. I was spelling every word carefully because, while I was writing the lyrics in English, I was working very hard to spell them phonetically with a French accent. I wrote every verse and every chorus. I thought it was a brilliant f-you. You see how the amygdala clouds judgement? When I finished, I walked up to the front of the room and tossed it on his desk. He stood, face reddening. “You can’t be finished,” he said with indignation. “Oui, oui.” I replied. Then I walked, no strode out the door. It felt awesome.
It was not until years later that I came to realize the chip on my shoulder had little to do with that teacher, and a lot more to do with my own insecurities about being a senior in a freshman class, about being bad at learning languages, and about my need to look like a tough guy after years of being bullied because I wasn’t one. In retrospect, I think the guy was just trying to help when he gave me a hard time about my lack of effort. I just wasn’t ready to see that. I was still seven years from a fully-functioning brain.
At graduation my brain was still a year away from deciding to start a pack-and-a-half-a-day love affair with cigarettes that would last five years, by far my longest and most stable relationship at the time. A fully developed brain does not choose cancer sticks. I was about to have my first taste of alcohol, a taste that in the hands of my undeveloped brain would soon turn into a tidal wave amid the unsupervised debauchery of college. College didn’t solve the issue either. While I grew a lot during that time, became a much more serious student, thought deeply about the injustices of the world, fell in love with the outdoors, I also drank too much, picked fights all the time, and tore down the goalpost on the school’s football field with some friends the night before graduation.
Saying you are not fully-formed human beings is not an insult. It is a scientific fact.
Your brains are good ones. I know this because of the thoughtful way you have read about, reflected upon, and written about our world this year. But they are incomplete. You will face lots of decisions filled with emotion in the coming years. Your amygdala will want you to hook up, lash out, and rage. When these moments come, I want you to think of that ND Hall sink. It might feel great to rip that thing from the wall. It might be a hilarious video when you sit down on it only to crash to the ground. But, tomorrow you are going to wake up and need a place to brush your teeth. You are going to go to the bathroom and need a place to wash your hands. Take a deep breath and give your prefrontal cortex a chance to catch up.
When it does, and you emerge as a fully formed human being, you will reflect on lessons you have learned. If you are like me you will see moments in your past when you made decisions based on what others think instead of what you think. With a brain now capable of emotion and logical future planning, you will set about forming the next version of you. The pressures to behave as others would like will persist. My hope for you is that you simply ignore them.
Because here is the news about who you really are: no one cares. When I got my first visible tattoo, I hid it beneath long sleeve shirts for half of a school year. I was nearly thirty, happily married, successful in my job, surrounded by good friends, and had just gotten a tattoo to celebrate the birth of my first son. I was so excited about that tattoo.
At the time I was still wearing a shirt and tie to work every day - another nod to the perceptions of others. I had a habit of always rolling up my sleeves. But once that tattoo had been inked on my skin, it was like I reverted. I reverted to the days in elementary school feeling like nobody liked me. I reverted to high school when I was starring in all the plays and musicals, still trying to hide the fact that I took tap dancing lessons and liked Broadway show tunes better than popular music. I reverted to the kid who used to drive with his windows open and music blaring on late summer nights, only to turn the music down at stop lights for fear some stranger in the car next to me would judge me for liking that song. I reverted to the college kid who pounded shitty beer to mask the fact that I never felt like I fit in.
I kept my tattoo - a representation of family and fatherhood - hidden like a dirty secret. I worried what the parents of my more conservative students would think. I worried what administration would think. I worried what my colleagues would think. And for months, even into the sweltering days of June, I kept my sleeves rolled down to my wrists and my carefully curated image intact.
I have fixated on the perceptions of others far too often in my life. It was only in my thirties that I really started to grow comfortable in my own skin, and early in my forties I still sometimes find myself wrestling with those insecurities of my youth. I tell you this, because I want you to know sooner than I did that absolutely no one cares. Nothing changed for me when I let that tattoo out into the light, just as nothing changed with each additional tattoo. If anything, they brought me closer to people by showing them a little glimpse into who I really am, by opening a door to conversations about the most important aspects of my life that I hide within myself far too often. It showed people who I really am, and only good can come of that.
This lesson is true too for opinions as much as for appearances. So use the work we have done this year to voice your opinions clearly and often. Embrace who you are.
I have now been teaching for more than two decades. I find I grow more sentimental with each passing year. My firstborn son is going into seventh grade next year, and I can feel his own graduation already looming in the distance. I can only imagine the strong cocktail of pride and loss your parents will all be sipping on as they watch you walk around that track, and then head out on your own.
I will send you off with the same words with which I have sent you off to every weekend this year, slightly edited for the realities of college and beyond. It is the weekend. Don’t drink to excess. Don’t abuse drugs. Don’t hang out with people who do those things. Make responsible decisions. Don’t pressure people into doing things they don’t want to do.
Trust your gut. Use your brain. Follow your heart. Above all, keep raising your voice so the world can hear what you have to say. I wish you all happiness and confidence. Congratulations.
This one made me cry. Thanks for your honesty and for your heart. A really good read, and good advice.
ReplyDeleteThank you Mr. Knoll. Thank you for being the one class in high school to emphasize how college will actually be. Without this class I would’ve totally been blindsided by the many papers that will have to be written once I start college. Thank you for contacting my parents when I began to fail your class. Without this action I wouldn’t have pulled myself together to continue my senior year on a strong note. Thank you for reassuring me that if I needed any help with problems outside of school that I could come to you. Without this gesture I would’ve felt like your class was just like every other class. Strictly dedicated to school work. I was able to see that you had an understanding of your students not only being students but people with real life problems. And although I didn’t open up to you, I still appreciated your words and I want you to know that I did keep them with me while I was going thru my rough patch. I never held you up on your offer because I’m not the most open person and it takes me a longggggg time to open up to people, so with that being said you seeing me in my most vulnerable state was a very rare occasion. Thank you for responding to my RBF joke the way that I hoped you would. Thank you for highlighting my RBF joke. Thank you for giving the class the weekend speech every weekend. Thank you for keeping it real with our class all year. Thank you for opening up to us and sharing personal information as a lesson. Thank you...for being....you.
ReplyDeleteThanks Morgan. I really appreciate you taking the time to share your thoughts. The door (or at least the email box) remains open even now that you have graduated. Don't hesitate to reach out if you ever need to chat, or just to catch me up on what is going on. I look forward to hearing from you.
Delete