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And it's not just school. Social anxiety involves either analyzing the people you want to fit-in with/impress and then acting accordingly, in a sense fighting, or removing yourself from social situations fearing embarrassment or ostracisation, in a sense fleeing.
So ultimately, anxiety is an age old response to threats; it's part of our human nature.
2 - When anxiety is healthy
Put simply, anxiety is healthy in small concentrated doses. Ms. Short knows what I'm talking about.
When Ms. Short was in middle school, she put off doing a book report, up to the night before it was due, when the procrastination bubble burst. All her mom had to say was: "Good luck." She worked throughout the night, something a middle schooler shouldn't have to endure, but come morning, the report was complete, and the crisis was averted. While she can certainly attest that it did not feel good, ultimately the project was finished. Anxiety drove a fight response until the battle was
won,
All in all, healthy anxiety is pretty straight forward. But unhealthy anxiety is a bit more complex.
3 - Unhealthy anxiety
Put simply: anxiety becomes the problem when you become the problem.
You'll note that in my previous example, the unfinished book report was the source of stress. And healthy anxiety drove Ms. Short to complete it. Now, what if her brain didn't think the report was the problem. For whatever reason, maybe this was the 5th late assignment this month, maybe she hadn't been doing well in the class, but whatever the reason, her brain doesn't think the book report is the problem. It thinks that Ms. Short is the problem.
Suddenly, all that energy and effort devoted to attacking her issues is re-directed at herself. She's thinking about how she's lazy, incompetent, stupid for not having finished it before, how much the teacher will hate her, and how she needs to change.
We all know that Ms. Short is a wonderful human being, maybe one of the most kind, thoughtful, loving, and intelligent people we know, but none of that matters to her right now. Her brain has identified herself as a threat. And just like always, she has two options: fight, or flight.
If she fights, she'll be fighting herself, working to combat the notion she's lazy, stupid, incompetent, everything that she thinks she is. And while it can motivate her to finish her book report, the report wasn't the perceived problem: it was herself. The next time she gets anxious, she'll have to fight herself again. And every time she falls short of her expectations, a piece of that will to fight is chipped away. When that will is gone, one of her options has disappeared.
4 - Depression
Depression is when you can't fight yourself anymore, so you choose flight. It's flight from getting out of bed in the morning to prove you aren't lazy. It's flight from doing homework to prove you're competent. This rears new problems: you can't get out of bed or do things assigned to you. But you can't fight yourself anymore, so you flee from those new problems, and the problems they create, then the problems created by those problems, until you're spiraling into an inescapable abyss of self loathing and paralysis.
This condition takes the joy from your life.
This condition drives you to end your life. I don't think enough people realize how horrific that is.
It's not just a mindset, because then you could just change your thinking. It is not just a phase, because then you would just grow out of it. Most importantly, it is not something you want to be involved with. Do not confuse it with something else, like sadness.
Sadness is normal. It's an emotional reaction to an event, like the loss of someone or something significant in your life. And because it's tied to an event, something outside yourself, it doesn't self perpetuate. You are sad for a period, but you adjust and eventually move on.
Depression is insidious because it does self perpetuate. It creates issues that create issues that create issues that blame themselves on you. I can't overstress how horrible it is to turn every thought into a reason to hate yourself, I don't wish it on
anyone.
So how do we keep depression and unhealthy anxiety at bay?
5- What to do
Don't seek to define yourself.
Definitions of self are what depression latch onto. When you have an issue, anxiety convinces you the issue is a part of who you are. For example, if you're concerned about your body image, understand that you can impact both the way you look and how you think about how you look. No matter what you think, nothing is set in stone. But this goes for things you're proud of too. When you go off to college thinking you're really good at x or y, you'll find dozens of others who are much better. But don't beat yourself up. Recognize that everything, from your understanding, to your skill, to your empathy, to the perceived nature of your existence, can change over time. And how this learning and adaptation is happening constantly with the introduction of new places, people, experiences, and ideas, and how this process is beautiful, but I don't want to ramble.
In short, just remember that you're not the problem because you can't solve yourself. Thank you.
Daven Rock
way
Being unique is a valuable trait to have in today's day and age. So often we let the actions and opinions of our peers dictate the
that we operate in our everyday lives. We strive to be authentic and to be ourselves, and we carry this notion that in order to truly be ourselves we must resist influence from others. We're taught that in order to be ourselves and to be unique, we must instill change within ourselves and reject criticism from others. However, this notion couldn't be further from the truth. Just because you change for other people doesn't necessarily mean that you aren't unique.
A part of the reason why we feel the need to resist influence from others is because of our inherent incompetence towards receiving criticism. When we're faced with criticism, most of the time we refuse to consider it, sometimes even going as far as condemning those who criticized us because we initially believed that their intentions were to insult, and not to improve. But if we're never willing to take this criticism into mind, we'll never truly progress as individuals. This isn't to say that you should change every little thing about yourself to fit the needs of those around you, but it does mean that you should refrain from that initial hostility towards criticism. Taking into account the things that other people say about you and the way that you are perceived by others is vital to our own personal growth. By solely relying on our own input and our own perception of ourselves, we're only limiting our growth as individuals. In order to truly reach our potential, we must consider input from the people in our lives, whether it be our friends, family, or classmates, and therefore not only change for ourselves, but change for others as well.
Socially speaking, we are constantly adapting. Meeting new people, bouncing ideas off of one another, and influencing each other in one way or another. It's hard to avoid input from others because so much of our everyday life involves interacting with other people, whether it be at home, on the field, or at the Harkness table. Each person is coming into each interaction with a different set of experiences, a different way of thinking, and a different set of values, all of which are constantly changing, meaning that it's very difficult and downright impossible to find someone who shares all of these things in common with you. As a result, we have so many things to learn from the people in our lives, including their perception of us. By learning others' perception of ourselves, we can begin to form a deeper understanding of who we truly are, because how we're perceived by others is a part of our identity. Our own perception of ourselves coupled with other people's perception of us equates to who we are and how we're perceived, and as a result, the definition of who we are changes invariably. For the most part, these changes, whether subtle or obvious, are due to the fact that we take heavy influence from the people in our lives.
Thanks for getting me through every tough workout and bad day at school, and for letting me be a part of such a truly incredible group. Go Spartans!
Mom, thanks for showing me what it means to lead, for doing puzzles with me every Sunday, and for your sense of humor. Dad, thanks for your dance moves, for taking me on spontaneous movie outings late at night, and for my love of running, Thank you both for helping me find stickers at random souvenir shops across the US, for staying up with me when I'm too stressed to make decisions, and for making sure I go right to sleep afterwards. I love you.
Ford. Hey, dude. I'm really glad you're my brother. I can't believe I've gotten to spend 13 years getting to know you and the amazing guy you're becoming, and I can't wait to see what else you do, because I know it's gonna be awesome. Thank you for your constant positivity and willingness to learn, and for letting me always steal the window seat on planes. You are one of the kindest, smartest most thoughtful people I've ever met, and I don't know what I would do without you. I promise I'll talk to you every week next year. I'm gonna miss you a ton.
And to everyone else, especially the senior class, thank you for the reminders you've given me of what it means to be happy. Thank you for every class I've taken and every free period I've spent wasting time over something pointless, thank you for junior retreat and for your speeches. Thank you for every smile or wave or nod or high-five in the hallways, every inside joke and every laugh over my three and a half, very well-hydrated, years here. I can't wait for the rest.
Blythe Rients
I love fruit. Weird, I know, but have you ever realized all of the different kinds of fruit? How they all look different, and smell different, and taste so distinctly themselves? It is incredible to just look at a piece of fruit and see the intricacies and details that are present and beautiful.
Also, flowers. Just look at the flowers. Touch the soft velvet petals of a peony, or the way that they bloom when the time is just right.
And the way that the human body functions and heals itself. It is such an amazing thing.
But don't get me started with music. Music is one of the greatest blessings in my opinion. The way that a beat can resonate with different parts of my brain, triggering different moods. The way that the words can enter my head and spill out of a speaker as if they were spilling out of
out of my mouth.
All of these things are wonderful and extravagant, and I am so thankful for them. There is something about intricacies of a simple thing that makes me so beyond happy. Yes, one can connect science to why we have these things, but I believe that we have them so intentionally and without coincidence. I feel this when I look at a sunflower, or taste a strawberry, or listen to the deep ring of a cello, or watch my body mend itself when the stitches on my chin pull my skin closed. We are given these things from something greater than ourselves because we are loved. For that I am thankful.
I recently have been doing a lot of reflection. It's hard not to when it's senior year and a new phase of my life is right around the corner and it feels like I am running at my future full speed ahead. But it has allowed me to set goals for myself and the world.
I want the world to be a more loving place. A place that I won't be scared to bring my kids into, someday. It starts individually, so it starts with myself. I have been trying to be a more loving and gracious person. In order for me to do this, I learn to love by appreciating the little things in life that bring me happiness. So, I asked myself what brings me joy? Easy. My favorite sound: my dad's laugh. The way he kind of pushes out all of his air and then laughs until his eyes water. When my mom lightly scratches my tired back with her perfectly long and pretty fingernails. The way that my sister and my voice melts together singing in the car, suddenly stopping when we both know to hold our breath while in a tunnel. The way my mom is moved to tears during a song or sermon at church. The way my dad plays with my fingers and pulls my toes and my brother cracks a joke out of the blue, and my dad responds with "good one, Carter!" The way my dog wags her tail so fast that her whole butt wiggles upon the arrival of my dad coming home from a long day at work.
I think about these small but profound sources of love and happiness and I think about where they come from. Every Wednesday night for four years you would find me at my church. In order to be confirmed into my faith and into the Christian Church I would have to go through confirmation for all of middle school as well as freshman year. We would spend nights talking and learning about some of the stories in the Bible, but more about how we can become more like Jesus. This Wednesday night was a little different. We would rotate around the church as small groups going to different classrooms with an activity planned at each of them. One of the stations was with our head pastor. We were supposed to ask him any question we wanted. Of course being me I turned it into a competition. I wanted to ask him the most vague and challenging question to answer. So I came up with, "what is the meaning of life?" Got him there I thought, Pastor Chris then responds in record time, "love." At the time I didn't think much of it. I was definitely more upset that that question was just way too easy for him, then his response that I didn't realize that I would carry with my until now, and I am certain I will remember it for the rest of my life.
I now believe his answer to be true. Even though God directly translates to "love" for me, it does not have to be what love is all about for those who do not share that same belief. I was taught by Jesus to, "love one another, as I have loved you." I have that example of the greatest love there ever was. I find peace and grounding knowing that I will be loved unconditionally, and it allows me to do the same. But for those who do not find that same peace through religion, a more love and joy filled world can be acquired by looking at the world with a more appreciative and hopeful eye.
Even my favorite movie, Moulin Rouge preaches this same idea. The protagonist says, "The greatest thing you'll ever learn is just to love, and be loved in return." Although in the movie, when the he says this, it is just about the romantic love that is portrayed in movies like this one, but I believe that this can connect to what my pastor told me. I am on my journey to spread more love, vocalize more love toward others, as well as love the little things in life that make it so amazing rather than focusing on the negative aspects. You can either see beauty and vibrancy in a sunset, or you can see pollution, pick your perspective. Don't get me wrong, there is always a time to acknowledge our sometimes, not so beautiful and vibrant world, but I believe that
many of our issues start with how quick we are to complain about what might be in front of us. The meaning of life is love, so value and prioritize your relationships, and try to be vulnerable enough to vocalize the love that you may have toward
someone.
I am truly grateful for all of my blessings and I think it's imperative to recognize them. There are many ways to show appreciation; I do so through prayer, and I welcome you to join me, or find a way of giving thanks that works for you.
Dear lord,
Thank you for today and everyday, thank you for the beautiful, intelligent, and wonderfully curious people who I am so blessed to be able to interact with in these halls, in the classroom, and right now. Thank you for the facilities that we have been granted to use and take advantage of in order to further our education that we are blessed to have. God, I ask you to work through me to give the love to others that you continue to give to me even when I am undeserving. Help me spread love and joy and graciousness to my peers and the world. I also ask you to keep all of us, but especially the senior class, safe and eager as we go on to the next stages of our lives. Help us to remember how blessed we are to have the no ifs love that you give every single person. Lastly, thank you for the fruit, the flowers, our bodies, and most of all, the music.
In the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit, Amen.
Samantha Ries
To truly get to know me you would have to come grocery shopping with me twice. On our first trip to the grocery store, you would be bored as I quietly and methodically grabbed only the grocery items on my list. Alternatively, during the second trip, you might find that I am charming, smiling often and greeting everyone around me. As you shop for your items, I would likely be running up and down each aisle, grabbing every item that struck my fancy, especially those not on my grocery list. You would have two vastly different experiences, as if I were two different people. This is because, the first time we went shopping, I would take medication for my ADHD and the second time, I would not take my medication, also known as "meds."
Twelve years ago, I was diagnosed with ADHD, a condition that causes inattention, hyperactivity, and impulsivity. ADHD can
conveniently placed to offer my classmates full view of the episode. I thank God that I wasn't conscious to see the looks on their faces, but unfortunately I did awake in time to see the awkward pity look on my teacher's as he hovered over me on the floor.
It was mortifying. I was grateful to go home early where I could feel humiliated in the privacy of my own bedroom. But I still wasn't completely over it by the time I returned to school the next morning. People were obviously talking about me. It didn't take a genius to notice, judging by the hushed tones and the shushing that rippled across the hallways as I passed. Even when friends offered their sympathy by checking in, or by asking how I was doing, I wanted to crawl right back into bed to wallow in my misery. Which is exactly what I did that night. And the next night, and the next night, and the next night. This continued for days, maybe even a few weeks, well after everyone else had gotten over it. To them, it was probably a little funny for one or two days, but nobody cared for very long, and looking back, I question why I did.
my
I mean it was an awkward situation, and I can imagine anyone would be a little shaken up over it, but to me it felt like the world was going to end. See, I have this nasty habit of overthinking everything I do. This includes incidents like this one, as well as other even seemingly insignificant or casual interactions; like how I greeted somebody in the hallway or how I responded to my name in roll call. Things that others wouldn't even consider to be awkward, I like to spend the next 10 to 20 minutes cringing over. I think fear of judgement is a large part of this. I'm worried that people will judge me or that I won't fit in, so I try to blend in with everyone else in hopes that I won't draw much attention to myself. But this tendency causes me to close myself off both socially and academically, whether it's by keeping me from participating in class discussions or in conversations amongst my peers. I simultaneously add unnecessary stress and take away opportunities for myself all over a fear of something as normal as feeling embarrassed.
Everyone has embarrassing moments, many of which are out of our control. They are just a part of life regardless of how much we try to avoid them. I couldn't control what happened to me in fifth grade and after it did, I kept going over things I could have done to avoid the situation. But my hemophobia was bound to catch up with me sooner or later, especially if I thought I was going to be able to ignore it forever. Looking back, it was probably a good thing that it happened when it did, because that way I was able to learn how to manage it before I got to highschool. And I'd take one cringy memory of an incident from back in fifth grade over having to live with collapsing in front of my tenth grade biology class.
We shouldn't be afraid of getting into awkward or embarrassing situations, because they happen to all of us and when they do, the people you may think are judging or laughing at you have probably had their share of embarrassing moments as well. And they probably don't care as much as you might think. While you are stuck focusing on that humiliating thing that happened to you yesterday or earlier this morning, everyone else has probably already forgotten about it. To think otherwise is a little silly. It won't help you, and, to be quite frank, it's a little self-absorbed. There is really no point in dwelling over it, because you can't go back in time, so you have to focus on the present. Admittedly, I was a bit self-absorbed to think that everyone cared so much about my problems when really they all had their own lives to worry about. In the future instead of just feeling sorry for myself, I want to learn to move on from my embarrassing moments so that I can focus on more productive things that are actually important and that I actually can control. I couldn't change the fact that I was afraid of blood, so in that moment, I wasn't able to control my actions, but what I was able to control was how I reacted to the situation afterwards. It would have made things a lot easier if I had simply just dusted my shoulders off and continued on with my day. Even finding humor in life can make it a little more enjoyable and a lot less stressful. If I had just been able to laugh about what happened maybe it wouldn't have been so awful.
From now on when I embarrass myself, I hope I will be able to take my own advice by leaving things in the past where they belong, because we're all human. None of us are perfect and neither is life. So next time you feel embarrassed, don't take yourself too seriously. Get over it and maybe even try laughing about it because hey, you may even get a good story out of it.
Gabriella Seifert
When I was little, I used to spend hours every day painting and drawing and stickering and causing chaos and making things. Partly because I didn't have any homework, and partly because I just had that much passion. Apparently my mom had to go to the arts and crafts store every single month because of how many art supplies I went through.
But as I got older and starting going to school, that changed. Not just because I had less time for art, but because it morphed from something that just sort of happened if I wasn't paying attention into an activity that I had to choose to do,
Going to school also meant that I made art alongside other kids, and this interaction brought comparison. For the first time my art was labelled either good or bad, and with it I was labelled either "good at art" or "bad at art."
At the end of the day, when everyone's drawings were hung up next to each other on the wall, it was really easy to compare my work to the pictures around mine, and there was always something that someone else could do better.
So I slowly stopped drawing on big sheets of paper and moved to the margins of my math homework, or sat in the back of the class just so that the people behind me couldn't see what I was doodling. I still loved to draw, and I had a few friends that I could show my art to, but the experience was always marred by my fear of being judged.
Between kindergarten and high school, drawing slowly changed from my creative outlet to a creativity-sucking void. When I sat down to draw, I only cared about what my project was going to look like when it was done. It didn't matter how I felt along the way, and I stopped trying to learn from the experience.
I became obsessed with "perfect" art, spent hours on my work not because it was fun but because I wanted it to look good, and I made myself so miserable that I just wanted to quit drawing forever.
But then I drew a chicken.
Not even a good chicken, like a really bad chicken doodle consisting of a pear-shaped lump, some squiggles for the wings, a head feather, tiny little feet, and a smiley face. Seven lines in total.
Right in the middle of my beautifully crafted art project, my first real artwork of junior year, surrounded by an array of artfully chosen leaves and branches and painstakingly shaded petals, was a really ugly little chicken doodle,
And I loved it!!!!
I started drawing this little chicken on everything, my art projects, my chemistry homework, the covers of my notebooks, the corners of whiteboards, the middle of whiteboards, and even spray-painted onto the sidewalk in an obscure corner of St. Paul.
Sometimes I don't even mean to draw chickens, they just show up on my papers while I'm half-distracted by a phone conversation, or appear on exams when I'm sure I was working the whole time.
But more importantly, the idea of the chicken doodle has leaked into all of my art, even when it isn't supposed to feature chickens. Last summer I was out haunting flower gardens in my neighborhood, and I'd brought my sketchbook with me to capture some of the carnations before they wilted. But no matter what I put on the page, it just seemed to look stiff and dead and bad.
So I drew another chicken. I flipped open a blank page, drew a chicken in the middle, and then drew the flower garden around
that.
And because I'd already accepted that this was going to be a chicken page in my sketchbook, I didn't worry that my drawing wasn't "good," because even if it was bad it would just match the chicken. And it worked! I drew something
?
And while I did consider this to be an exciting discovery, an easy way to get around my fear of being bad at art, it wasn't until earlier this year that I realized the true potential of the chicken doodle. Sometime during the first few weeks of the semester,
I was bored during an art class, so I cleared off the big whiteboard in the middle of the art area, drew a chicken on top, and wrote "add a chicken,"
And I didn't really expect much.
But then when I came back a couple of weeks later, like thirty people had added their own chickens to the board. Not like
good chickens or anything, but a whole whiteboard full of silly little chickens, like mine.
There are two conclusions to draw from this experience. First of all, everyone secretly really likes chickens. Secondly, if given the chance and the proper environment (such as a board full of badly drawn chickens), a lot of people like to draw.
Since I've adopted the chicken-doodle philosophy, my experience with art has completely flipped around. Yes, some artists are pretentious. But if you can ignore them, you'll find that the art community, at SPA and all over the world, is a lot of fun to be a part of. Everyone just wants to make stuff. And I, and my chickens, have always been welcome. For years I thought that doing art with other people meant that it was a competition, that it was a race to see who could make the best thing the fastest.
But no one who enjoys art is like that. And I lost a lot of time that I could have spent on a hobby that I really love because I had this weird, skewed perception of art.
Drawing is my refuge from stress and school and college decisions because none of that matters when I'm creating something. It's a way to take a step out of real life and just be. Whenever I don't know what I'm doing on a math quiz, I pause, take a moment, and draw a chicken. And it's a reminder that even if I don't know how to find the rational roots of an equation, I'm still really good at drawing chickens.
So: If sometime, in the near future, you're having some stress, take a moment, realize that you're about to transform your entire life, and draw a chicken.
Thank you.
Iris Shaker-Check
I sat on the other side of a short table from the school reading instructor. She asks me to read the same story again. The story that I had been forced to read so many times, I felt like my brain was going to explode. So many times that I'd memorized
word in it and the cartoon pictures that went along with. "There was a tot. The tot saw a boot. The tot tried the boot on. The boot was to big for the tot. Did the tot fall over? The tot did fall over."
every
"Good job," the She says, before handing me another equally mind numbing story, especially for a third grader, and is surprised when I can't read the story despite having almost all the same words in it as the story before. I sinks down in my chair, just wanting to be able to read the chapter books with the rest of the class and not be the only one here.
I eventually found myself in a waiting room, where the test I was about to take would conclude that I am dyslexic. When I found out, I told my two friends with a little bit of excitement because that means that there's a reason why I can't read, that I'm not stupid. I am baffled at their confusion at why this would be anything close to good news, not realizing that this will be the first time of many occasions when other people will not see it that way.
Because now I needed to be the kid who misses every morning of school to get special tutoring and now everyone knows that I have difficulty reading. But it was going to be alright, at least for me, because my parents have resources. And next year I was able to go to a private school called Groves with specialists that know exactly how to teach dyslexics.
I was in a school surrounded by kids just like me, with stories similar to mine, and I didn't feel alone anymore. I learn to read.
And I wish I could say that this was the end of story. But, I will never be able to forget having a teacher threaten to take away my extra time if I didn't email him 24 hours ahead of time for where and when I was going to take it and the terror at the thought of having it taken away from me. Not realizing then that what he was doing was against school protocol and still having the stigma of feeling stupid stopping me from saying anything. And I will always remember the time I told a teacher that my previous school was Groves and the response was "really, but I've only heard good things about you," which felt like the equivalent of "you're smart for someone with a learning difference." These are all experience that have made me wary of who I tell because I am tired of hearing the comments and biases that come from our societal preference for the neurotypical.
Despite all this I know that I am lucky since my parents could afford the testing required to identify my dyslexia in the first place. Because for most kids and many adults who are dyslexic this is not the case. Dyslexic students from lower income families often go unidentified, and there is significant evidence that they are more likely to end up in the criminal justice system. About 60 percent of people in prisons are functionally illiterate and 85 percent of children in the juvenile detention system are as well. A large proportion of these individuals are estimated to be dyslexic, but because no one was able or willing to provide the resources that they needed to be identified, they most likely never will.
Studies also show that a disproportionate amount of females and people of color go unidentified as well, often failing to get the needed help to learn to read, much less finding areas in which they excel. But when all students are tested for dyslexia in studies there is no significant difference between the amount of boys and girls identified as dyslexic, and there has been no evidence to suggest that it would be any different between races. But unfortunately systematic screening is rare and many thousands of children continue to go unidentified.
And these people will mostly never be able to realizes that dyslexia can also be an advantage. That dyslexics excel in fields such at art, architecture, engineering/computer science and entrepreneurship. That studies out of Harvard have shown a link between dyslexia and visual processing that is useful for disciplines such as astronomy. That the proportion of dyslexic students at demanding arts schools was higher than students who didn't go into art school, and an estimated 35% of entrepreneurs are dyslexic in the United States out of an estimated 10% of the total population that is thought to be dyslexic. And that dyslexics have an overall ability to see things holistically. Dyslexia is less of a disability and more of a trade off of skills.
When I first learned of this advantage, I was able see how much dyslexia had helped me. In how I can envision cups and bowls in my mind before making them. In playing around with shapes in my head and experiencing joy in building things with clay. I saw the way I was similar to many other dyslexic coders who talked about their stories being dyslexic and how I struggled and excelled at the same things they did. As I heard more and more stories, it became clear how every dyslexic has something that they excel at, whether that's ceramics, music, engineering or visual imagery in poetry. And the list goes on.
It took me years to decide whether to look into what dyslexia really was, and only in an attempt to fix something I thought was wrong with myself. Only to learn that there is something beautiful in thinking differently.
Kieran Singh
Most political speeches at this school are incredibly empathetic and usually conclude with a message to listen to others and consider all viewpoints. I have respect for those speakers, who care deeply about listening and nonpartisanship, but I don't feel very nonpartisan right now.
6 days ago Brett Kavanaugh was confirmed to the Supreme Court. Some of you might think that Christine Ford, Kavanaugh's accuser, was lying, as most Republican voters do, and I have no idea how to convince you otherwise, only to say that there is absolutely no reason she would lie. I would also say that the investigation into the allegations was a farce: the White House refused to let the FBI interview most of the witnesses and even Ford and Kavanaugh themselves! And yet Republicans still confirmed him because of a flimsy excuse: that there was somehow a doppelganger of Kavanaugh that committed the assault. I truly doubt that anyone in the Republican party actually believed that, especially after claiming Ford was credible. Now, I am mad about this, but I am not a survivor of sexual assault, thank god, and I don't want to speak for people whose experiences I haven't had.
I do want to bring up something else that makes me angry about Kavanaugh, and it involves a lesser known concept called the "unitary executive." According to the Washington Post, Kavanaugh buys into a radical legal idea that, through the Executive Branch, the President, and only the President, controls most of the government. This is really problematic: since all federal prosecutors are employees of the executive branch, Kavanaugh thinks that all of them can be fired just for doing their jobs. The implication is that the President has full authority to suppress or stop any negative federal investigations, which we saw a precursor to during Kavanaugh's probe. As said in Kavanaugh's own words in an article for the Minnesota law review, the only institution he thinks should be able to punish or indict a sitting president is Congress. This is obviously a problem, because our Congress is too gridlocked and too partisan to hold someone of the majority party, especially the President, accountable. I'm
you that the hot dogs in Pronto Pups are smoked before they are cooked, unlike corn dogs where the hot dog is cooked while being fried.
Anyway, back to the batter. Usually, a group of two, take turns lifting a 50-pound bag and 5 gallons of milk, mixing it up and then pouring it into little jugs, and putting them into the freezer. The process is much longer than what I explained here but again I am not sure if I can share the full recipe, I kind of want to keep my job.
The third and final step, a personal favorite, is the delivery. Delivery, hands down, is the best job at the Fair. For every hour of work, you pretty much get about another hour of free time. Yes, you have to haul over 200 pounds of stuff, batter, hotdogs, drinks, napkins, you get the idea, up hills, in the heat, avoiding people, but, all while having a blast. All deliveries have a team. Usually, the person you get paired with becomes your deliver partner the whole time working at the Fair, only getting new
partners if one doesn't come back. The bond the delivery crew has is unbreakable, unlike our carts, which seem to break about once every year. As the utility guy, I was thrown onto the delivery crew only a few times. But even so, I have some pretty good stories from it.
Fast forward to one A.M, about five days into the Fair, on a Saturday night, three other delivery guys, and myself, spearing ten thousand hot dogs. You may ask yourself, Will how did you get in the situation, and I'll tell you. The spearing team got behind, and now it was our job to finish what they didn't. No beef with the spearing team but like ten thousand hot dogs behind is almost impressive. Anyway, around eleven, the four of us, all with red bulls in our hands, sat down, and in record time, speared ten thousand hotdogs, 100 boxes with 100 speared hot dogs inside. This experience bonded us together and to this day, we joke about the time we had a "red bull and a dream."
This last story about State Fair 2017 sums up working at the Fair pretty well. The people watching at the Fair is an experience
who anyone goes to the Fair knows about and getting paid to do it is even better. One story goes something like this, "Got
real dogs in there?" Confused, I just looked up, and this guy looks me in the eyes, opens his jacket, and pulls out this little wiener dog. I blinked, and in that split second he was gone. To this day I will never know what happened.
any
The State Fair 2018 was a whole new State Fair for Pronto Pups. One like no one had ever experienced before.
Just about a month before the Fair began, there move to the new building. If anyone went to the Fair this year and didn't see the new, huge Pronto Pup building, you really missed out. The new building was a massive upgrade from our last one, going from working in a room about the size of a Harkness table, with the little slidey things pulled out, to a building about the size of the Huss stage. Our new building lead to a much needed upgrade for the production of the Pronto Pup.
The Pronto Pup workforce also just about doubled, thus leaving us with more time to have even more fun. This past Fair, I had the opportunity to move up from being just a simple utility guy to a much more advanced utility guy. I got this opportunity because of a hard work ethic, and according to one of my bosses, "I just did stuff when it needs to be done." I took this saying to heart. In my life outside the Fair, I started to try to do things that need to be done before someone tells me. This has improved my view on a lot of things, from homework to this speech. Another saying I took to heart at the Fair was work hard play hard. Don't get me wrong, working at the Fair is one of the hardest jobs I've ever had to do, long hours, hard labor, but at the same time, I've had some of the most fun with some of my best friends working by my side. Lastly, I learned that any job, from spearing hot dogs to writing a research paper, can be made easier if you just put on a positive attitude. Yes, making batter isn't always my favorite, but if I can have fun with it, the time will fly, and even if I dreaded it, it doesn't seem that bad.
Thank you.
Nitya Thakkar
What do you think people will remember about you at the end of
your
life?
I myself wonder if my friends will remember how supportive I was, if my teachers will remember how hard working I was
future children will remember how loving I was. We all want to be remembered, to be loved and to be considered an
or if
my
influential role model. But just as we think about how we may impact others, we often turn to the memories of those in our lives that influence us the most for guidance on how to act now.
My greatest role model passed away just a few months ago, but not a day goes by that I don't think about her and the legacy she left in me. You could easily look past her life, call her someone's daughter, sister, wife, mother, grandmother and then move on. She didn't win a Nobel Peace Prize or appear on Oprah, but my grandmother's story, my Nani's story, spans decades before I even knew her.
Born in 1932 in Mumbai, India, she was a feminist before the term became popularized. She was one of the few girls in her school and was among the few students to study in English, even though her classes were taught in Gujarati, This required a lot of self-motivation and hard work, but it paid off because she was fluent in English before entering college, a huge advantage over most other students since classes in college were taught in English. She got a degree in Economics in India and won a Ford Foundation scholarship to pursue a Master's degree in economics at the University of Chicago, an extremely distinguished and honorable award. However, she was not allowed to go because of her mother's poor health and her parents' reluctance to send their daughter across the world.
So, instead, she earned her Master's degree in Mumbai, still one of the only women in her class. Because she never got to study in the US, she made sure her three children would get the opportunity to pursue what they wanted through the US college system and be given every opportunity available to them so they could be independent and happy. And as simple as this may seem, it wasn't quite so easy: she faced criticism and opposition from just about all of her friends, the worst judgment coming from her conservative parents-in-law. My Nani's stubborn nature and strong-will prevailed, though, and all three of her children are now successful and living in the US, encouraging their own children, just as my Nani did, to put education first.
Her feminist forward thinking and stubbornly resolute nature stayed with her throughout her life and was something she passed on to her children. When her friends in India would ask her why her daughter at 27 wasn't married yet, she would tell them that she would much rather her daughter be single and independent and happy than in a dominating and unhappy marriage. She taught her daughter, and me, that our lives are measured by what we do with them and how happy we are at the end, not by how early we got married and how many children we had. Her progressive thinking scared people because they were scared that their traditional beliefs, rooted in hundreds of years of practice, were being challenged. But now, her progressive thinking is an inspiration for generations of young women, showing them that change is what we need to feel safe living as independent women. She was looked down on, laughed at and scoffed at, but in the end, her thinking prevailed.
Finding a balance between independence and emotional connections with others may be hard for most of us, but for Nani, it was central to who she truly was. She took care of my grandfather, my Nana, for over 7 years as he battled Alzheimer's, a devastating disease. At the age of 83, she did everything for him and selflessly put his needs before her own. She never stopped trying to make him smile. Towards the end of his life, when he was in the hospital, she would sleep on a cot next to his hospital bed and insist on staying with him for as long as she could, fully believing that her presence made him feel more peaceful. She was always up and about, refusing to let anyone do the cooking or fold the laundry when she was perfectly capable of doing it, even until a few hours before she died at 86. She was so hard-working, fiercely independent and raised her kids to share those exact same values that she embodied so well. And when she herself died a few months ago, she did so in less than a minute. She gave everything to everyone else to make them happy and yet took nothing from anyone else, even when she died.
To me, she was not just a grandmother but rather like a second mother and, most importantly, my best friend. She supported me and consoled me when no one could. Now that she is gone, I find myself discovering memories of her I didn't even know I remembered, maybe because I know that I will never have any new memories with her. Moments when she would make me chai when I was sick, or when we would go for walks outside together, talking about nothing in particular and allowing our voices to drift with the wind. I used to look forward to our annual visits to India every year, to seeing her warm smile and gladly eating all the food she would make. She cared for me, comforted me, spoiled me, and loved me. I'm only 17 and I would forget that I didn't have my whole life to share with her but she didn't forget that and so she made the most out of every minute that we shared together. She taught me that if I believe in myself, no matter what others thought and perceived about me, that I could be unstoppable. I would refer to her flat in India, Nishat, as my second home because it was her home and she was my home. Nishat was one of my favorite places to be because she would always be there. And right now, I would give anything for her to be sitting in this auditorium, listening to me give this speech.
I still don't think I've fully accepted her death. A week after she passed away I had my final orchestra audition, my ninth total. And I mindlessly expected her to call to wish me luck because even though her short-term memory started fading towards the end, she never forgot anything important in my life. I never got that call.
It was both a first and a last for me, my last audition and my first time not getting a call from her. Yet still, I could hear her enthusiastic and always optimistic voice in my head and her soft and graceful words telling me how amazing I would do.
I had never fully understood grief till before she died and I don't think anyone can until they've lost someone they truly love. You don't cycle through the five stages of grief nicely, assigning one stage to one week and getting over it as soon as possible. It has been 4 months since she passed away and I definitely have not accepted it yet, and that's ok. I may have not yet accepted the fact that I have lost a piece of my heart, a shoulder to cry on, someone to hug and love and honor but I have accepted the fact that I can't be strong all the time. That it's okay to cry and create painful gut-wrenching sobs and scream at the universe because grief has no limit but eventually, even though sometimes it doesn't seem like it, it does fade away.
I am devastated that she'll never know where I go to college, what job I get, who my husband is or what my children are like, but I'm at peace knowing that the lessons she's taught me will always be with me. That as long as I face the world as a strong and resilient person, I can face any outcomes.
While I lost her, I have gained so much from her. I have gained countless memories and valuable lessons I will carry with me forever, even though she is no longer here. So to all of you here today, I challenge you to take even a minute in your busy lives to pause. Think about who influences you. Think about what values they have passed on to you, what words of wisdom echo through your heads, even when they are no longer here to say them to you. And lastly, think about what kind of person you want to be and what lasting imprint you want to leave on others.
I dedicate this speech to my Nani and I hope her story has taught at least a few people in this audience that sometimes, the most important role models are simply the ones who unconditionally love and support you. And sometimes, all you have to do to make the strongest impact on others is simply to love. Thank you.
Riley Tietel
I am a duck hunter. Similar to someone who is a vegan, if you have talked to me for more than a few minutes, I am sure that you know this about me. Because of this, I figured I would share some stories from the activity that I feel so passionate about.
The first time I ever went duck hunting was the duck opener of my junior year. Unlike my friends who have families that love the outdoors and hunting, my family does not. Because of this, when I got invited to go on my first duck hunt I jumped at the opportunity. I woke up very early, driving to a small farm in Forest Lake on which my friends knew the land owner. We had been granted permission to hunt a small pond in between some corn fields. Before the sun came up, we began to set out decoys and brush in the blind. I was stuck brushing in the blind because I did not have waders, something that would later come to play in my favor. For those who don't know, waders are designed to keep water off of you up to about chest deep, they are similar to overalls but waterproof.
As they began to put out the decoy spread, I heard yelling and laughing, turning around to see one of my buddies almost neck. deep in mud and water, he had gone over his waders. He made it back to shore and they both decided to just throw the decoys out from shore instead of placing them out. After we had set up the spread, ducks started flying and we began shooting. Once we shot into the first flock, we realized we were missing one very important piece, a way to retrieve the ducks that had been shot. Just like before, my buddies went into the pond in waders hoping to get the ducks however, they quickly found out the pond was too deep and muddy to retrieve them. We were determined to get these ducks. This right here is why many people have dogs, so they do not have to struggle in the mud and water to retrieve their ducks. All three of us knew what would have to happen to get the birds. Finally after some persuasion, one of my buddies stripped down to just his underwear and socks. He had become our retriever. In one swift motion, he jumped into the water and began swimming, grabbing the ducks and throwing them back to us on the bank as we praised good dog. As the day played out, there was only one other group of ducks that was not able to be grabbed in waders. Because of this, my other buddy, the one who was laughing with me before got the short end of this stick and had to go for a swim. In the moment, it was very funny but about a week later, I was the
only one laughing when I found out they had gotten chiggers from swimming in the pond. This hunt ignited my passion for duck hunting.
Later that season, I went out with some other friends on a public marsh in hopes of shooting some more ducks. However, this time it was much later in the year. A thin layer of ice had formed on the surface of the water, telling me that the water and air was very cold. After my first hunt, I had invested in a very nice and warm pair of waders knowing that most days in the duck blind are cold and wet, something avoidable with good waders. Being the one who knew the marsh best, I was tasked with going first. I began to walk out to a beaver lodge, breaking up ice as I went. I made it to the lodge calling back, "it's not to bad, a little muddy at spots, just come over here". My buddies hesitated a little but eventually began to make the walk over.
What I had failed to tell my friends, or they had failed to notice, was that the walk over had one deep spot where the water goes to just over belly button height. As they began walking towards me, I started throwing out the decoys and thinking of how the birds would work into the spread. My work was sharply interrupted by the loud yelling of both of my friends. They had found out the hard way that their waders had holes around the waist area. Because of this, Ice cold water began to trickle down their waders, a fact that they reminded me of every ten minutes during the hunt. I went on to tell them the importance of having a good pair of waders.
I could share many more stories about duck hunting, and the things that I have experienced during my many hours spent chasing after waterfowl. However, there is more to duck hunting than people getting wet and freezing their butts off. For duck hunting, I wake up very early, often driving over 30 minutes to the spot and in the case of the river, another 30 minute boat ride to get to where I will set up. This down time spent on the river, in the marsh or in the truck are hours that I truly value, It is just you and your thoughts along with the occasional comment from your friends. Some of my best memories in life have come from hunting, and the time spent before it, whether its people getting wet in freezing cold water, watching a movie about clowns the night before and being concerned when the brush behind you moves or, the way that early hunters would sneak up on ducks from under the water, there is always something to laugh about when hunting.
Throughout this speech, I have failed to mention one thing about duck hunting, The role that firearms play in this activity that I am so passionate about. I have spent many early hours of the day with a gun in one hand and a duck call in the other, many of my best memories have included a gun being right beside me. Because of this, when people say they do not believe guns should be legal I have a very big problem with it. I firmly believe in the Second Amendment and that every american should have the right to own a firearm, endless of course they cannot pass a background check, which are a requirement in all commercial sale of firearms, even at gun shows. I believe that this country was founded on the idea of the Second Amendment. To me, firearms are tools that are used for activities such as hunting, sport shooting, target shooting and personal defence. To those people who say that the Second Amendment was made for hunting, implying that only firearms used for hunting should be legal, this statement to me is not accurate. To me, the Second Amendment was not created with hunting in mind however, the rights that are given to the american people by the Second Amendment give us the ability to put food on our tables by the means of hunting. When the Second Amendment was created, It stood to protect from a tyrannical government and on a personal level to protect oneself and family, while also giving the benefit of making hunting and target shooting possible. Many times I have heard people say that the Second Amendment is outdated, and that guns should be illegal, I truly fear for what will happen next. Our leaders will no longer have worry about citizens rising up and fighting the tyranny that they would be imposing. The leaders could make a society dependent on grocery stores with the lack of hunting capabilities, allowing food prices to skyrocket because there is no other means of acquiring it.
I know that most of this auditorium will disagree with what I just said. Please feel free to say what you want about what has been said today. However, remember you are using your First Amendment right to do that and if you take away the Second Amendment, it cannot be used to protect the first, and any of the other 27 amendments in the Constitution.
Zachary Tipler
Aristotle argued that every object, alive or dead has Four Causes. Matter, Form, Agent, and End. Matter, Aristotle argued, is the part of the object as determined by the materials that comprise it, or more simply, the physical thing the object is made of. Form is the part of the object determined by its shape, appearance, or arrangement, simply put, how something looks. Agent is the part of the object determined by the thing that made it. And End is the final goal or purpose of something. These
are disappointed when we fail to reach them. I wish there was an easy solution to this problem. There isn't a simple solution, but a straightforward one does exist. If we could simply ignore everything that we have been taught should make us happy, and instead merely decide to be happy with what we have, everyone's lives would be so much better. Unfortunately, humans don't work like that. We can't just wake up and decide to be happy, however nice that would be.
So the message of this speech isn't to do what makes you happy because I don't believe that doing so will make you happy. If the key to happiness were that easy no one would be sad and there wouldn't be speeches like these. I'm a perfectly healthy seventeen year old from a wealthy and loving family whose most significant life experiences are that time I went camping in the boundary waters with my friends, or maybe applying to college. I've never experienced any sort of real hardship, so for me to stand up here and pretend that I have a genuinely insightful message for you about how you should live your life would be disingenuous at best. I'm not going to tell you what you should do or how to live your life because I don't even know myself well enough to do that. I don't have an answer to the questions of what gives life meaning, or how to find happiness, only the idea that maybe your solution has to come from within.
All I can say to you is: I hope you're happy.
Nora Povejsil
It's a warm, sunny day in early June. I am nine years old. Riding in the back seat of my dad's beat up beige sedan, Nirvana's "Smells Like Teen Spirit" comes on the radio, blasting through the scratchy sounding speakers. My brother, Bruno, is in the front seat, my other brother, Max, next to me. Our dad is driving us back to our mom's house. When the chorus starts, the three of them start raucously singing:
"here we are now, entertain us/I feel stupid and contagious/here we are now, entertain us."
I sing along with them, but with slightly different lyrics. I sing at the top of my lungs:
"mashed potatoes and some gravy it's Thanksgiving, I love turkey."
The boys and my dad turn around, look at me, start laughing, and join in using my lyrics. They add on verses about liking stuffing and green beans with some bacon. Max switches over to singing the guitar part like he always does and Bruno harmonizes with dad and me as we scream sing our new song.
my
I love that memory. I think part of it has to do with the music. I've always loved Nirvana and my brothers' angsty adolescent music taste in general. I fell in love with their favorite bands, from Metallica to Cloud Cult, to Radiohead to Muse, to The Flaming Lips to Cake. But more importantly, it's one of the clearest memories I have of me, my brothers, and my dad hanging out without any of the ever-present tension that comes along with having an unstable parent.
From a young age, I always knew that my dad was different from
friends' my
parents.
He picked me up from school wearing leather jackets while other dads wore sweater vests and khakis. My dad smelled like cigarettes and coffee instead of Downy detergent or oaky cologne. I never got nervous when I saw my friends' parents drink a glass of wine or crack open a beer, but when my dad did the same things, an anxious feeling I couldn't explain settled in the bottom of my stomach.
At the time I didn't know about all of the issues that my dad had with alcohol or drugs. I just knew that he was my dad and that he didn't roll the way other dads did.
As I got older, though, I started to put the pieces together. The picture I ended up with isn't pretty. Now I know about the alcohol, the oxycodone, the fentanyl, the heroin, the trips to the emergency room, the pancreatitis at twenty-two, the surgeries, the rehab, the benders around the country, the drug dealer girlfriend, the promises, the relapses, the lies, the overdose.
It was June 23rd, 2012, when my dad overdosed on a lethal drug cocktail containing primarily heroin and fentanyl. His body was found three days later on June 26th.
It's been six years, but at times it still feels like six months. Thoughts still keep me awake at night about how my dad won't walk me down the aisle at my wedding, meet his grandchildren, see me graduate college, or the most painful right now, see me graduate high school this June. I think a lot about if we'd be close if he were still alive. I think we would.
Even though it would be difficult, and I would constantly be disappointed by him and his actions, sometimes the only person you can talk to is your dad. All his mistakes don't make me miss him any less.
A couple weeks before I started writing this speech I read a book called Beautiful Boy. It's a memoir chronicling the life of a father through his son's traumatic experience with meth addiction. Shortly after I read the book I saw the movie, starring Steve Carell and the love of my life, Timothée Chalamet. It hit me hard. It brought back feelings and memories I had suppressed for so long about what it's like to feel completely hopeless, to feel angry, sad, and afraid, but to still be driven by an intense, unconditional love.
How can someone go twenty years sober and then repeatedly relapse during the course of his baby girl's life?
How can my dad throw everything he loved away and leave me?
But at the same time, how do I continue to miss him, continue to love him, continue to defend him?
There's a line in Beautiful Boy where the father says, "he has a disease, but addiction is the most baffling of all diseases, unique in the blame, shame, and humiliation that accompany it. It's not Nic's fault he has a disease, but it is his fault that he relapses since he is the only one who can do the work necessary to prevent relapse. Whether or not it's his fault, he must be held accountable." Replace the name "Nic" with "my dad" and you have the story of my father's life and what it's like to think about his addiction and alcoholism.
I want all of you to know why I'm giving this speech. It's because I feel embarrassed when I talk about the fact that my dad was an alcoholic and an addict. I feel like that automatically makes people assume that he was a bad father, or that his death was somehow less impactful because it was his "choice."
you
all to
I decided to bite the bullet today and let everyone here know that I'm tired of the narrative around addiction. I need know my family's story so that the fact that overdose is the leading cause of death for Americans under 50 means something to you. So that the fact that 130 people in the U.S. will die from opioid overdoses today will have some impact. So that you know that rehabs are rarely based on hard science because the government barely funds research on hard drugs and that rehab is too expensive, and that rehab oftentimes isn't covered by insurance. So that we all understand and recognize that addiction is an epidemic and that this story is not unique. So that you stop talking about addicts like they're inherently bad people, that they're untrustworthy, that it's their fault. So that anyone with a loved one going through addiction or alcoholism or going through it themselves in this auditorium knows that they don't have to hide underneath the weight of the stigma. I'm here, and I'm willing to talk about it for hours.
I'm here for
you.
If I've learned anything in my life, it's that family is the best, most important thing in this world. Bruno is the emotional rock of my family. He is kind, gentle, insanely smart, and he gives the best hugs. I see my dad in Bruno in all of these ways. Max is the funniest person I have ever met, he is musically talented, and skilled at arguing. It's easy to draw comparisons between Max and my dad. My mom is literally the strongest person I will ever know. She kept our lives normal in the most chaotic situations imaginable, had the self-respect to stand up for herself and her kids, and worked past her own heartbreak and loss in order to be there for us. She is hilarious, a true fashion icon, and the most loving mother I could have ever asked for. As Big Sean says, "my mama's the man of the house."
And finally, I want to thank you, papa. Thank you for teaching me how to do the bridge when I shuffle cards, that there is indeed a correct way to make grilled cheese, that life without art is boring, that french toast requires french bread, and that making friends wherever you go is essential. Thank you for teaching me street smarts and grit. Thank you for making fun of Max for only listening to metal and Bruno for only listening to, like, three indie bands. They've come a long way since then. I love you more than I ever got to express to you. Thank you.
|
02
goals of the individual and the group absolutely line up. Unless you spend all of your time philosophizing, fully listening to others with an open mind is the only way to better your own thinking. Even if no one else treated you with respect, I believe it would still be to your advantage to be the bigger person and listen to others and be open to their ideas. Since this is not the case, and the majority of people will be respectful, the process of learning can be really rewarding. For me, the idea of living on a foundation of bad ideas and illogical thinking is really alarming, and recognizing that has allowed me to improve the way I think while also being better to the people around me.
To take everything full circle, I think there are two levels to looking at what I've said. First, on an individual basis, I think anyone can find immense personal benefit from self-examination and changing the way they interact with others to reflect a calm, logical, and empathetic approach. Second, looking at the big picture, I hope our nation can move past the pettiness that so often dominates the narrative, and in doing so become stronger than ever before.
Anna Perleberg
It's their turn in the talent show. The amphitheater is packed with counselors and campers. It's just getting dark enough to turn on the bright stage lights. Five ten year old girls run out in rainbow tutus and sugarlip tank tops. Two walk in from each side and one comes in straight down the middle. They have been working on this dance every day since camp had started two weeks ago. As they look out into the audience they can just barely make out their cabin cheering and holding up the paper signs they made in the art center the day before. As they stood on stage, the pause before the music started seemed to last forever. Then, Whistle by Flo Rida starts to blast from the speakers. The dance started with them all in their own poses that the counselors had helped them come up with. They can't remember a time when they felt so happy and close with a group of girls. They laughed through the whole dance, shaking and jumping around, all while singing along. They were young and carefree, wishing that these three minutes and fifty nine seconds could last forever. It is safe to tell you that they did not make the cut to the final show but the pure happiness they felt was worth more than winning.
They just saw a video of themselves. They ask for it to be deleted. Their smiles begin to fade and fear grows in its place. Fewer and fewer days feel carefree. Now when they walk it is with their head low. When they are asked to dress up, they say it's childish. They look at themselves with a different perspective, one in which they are watching themselves, and, more importantly, watching others watch themselves. They begin to criticize themselves the way they assume others do. They start to become aware of how they look, how they talk, how they act. They focus on themselves, and stop caring about others. Their confidence drops. The ease of thinking is lost and they are focused on other peoples' reactions. They look to others to decide who they are and who they want to be,
It is the same place. The same activities. The same friends. It's the same dirt roads. The same cheers. The same games. It is the same cabins. The same yellow buses. The same camp.
So what changed? Age. Adolescence. Awareness.
These girls are no longer 10 years old. They have grown up. They have been transformed by the three year difference between kid and teen. What happens in that brief but critical time period? It is the pressure to be accepted. The pressure to fit in. The pressure to be successful, to be perfect. And so much of fitting in seems to be based on who people think you are.
So what is it about growing up? People's freedoms are limited due to what others think. As kids grow older they become hyper self aware. These pressures put you in a box. They create a persona. Our identities are formed by internalizing how others see us. Over the years these judgments made by others mold and shape who you become. Who are you? Who am I? We look to others--subconsciously-- to construct our identities. Every look that you get on the street, every time that someone makes an assumption, even every compliment that is thrown your way, it changes who you are.
I
This awareness and internalizing accelerates during adolescence but it certainly doesn't stop after we've left our teen years. once read that 60% of adults can't have a ten minute conversation without lying at least once. Over 40% of people lie on their resumes and 90% of people lie on dating profiles. In general we lie about things that aren't very important. So why do we do it? It's because these are the little things that we think will make us more likeable or look better. It is the fact that people would rather be a liar than just be themselves. When did the idea that you aren't good enough become so deeply engraved into society
...
to the point where people change who they are based on what others want to believe? Is it because we don't like who we've become based on how we think others perceive us? I don't know. I've posed a lot of questions in this speech. And a lot of them are not rhetorical. I don't know the answers. What I do know is that it's important to think about these questions because this reality of so many of us worrying about what others think about us is having a terrible impact on our self esteem.
So how do we change this way of thinking? I try to see the world from the eyes of the 10 year old girl at camp and not take myself too seriously. I surround myself with friends who are not perfect and don't expect me to be. They accept me even though I can be loud and silly, bad at spelling and I tend to talk way too much. I take school and sports seriously but I don't revolve
my life around building my college resume when I would rather be watching reality TV and reading teenage drama novels.
I can't tell you what to do or who to be, but I can tell you that it is dangerous to try and be someone you are not. It is dangerous to be constantly comparing yourself to others. We all want to discover who we are, but if you are constantly seeking to be someone else, it sets you up for failure. Even if you don't know who you are yet, that is what highschool is all about. Take your time. Try new things. Step away from your phone. Embrace your imperfections, because that is what makes you you, that is what makes you special.
Michaela Polley
Until 7th grade, my family was Catholic. Really Catholic. We never missed Mass on Sunday. Even if we were camping in the middle of nowhere, my parents managed to find that one church 20 minutes away to attend service. They bought me a booklet which had the order of mass, the prayers, and the blessings in it. I always made sure to bring it with me. While all the other kids my age were drawing in coloring books or playing tic-tac-toe with their siblings, I was following along with the service. I went to Sunday School and started performing in the Christmas pageant as a 1st grader. I received First Communion in 2nd grade, joined the children's choir in 3rd grade, and became an altar server in 4th grade. By the time I got to sixth grade, I was old enough to be an altar server for the Holy Thursday service. I looked forward to the time when I would be an altar server at the Easter Vigil. As a high school senior, I would be confirmed in the St. Paul Cathedral, in essence, becoming an adult member of the church.
Then one day, we skipped church.
I didn't know what was happening. Then my parents dropped a bombshell:
We were leaving the Catholic Church. We were going to start attending a Lutheran church instead.
I freaked out. I was convinced that I was eight years behind my Lutheran classmates in Bible study, wouldn't be able to join in their Confirmation lessons, and would never know enough or be enough, all because I had been Catholic for twelve years. Never could I have been more wrong.
I was immediately welcomed into a new Lutheran congregation and soon started attending Sunday School and Confirmation classes. I found out that because of my Catholic upbringing, I actually knew more about religion, faith, and the Bible than my classmates did. I was proud that I knew the facts and could answer every question the teacher asked. My hand was always raised and my teacher would often ask for volunteers, and specify "not Michaela."
While the core beliefs of Catholicism and Lutheranism are the same, they do have many important points where they diverge from one another. At age 12, I was forced to think long and hard about what I truly believed. Did I believe in the virgin birth? Did I believe that only men could be ordained?
During this time I pondered the idea of whether one religion was better than another. In the Catholic church, women cannot become priests and priests must not marry. My new Lutheran church had a female and a male pastor and both were married. The female pastor did just as well as the male one. Why shouldn't she be ordained? I had been taught that Catholicism was the one right answer and I started to question that. Were the Lutherans actually right and the Catholics wrong? The textbooks didn't give me an answer. Hence, my usual method was not going to work.
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Over time I recognized there need not be just one right answer. Why do we argue over the specifics where we disagree instead of focusing on the areas where we do agree? Not just within Christianity, but across all world religions.
In 9th grade, I heard a presentation on pluralism, which encourages interfaith interactions and conversations rather than just tolerance. This really resonated with me. I believe that God is beyond mortal understanding and that all religions are using different methods to try to understand God better. Only through interfaith conversation can we develop a fuller understanding of God.
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When we had the world religions unit in history that year, pluralism encouraged me to look at each one with the questions "What can I learn from this religion? How does this better help me understand who or what God is?". This became the lens through which I started to view every conversation that I had about religion - learning, not judging. Once on a bus ride home from a math meet we were all comparing our traditions and beliefs. One girl was Hindu. My first instinct was to dismiss her out of hand - how could anyone believe in reincarnation and the idea that this world is all an illusion? But then I took a step back. I listened. I asked questions. I found places where we agreed. I learned. This conversation made me think about beliefs surrounding the after-life and pushed me to think critically about what felt right to me - not just what I had learned in a textbook.
my
There was still something that didn't fit for me, though, and that was the idea that people needed to be "saved" by God. Even after wrestling with it for a while, it still didn't seem right. The idea that every human has the stain of an "original sin" which could only be removed by believing in the Risen Christ and being baptized into the Christian faith didn't sit right with me. I had met a lot of people who were Jewish, Muslim, Atheists, or Hindu who were wonderful, blessed people. I was able to have meaningful conversations about religion with them, even though they had never been baptized.
I kept thinking about this and then this past summer I had the opportunity to spend three weeks at Wilderness Canoe Base
a Lutheran Camp in the Boundary Waters. At one of our staff meetings, an interesting idea was shared with the group: Creation-Centered Spirituality. The basic premise is that everyone is inherently holy and blessed because each person is created by God. Instead of an "Original Sin" there is an "Original Blessing." Creation-Centered Spirituality also believes that God is continually creating the universe and we are called to participate in this process.
For me, this was the answer. Everyone is blessed. Everyone is sacred and holy and deserves to be treated with respect and dignity because everyone is human. There is nothing that they could ever do to lose this blessing.
They don't need to be baptized or go to church or believe in any God. Just because they are human they are a blessing.
Unlike Humanists, I still believe in a God. I still believe in Heaven and eternal life after death. I believe that God walks with us in our struggles. I take comfort in my belief in God, but understand that others might not find comfort in believing, and that is okay.
My faith journey from Catholic to Lutheran, and learning about pluralism and creation-centered spirituality has taught me how to talk to others about religion. When I have conversations about religion I seek to understand. I avoid minimizing differing beliefs or searching for paradoxes in their logic. This invites deeper conversation. I have found that the questions that others then ask me in return deepen my faith and help me figure out what I truly believe.
I am no longer that eager, hand raising little girl who reads the Bible and her Sunday School textbook, thinking she has all the right answers and following the rules without thinking. I ask questions and don't just answer them. I am the woman who can listen, learn, reflect, and not just answer and judge.
And I am also grateful for the constant reminder that just by existing, I am, as are you, blessed.
Jonathan Pomerantz
The season four premiere of The West Wing, a two part episode titled "Twenty Hours in America," is spectacular television. While I strongly recommend that everyone watches The West Wing, I'm not going to bore you with its details. The part
I'm interested in occurs at the very end of the second episode. It concludes with the President giving an uplifting address regarding a bombing which had resulted in dozens of deaths. The speech is beautifully written, centering around the phrase "the streets of heaven are too crowded with angels tonight." It's an emotionally powerful moment that sends shivers down my spine every time I rewatch it. When he is asked about when he wrote the speech, the President's speechwriter replies that he wrote it in the car on the way to the event. This story, while obviously fictional, has its echoes in the real world. Famously, Mozart wrote the score for the opera Don Giovanni either the day before or the very day on which it was scheduled to premiere. Not everyone who is talented is on the level of Mozart or the fictional president's speechwriter, but the fact remains that some people are simply born with a greater capacity for action than other people. Two unequally talented people who work exactly as hard as each other will not end up in the same place. Life just isn't fair, and that sucks, but denying the fact won't change it.
My parents told me growing up that I could do anything I wanted to if I just put my mind to it, but that's not true. No matter how hard I work I'll never be as good at writing as Ernest Hemingway or at basketball as Lebron James. Max Lipsett, coach of SPA's Boys Varsity Soccer team, preaches the maxim that hard work beats talent when talent fails to work hard. It's ironic then, that the fortunes of our Boys Varsity Soccer team fell almost entirely onto the shoulders of Eric Lagos, easily the most naturally talented player on the team. Because the truth is, if talent decides to work just a little, no amount of hard work can bridge that gap. This isn't to say that people shouldn't work hard, just that they should do so with the full knowledge that they are working to differentiate themselves within the mediocrity of the 25th to 75th percentiles which define the majority of almost everyone's lives. At some point, through no fault of your own, no matter the dedication or passion with which you throw yourself into something, you will come across a wall that you cannot climb.
Of course, there is nothing wrong with mediocrity. There is no intrinsic force of the universe which says I will be a disappointment unless I excel. The question that then remains is what motivates people to strive for excellence despite the ease of sliding into mere adequacy.
Many people are driven by the thought of the legacy that they will leave behind when they die. While I can understand the basic desire to be remembered, to think that your life will have been of some significance, I can't help but think that it is all ultimately meaningless. Just as I don't know anything about my Great-Great Grandparents; my Great-Great Grandchildren will forget everything about me other than the 1/16th of my DNA that they keep. Even if I manage to leave a legacy that will be remembered by people other than my family and friends, at some point my name will be uttered for the last time, never to be said again. Nothing will remain of what I did here on Earth, and no one will care that I have been forgotten. From dust we came and to dust we will return. Keeping this in mind, it is hard to find a reason to do anything at all. Unfortunately, the knowledge of the futile nature of my life doesn't help to assuage the existential feeling of emptiness which it causes. The idea that we as humans do not have an ingrained purpose for our lives is a scary one. But this idea can also be liberating, if there is no divine meaning handed down from on high, it allows you the freedom to live by a code of your own design.
This freedom can be both a blessing and a curse. It blesses you with the ability to decide what is and isn't right but also curses you with the moral weight of your actions. The solution that I have found to my fear of the future is to ignore it in favor of present. The happiness I feel in this moment, while ultimately trivial, feels just fine in the meantime. Unfortunately, there are a few problems with how we deal with happiness.
the
We have promoted a collective delusion that the only route to real happiness is through becoming, to quote my mother, a productive member of society. The key problem with this idea is that it delegitimizes the otherwise acceptable ways in which people might find happiness outside of traditional norms. Putting aside concerns of sustainability and meaningfulness, there is no fundamental difference in between settling down with a white collar job, a spouse, and two kids, and watching TV for twelve hours a day for the next thirty years, as long as both would make me happy. But we are told that we will only find true happiness if we choose the first option. I have been taught for as long as I can remember that my only acceptable path for life was one which led straight through college. My parents put the highest priorities on my education, so that when the time came I would be in the best position to launch myself into the real world. I don't begrudge them for placing their priorities on my success rather than my happiness. Happiness is a slippery concept, and raising a kid to just be happy would almost certainly be a pursuit bound for failure. I believe that they made the right decision and if I ever have kids I intend to raise them in the same manner. The crux of this problem is that there is no easy answer to how to best live your life.
Despite this, we still constrain ourselves by living our lives with a pointed desire to fit into prescribed ideals, to do what everyone else is doing. The fundamental irony of the modern world is that we invent the conditions of our own happiness and
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not going to stand up here and claim with certainty that the President has committed crimes worthy of serious punishment, but if he was, we wouldn't be able to find out and we certainly wouldn't be able to do anything about it.
The unitary executive thought also gives The President more power to control every agency in government, much more than he was elected with. According to the Atlantic, Justice Kavanaugh believes that the president, and, coincidentally, federal judges, are singularly responsible for regulation. He believes that Congress should not be involved in setting the rules that impact everyone's lives and the planet's future. All of this combined would lead to an incredibly undemocratic American system, where presidents are not held accountable for crimes they commit and would have unchecked power over our institutions. The worst part is that this increase in presidential power won't have been what the people wanted: according to Newsweek, only 1 out of the 5 conservative justices on the court have been appointed by someone who won the popular vote to get into office, and that one happens to be another Justice credibly accused of sexual misconduct. Justices Alito and Roberts were both appointed by Bush, who, arguably, only ended up in office because the Supreme Court decided against a recount. Gorsuch and Kavanaugh were both appointed by Trump, who was 3 million votes behind his opponent.
And that's most ironic, because we're supposed to model democracy for the rest of the world, despite slipping into something far from it. The confirmation of Justice Kavanaugh was not a sudden development, and neither is the decline of our democracy. Our elections and our leaders have become less representative of the population as a whole, and those same leaders seem to only fight for more power.
And I can't bring myself to say that both parties are equally responsible, for one party is far more undemocratic than the other. The majority of people in this country have been told for the last two years by Republicans to listen to "real America," as if their constituents are somehow more "real" than Democratic voters. Ask yourself what that means. It's a call for us to listen to those in white rural states, who, because of the senate and electoral college, have the most political power. That's not democracy. We should listen to all of us, in this room, in this state, in this country, not just those with more voting power. The Republican message, at its core, is a call for us to ignore the majority because of outdated norms set by the slave states more than 220 years ago, but outdated norms can and should be broken.
I really didn't want to write a "Trump bad" or "Kavanaugh bad" speech, but we're choosing to ignore how abnormal and tiring the last 2 years have been. I want to be able to be unbiased and friendly, but the more unbiased I am, the more I see how much we're falling apart. I see the President saying that protest should be illegal, tweeting about banning a news network he doesn't like, and whose own senior staff has to constantly prevent him from running this country into the ground. I see Trump's willful ignorance of national security concerns because of his involvement with Russia. I see a court that could give the President unprecedented power and rule that he is above the law. I see in the mirror my own eyes that are constantly tired of every single day, where more news comes out about our leaders subverting our will but nothing is done.
Here's the thing: I used to be and could have been a Republican. I believe in free markets, in free trade, in the rights of the individual. The division that has consumed this country could probably cause any politician ignore the rule of law and our fundamental rights. If we weren't in this situation we could very well have had an undemocratic and corrupt Democrat as president, but we don't, so we need to face that.
You probably think I'm too unimportant to make any impact on the decline of democracy. You'd be right, but I have these 7 minutes and I want to make my voice heard. And what is protest if not a collection of unimportant people making their voice heard in whatever way possible. What is democracy if not a collection of unimportant people choosing who has the privilege of leading them? In order to restore the voice of the people in our politics we have to try, to vote, to protest, to pay attention. I might be preaching to the choir, but it's necessary when the choir needs to be doing more. If Kavanaugh's legal thought is enforced, we will have to work to elect people that will break the gridlock of congress and check the president. It's not just about solving Trump, he's just a symptom, but solving the unaccountability, the decline of the very system we champion, the fundamental brokenness at the core of our country. I was in history class a couple weeks ago, and I noticed that we've strayed further before, with presidents banning dissent and silencing critics. We, as a country, also started in a much less free place than we are now. It gave me hope, that people like us, each and every one, are the ones who sustain our values, who pass them down from generation to generation. As in the past, this will require hard work, by everyone who feels angry, or voiceless, or just plain tired of the direction our country is heading in. Our government will only ever be as accountable as its citizens make it, and it will only ever be good if we don't give up.
But if we work hard enough, if we push back on those in power as so many before us have done, future generations won't remember Kavanaugh or Trump, they'll remember the restoration of our democracy. Thank you.
Garrett Small
Everyone in the world experiences struggle in some shape or form. Some experience more struggle than others but at the end of the day, everyone has their own battles to fight. This common experience of struggle allows us to relate to each other on the most basic level. Because of this, everyone can have some sort of appreciation for someone being there for them when they aren't doing well. This empathy can really help others during their hard times and you during yours. And it applies to everyone, including people with advantages that others don't have. As an SPA student, many might assume that I don't have problems with anything in the world because my family has the money to solve it.
I can tell you that this is not the case.
There are many problems and setbacks that people encounter that cannot be solved by any price. I have had many setbacks in my life and money wasn't the answer to them. Just from my junior year alone I've had plenty. From these challenges I have learned valuable lessons that I will never forget. These struggles that I have had, and lessons I have learned, shaped me into the person I am today. The first example from last year relates to loss, specifically from death.
Death can be expected or completely unexpected depending on the circumstances. Regardless, dealing with death is no easy task that no one should have to endure and yet everyone does. On Easter Sunday I had received news that a good friend of mine named Myles Osgood passed away. When I first heard the news I was shook but it felt so surreal to me. I couldn't believe a friend who I've shared so many precious memories with died at just 20 years old. I was in the midst of junior year with plenty of other things on my mind like academics and tests and what not. It was hard to balance the grieving process and school, but I had to power through.
I
spent almost all of my mental energy on school and not allowing myself even to think about Myles. This worked for a while, but one day it just hit me, I was playing Call of Duty for the first time in a while. I was alone and I would usually play with Myles and my cousin Mason. At that moment I thought to myself that I would love to play a match with Myles one last time or at least be able to chat with him in an Xbox live party. After this I was wrecked. I was so sad because I had finally come to the realization of what death actually entails. That even the smallest things you loved doing with someone would no longer be possible.
I would never be able to receive his goofy snapchats that I loved so much ever again. I would never get to nerd about Dragon Ball Z with him ever again. I would never be able to simply speak to Myles ever again. Not even one last time to ask him how he is doing.
My cousin Mason was best friends with Myles and was obviously wrecked by this as well. It was so helpful to have someone who I am so close to be able to relate to me so well. He experienced every bit of this pain and much more. I learned to cherish your time with your friends, and live to the fullest because you never know when a loved one or your own life will come to an end. And I realized how meaningful it was to have someone like Mason who could relate to my sorrow. He understood what I was going through, so I didn't feel alone, and he helped me process my own thoughts so I could make sense of them.
Another setback, which was quite different but nevertheless very challenging, that I had was being diagnosed with ADHD. I had guessed that I had some sort of ADD/ADHD in the past but I didn't do anything about it until junior year. I had many appointments and had to meet with a med specialist a lot to find the right prescription that could help. This caused me to miss a lot of school and I got pretty far behind in most of my classes.
With help from my teachers, Dean Delgado, Ms. Short, and Ms. Eidem I was able to get back on track and excel in the rest of the school year. This taught me the most valuable lesson I have learned to date: that it's ok if you need help. Having a team of people on your side really makes a difference and can make your life a lot easier.
I understand that this is a luxury that most people do not get to experience in their schools, and for that I am extremely
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from
your
life and addressing them is what constitutes gratitude. I think gratitude is a key to happiness, and a path to being appreciative
and content in our lives. And I think this season and other holidays throughout the year help us take time to
of practice gratitude, but if it's so important, then why can't we be this way at all times of the year? I recognize that so many us are busy and it's understandable that we often lose sight of what we're thankful for. I think it's critical, though,,, and taking the time to notice the sources of gratitude in different facets of my life has helped center it for me.
My mom is a physician, and many of her colleagues implement gratitude boosting techniques in their practices to console their patients. Sometimes patients who are not in the right state of mind come into her office unhappy, often disappointed about how their lives, injuries, and conditions have unfolded. My mother and her colleagues use gratitude techniques to attempt to reframe these people's thought processes, to elicit more happiness from them, and to help guide their lives into a more positive direction.
I've tried to implement this in my own life. Each day for the past three months, I have written down three things from that specific day that I am grateful for. One example is that I am able bodied enough to play the game I fell in love with: Hockey, which I wrote the night after I saw a teenage boy at a Wild game cheering in a wheelchair. Another more mundane but nevertheless important example is the times my friends have told me stories at lunch that have made my day a million times better. Listing what I am grateful for has brightened my day, and my interactions with others have become more genuine, positive and uplifting,
Furthermore, research has proven that practicing daily gratitude has positive effects on participant's lives compared to those who don't. A study published by Harvard Health Publishing run by Dr. Robert A. Emmons of the University of California, Davis, and Dr. Michael E. McCullough of the University of Miami states that in the experiment: "One group wrote about things they were grateful for that had occurred during the week. A second group wrote about daily irritations or things that had displeased them, and the third wrote about events that had affected them (with no emphasis on them being positive or negative). After 10 weeks, those who wrote about gratitude were more optimistic and felt better about their lives. Surprisingly, they also exercised more and had fewer visits to physicians than those who focused on sources of aggravation." This study was run similarly to the way I have practiced gratitude, and I myself have experienced the positive results also.
While my mother's profession gave me a helpful daily practice, the story of my dad's life has truly inspired me. He grew up in Warsaw, Poland, as the nation struggled under Soviet domination. He grew up disadvantaged and his family's life was not stable. My dad did not have much in his life that he could control because the government regulated it entirely. My Dad did not want to spend his entire life in poverty, and have his life shaped by Poland's predominance, so he decided to hit the books hard. He took about five months of his life as a seventeen year old and studied for his exams. He isolated himself and had the goal of getting into medical school, which comes straight after high school in the Polish education systems. He realized the effort that it would take to achieve his dreams and aspirations.
up
My dad ended up getting into medical school, where he spent six years studying. Once he got his diploma, he got his U.S. work visa and flew to Chicago. He later got transferred to North Dakota to complete his residency at UND, where he ended meeting my mom. They later returned to Chicago, where he completed his fellowship at the Chicago Medical School. Once he completed all of this, his visa required him to work in a medically underserved area, which sent my parents to a small town of 2,000 people in Michigan named West Branch, I was born there about a year into their move, we ended up staying for two more years, until they both found jobs in St. Paul.
When I was younger I never realized how important my Dad's actions were, and how difficult it was for him to achieve the modern version of the American Dream. As I grow older, I realize how hard his life must have been compared to how simple it seems now. What I still had not come to realize until recently is how grateful I am for him to have worked as hard as he did. Without his self-motivation, my family's life would not be as trouble-free as it is now, and I would never have been born.
This applies to all of us too. Gratitude allows people to be happy at all times of the year, from when the calendar tells them to be jolly, until when it doesn't give any direction for emotion. There are many simple ways to practice, for example, before any family dinner tell the table what you are thankful for, similar to a Thanksgiving dinner. It will boost the mood of the people at the table, and will make your day better. A minute out of your day taken to practice gratitude over time can turn into a major enhancement of one's mood consistently. A popular goal among people is the pursuit of happiness, and gratitude is a simple step we can all take towards achieving it.
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Senior year so far has seen those two personalities grow further apart from each other. Applying to college and receiving decisions has been the focus of my year. And while I would speculate about the impact they would have on my future, they perfectly described how I was feeling at present: mixed. After my final soccer season ended, I tried to keep my connections with my teammates as close as possible, and to some extent I have.
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Those friendships for me were a lifeline - people who always pushed me to be that best person, even when I didn't think I could. But I also had a lot hit me at the same time. My priest was put on leave the week before I turned in my applications with no immediate explanation, and the candidate I had worked for over the summer, Dan Feehan, who had become a role model of mine, lost his election by a little over 1,300 votes. Both of these losses devastated me. The time that I had spent putting myself out there felt like it had gone to waste, and my support system came crashing down faster than I had realized. I felt that person who was unsure of themselves take control of me, changing my behavior and attitude. I became increasingly combative and pushed friends away that I had spent months and in some cases years bonding with. And while that insecure person inside of me had gotten the best of me, I refused to let it control me. I desperately wanted to gain back those friendships that I had so frustratingly put on the line, so I tried talking to and spending time with those friends more often. And as I spoke with them more, I saw that person in me who I knew was always there: the smart, funny, confident person that most people had seen in me, but I had not seen in myself in a long time.
There are many people who I need to thank for their unwavering support of me. Joey and Jai, thank you for being the best friends I could have asked for.
To the soccer team, thank you for always pushing me to be my best self and for believing in me. To Dan, Hahn, and the rest of the Dan Feehan team, thank you for giving me the best summer experience I've ever had. To the Saint Mary's community, thank
you for welcoming me all the time, no matter where I felt I was on my spiritual journey. And last but not least, thank you
with ? to my mom and dad for showing me unconditional love all the time. And for those of you listening, let me leave you lesson I learned from my social experiences: put yourself out there.
I was extremely nervous about soccer tryouts, music auditions, door-knocking for the first time, and sitting for my first Vestry meeting. But those few hours of stress led me to have some of the best experiences of my life. Taking advantage of these opportunities and putting myself out there was the only way that I could make those connections, and though it was not easy, seeing the confident, happy side of me coming out was worth everything I put in.
Next year, when I go off for college, I will no doubt have this same fear. But based on what my social experiences in high school have taught me, I know that I have to put myself out there, and while it may be uncomfortable, it might become one of the best decisions I've ever made.
Kelby Wittenberg
Most people don't consider taking action on an issue unless it affects them directly. It's easy to see why. Why should you put the effort towards changing something if it doesn't affect you? It often takes a personal experience to make a person realize how little is being done about a societal problem. Only then do individuals become people that advocate for something they previously didn't care about. This happened to me just last year. I had a friend tell me that she had been sexually assaulted. It changed me; and that's when I started noticing the problems our society has with consent and rape culture.
When speakers stand on this stage and address problems about rape culture and sexism, the majority of the speakers tend to be female. When the occasional man stands here and addresses these very same issues, I've noticed that they seem to get more attention and people find what they've talked about more memorable. This is a problem and but one symptom of the sexism in our society. My voice should not be more important because I am a man, but, while it is treated that way, I would like to use my unearned privilege to further equity. We all have a role in rape culture, and part of my role is challenging it and encouraging you all to dismantle it. Today, I will use my privilege to talk about two specific variables that perpetuate rape culture: consent and how we treat victims of assault.
Consent. It's a seven-letter word that can change someone's life forever. Consent. It's the permission for something to happen. The word consent can be applied to many different situations but here I will be talking about how it relates to sexual activity between two people.
Consent must be present between both people in order for their actions not to classified as sexual assault. Consent must be clear and both parties must make it explicit to the other what they are consenting to. There is no loophole, no trick, no confusion about what is clear consent,
Yes means yes and no means no. If you have not gotten the consent for something you do not have the permission for it. If you're not sure what your partner wants, you can't proceed. The boundaries for what is consent should be crystal clear.
If your partner can't say yes, then it isn't a yes.
If
your partner says yes, then no, it isn't a yes.
If your partner says nothing, it isn't a yes.
You need a yes. On the other hand, no does not mean "convince me". A no is a no and that's final. The reason I'm so clearly outlining these guidelines is because I don't want you to be that person who causes the pain and suffering my friend had to go through. It is devastating to see someone who is so bright and confident stripped of those characteristics because of the irresponsible and thoughtless disrespect and disregard of what it means to control your own body.
The discussion around consent and supporting victims of assault needs to start carlier in life. Often, adults worry that teenagers need to be educated about consent before they go off to college, but I'd like to push back on this point and say this is something that needs to be taught starting in middle school. Statistics show females aged 16 to 19 are 4 times more likely than the general population to be victims of rape, attempted rape, or sexual assault. This problem only gets worse as kids go off to college.
You might not know just how severe this problem is. A study published by the Bureau of Justice Statistics concluded that 20 to 25% of college women are victims of sexual assault during their four years of schooling. Men experience sexual violence in college too, although the likelihood that that it will occur is much lower, about 1 in 18 compared to 1 in 5 for women. This needs to change, and I believe it can start with better consent education during high school. Starting in 9th grade, and even maybe as early as 8th grade, it needs to be taught how imperative it is that consent is present in all personal encounters. There need to be mandatory courses every year of highschool reminding kids what constitutes assault. At points when I've walked SPA's hallways, I've heard female-identifying members of my class at points voice interest in limiting their college search to all- women's colleges in order to lower their chance of being raped. Is this really how women should be choosing their education? On the basis of how likely they are to be assaulted?
Something that also needs to change is how we support victims of sexual assault. The Rape, Abuse & Incest National Network reported that only 20% of female student victims aged 18 to 24 reported their assault to law enforcement. The most common reason for not reporting an assault was because women they thought they would be punished. Right now, our culture asks too much about the victim, like what they were wearing and where they were. It leads to a cycle of second guessing and self doubt that leaves the victim sullen that they had not acted or dressed differently. For men that are victims, it is too often the case that their story won't be heard, believed, or taken as seriously because it doesn't seem "manly" for men to be raped. We need to better support these victims so that they feel comfortable enough to take action against those that have seriously impacted their lives.
Victims are often ashamed to report something so personal because they think no one will believe them, that their names will be dragged through the mud, and because they worry that their past will be used against them. This is absolutely not acceptable and we need to change the stage on which these victims speak so that they don't feel like what they experienced wasn't that important.
Currently, we're living in a society that is struggling and failing to correct its mistakes of the past. It seems like every week a another celebrity is accused of acting inappropriate around others. If anything, this shows how profound an impact we can have on another's life if we aren't considerate of what they want. Many of these cases brought in the public spotlight contain events that happened years ago, but the victims still choose to act because of how it affected their lives. The court cases that we're familiar with are only plastered across mainstream media because they involve the rich and famous. Just a couple weeks ago, the nation watched as Dr. Ford was mercilessly blamed for being a victim, with no actual consequence for a new Supreme Court justice. There are countless other lawsuits filed by ordinary people that go unnoticed that contain the exact same
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and interracial families face. Unlike many of you, I didn't hear stories about how my parents grew increasingly excited as their delivery date got near. Instead, I heard how happy my parents were when their referral to adopt a child was finally approved, and the story of the time they first met me, not in a hospital room seconds old, but in a hotel in southern China, the age of ten and a half months. I didn't grow up hearing jokes where the punchline was "you're adopted" because that wasn't a joke, it was simply my life.
It seems that many people I meet, upon hearing that I am adopted, are burning to ask questions that are ignorant at best and downright rude at worst. People have asked "how much did your parents pay for you?" or "oh, they hate girls in China, you're so lucky to be here" or "are you and your sister real sisters?" or "wow, you must be so grateful to your parents for rescuing you" or "don't you ever want to find your real parents?" The fact that I am a different ethnicity from my parents also seemed to justify the questions. I didn't even realize it was unusual to have parents that are a completely different race than me until other people continued pointing it out, making me feel as if our family should be divided among racial lines, when it had never been before.
I know that some comments, while ignorant, are not ill-intended. But despite positive intentions, being at the receiving end of probing or judgemental statements turns curiosity into what feels like an interrogation. While the range of questions and comments I've gotten may not seem that outrageous on their own, when I hear them so much that they become expected, it points to a deeper meaning. To the people who say these things, it feels like their curiosity is more important than my comfort, and I am reduced to just my racial identity and adoption, rather than who I am as a whole person.
It's somehow even more complicated to explain my identity to other people when I'm not with my family. As someone who is a private person, it took me a long time to get to the point where I was even comfortable talking about race and saying "I was adopted." Yes, I am Chinese American but I am also adopted and for me, separating those two terms does more harm than good. As expected, people treat me like I am a typical Chinese American person with Chinese parents. When asked if I speak Chinese, I respond "Yes, but because I went to immersion school, not because I speak it at home." Chinese New Year doesn't bring memories of family and reunion, it brings memories of school performances, and parties at my best friend's house to celebrate since her mom was actually Chinese.
For those of you who have ever used an adoption insult towards a biologically related sibling, ask yourself why it's such a horrible thing to not share the same genetics. Does only blood determine a family? For those who have ever inquired whether my sister and I are "real" sisters, ask yourself, "what purpose will knowing if they are biologically related serve?" Will you treat me differently now that you know my family isn't made up of blood relatives, and if so, why? And, for those of you who are even a little uncomfortable with anything I've said so far, ask yourself, should someone talking about her family make me this uncomfortable?
I would like to note that I have not had the majority of my more negative experiences while in the SPA community. For most of my time here, I have been fortunate enough to not face daily scrutiny of my identity, and can live and learn peacefully as my Chinese American adoptee self. After transferring in sophomore year, I thought it was a miracle how everyone seemed to take the fact that I was a Chinese adoptee in stride, and I was relieved that I didn't constantly have to explain or justify my identity to anyone. My friend group was especially accepting, and I still appreciate how my identity is not something that alienates me from them.
However, no community is perfect, and that includes ours. A recent incident showed me that my identity is not quite as understood as I had previously thought. When Chinese adoption was brought up in a conversation between some classmates, I was surprised by their negative views. When I asked for a clarification of their opinions, the conversation was immediately shut down with defensive comments like "I don't want you to call me a racist." Students at SPA, a school that prides itself on teaching us to intelligently discuss hard topics, refusing to discuss those hard topics? I was disappointed, especially since this was the perfect time for my classmates to learn from someone who is actually a Chinese adoptee, and they handily rejected that opportunity.
I thought about this incident for the next few days. While it was just a short exchange, the larger implications of the ideas expressed there worried me more than they had in the moment. I was talking about the incident with friends a few days later, and one asked me "Does it matter if they know you're adopted?" My automatic response was a resounding "Yes of course it does," but that question then prompted a new set of questions. I asked myself, why does it matter that anyone know I'm adopted? Why do I care that my friends, classmates, and teachers know this about me? Why have so many seniors, year after
year, stood on this stage and given speeches about their own complex identities, particularly racial ones?
I don't know if there's a conclusive answer to this question. For me, my ethnicity, gender, adoption, and multiracial family aren't secondary to who I am as a person; they are core pillars of my being. I can't just be a student here; like all of us, I have several parts, and I think that's ultimately why many people, not just past and future seniors, have felt the need to share often misunderstood aspects of their identity.
I acknowledge that my story will serve as some of the first exposure many of you have had to conversations about international and interracial adoption by an adoptee. I can never be a representative of either Chinese Americans or adoptees as a whole, and my experiences are simply part of a larger narrative. I don't want you to walk out of this auditorium newly and completely understanding of what it means to be a Chinese Adoptee. That is impossible.
It is clear, just by looking at our community and the surrounding world, that issues of race, culture, and identity are never going to be neatly boxed up, and I don't think they should be. I now appreciate my complicated identity, and I think more critically about issues of race and belonging because of it. These experiences have helped shape me to be who I am today. I hope by sharing them, you will begin to examine and change the way you think about other people's and your own identity. Yes, we are a school of great thinkers and doers, but I don't believe we can truly be a place for the people who will change the world until all of us, students, teachers and the administration, continuously work to destigmatize identities, and create an environment where our differences are accepted and valued.
William Swanson
My heart was pounding; my legs ached, my arms stiff. But I saw my goal, I looked forward at it, knowing that I was so close yet so far. I summoned all the energy I had left, and with a rush of adrenaline, I pushed to the goal. I could hear people cheering; the shouting just pushed me to run faster, stronger. I looked to my left, and in that split second, someone ran in front of me. I had two options, swerve or stop. In that moment of panic, three more appeared around me. I was surrounded. I knew what was going to happen even before it did; I braced for the impact. Then, I heard it.
"Do you sell Pronto Pups out of your cart?"
Working at the Minnesota State Fair is something almost impossible to describe. The huge crowds, the food, the late nights, and all the chaos makes it my favorite 12 days of the year. Two years ago I started working for the best food stand at the Fair: Pronto Pups. Oh, and saying that they are the best is not just an opinion, they sell the most product of every single vendor at
the Fair.
And
yes, more does means best. It's that simple.
The big boss at the Pronto Pups, Gregg Karnis, is a close family friend of ours. One day Gregg asked my dad if I would want to work at the Fair. I told my dad that I'd love to, my young self not realizing what I was getting myself into. I only began to comprehend what was going to happen to me the night before the Fair began when all the new workers meet some returners. Naturally, I wore a bucket hat at seven P.M., and thus got myself the nickname "Bucket."
I quickly learned the ropes of working at Pronto Pups. In addition to "Bucket" my other, more official title was "The Utility Guy." I was given this name because of my vast knowledge of the process of making a Pronto Pup. The first step, spearing hotdogs.
It is a simple operation that only needs one person, but four to five work best. It involves a machine that spears 50 at a time, with people filling and removing hot dogs. The hot dogs are put back into boxes and labeled, and put into our massive freezer: the second step, a less simple step, is the batter. The batter, personally my least favorite job, involves a 10 gallon bowl, milk, and a 50-pound bag of batter mix. I am not sure if I can legally tell you what is in the batter, but to be clear, there are six more wheats and grains than in corn dogs. Corn dogs only have corn.
I could write a whole speech on why Pronto Pups are better than corn dogs, but I do only have 5 minutes. For now, I will tell
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!
But, funnily enough, in my desperate want for a handbook on How To Be Biracial, I subconsciously wrote one. Granted, the first few chapters are a little messy, hardened, and sad, but necessary nonetheless.
I've done a lot of writing since. My "Owner's Manual of Identity" is constantly under revision. I make conclusions, have a new experience that throws me, reaffirm myself, and write something new. So far, my handbook is both a revolution and a revelation. It's about the people who are the exception to the rule, the people that check the box marked "other", the people that worry about the space that they take up, the people that confuse others because traditional labels and ideas don't fit them properly. It's about the people that feel like human embodiments of tensions they didn't create, while also being the physical proof that those tensions don't always have to exist.
This speech, I suppose, is another installment of my handbook, a book that will never be finished, or complete, one that will be covered in eraser marks and margin notes. But if I had to write the last chapter of my handbook today, this would be the conclusion: My identity, like that of many others, is fluid. It changes constantly, sometimes by my choice, but mostly dependent on what room, country, or society I'm in, which is both exhilarating and terrifying all at once. In reading my old versions of this speech, I wish I could reach through the pages and grab the younger me by the hand to reassure her that while it's not always easy to grapple with the fluidity, it does get easier. I'd tell her she will learn to lean into the constant shifting of her identity, and will appreciate its tendency to be a good conversation starter. I'd tell her the people she really wanted approval from never needed her to prove anything at all. I'd tell her that her intersectionality will help her understand and accept the intersectionality of others, which is a beautiful gift.
I won't lie, though. There are still moments when I feel lost, or like I'm not enough, or so tired of the pressure to check just one box. But for every one of those moments, I have people in my life who will send me slam poetry about being biracial, who look me dead in the eyes and make me swear never to let someone tell me what I am and what I'm not, and who will enthusiastically grab my hand when I want to teach them to latin dance,
I have mama, who teaches me how to bridge gaps with grace, humility and respect. I have papi, who shows me that one can be proud without being territorial. And I have Pilar, who makes me feel understood even when I'm convinced no one would get it. I have found love that has no regard for boundaries, borders or bullies, and I have found this love in harmonious parallels, moments so natural to me that I forget how symbolic they are: Switching back and forth between the English and Spanish keyboards on family group chats. Growing up with a cat named Pancho and a dog named Prince Harry. Feeling nostalgic from the smells of rhubarb pie and sweet Mexican bread. Watching my mom chat up a Puerto Rican taxi driver in Spanish, and my dad give medical presentations to American doctors in English. Being raised in a house that blared Prince, Ricky Martin, U2, Shakira, Sting, and Maná all artists my parents insisted were vital to my musical education. Y aveces, two languages getting tangled up, los dos coming out of my mouth at once, tengo mucho que decir, I have too much to say.
When I feel the pressure to split myself into two, I tend to look down at my hands, which are connected to my arms, which are connected to the same body, same mind, same heart. I'm a whole person. A person with more questions than answers, more words than space in her head, more support and good fortune than she probably deserves.
I refuse to believe that people like me must divide themselves like a fraction, because as far as I'm concerned, I am not meant to dissect, split, or isolate myself while living such a full life.
In 1993, Dr. Maria Root wrote a Bill of Rights for People of Mixed Heritage. I saw it for the first time last year, on the wall of a teacher's office. A copy now hangs on my closet door. It reminds me daily that I have the right... "not to keep my races separate within me," "to identify differently in different situations," and "to change my identity over my lifetime." One of my favorites reads: "I have the right to create a vocabulary to communicate about being multiracial or multiethnic." As someone who finds refuge, empowerment, and great comfort in words, that statement spoke volumes to me. Writing about my biracial life and all its confusing, emotional, and love-filled components has fulfilled me in a way no other form of validation has. In writing about my own existence, I am creating a narrative for myself, and perhaps even others like me.
So, finally, to all the people here today who wish that their identity had come with a handbook: write your own.
Emma Sampson
Since 7th grade, I have been a member of an elite college soccer prep team. My parents, who always supported my athletic pursuits, informed me that they could no longer pay for me to play. Although their decision did not take me by surprise, I struggled to come to terms with it. I could not imagine my life without soccer. We eventually agreed that I would have to find a way to pay for it on my own. A challenge initially intended to preserve the last few years of soccer surprisingly lead to my greatest refuge, and the discovery of a strength which would allow me to see myself as more than just an athlete.
My mom, "lovingly," dropped me off at the local shopping mall and declared that she would pick me up once I secured a job. Was it just my imagination or did she speed off faster than necessary thinking perhaps I would change my mind? Slightly irritated, I walked into the mall and decided to distract myself with a $7 Dairy Queen blizzard. My lavish purchase seemed to mock me as I mustered the courage to walk into a store called Icing,
My job at Icing proved to be my only opportunity, and I would soon find out why. Icing, which was about the size of the English room trailers employed only four people. We had one manager, an assistant manager, a key holder, and me the one and only sales associate. Needless to say, I never had anyone to cover my shifts. I quickly found myself dreading going into work and counting down the minutes until my shift was over in the empty shoebox of a store. However, naturally, over the months at Icing, I began to get used to the small store and less irritated with the non-stop shoplifting. I even began to become more comfortable with approaching customers and alerting them of our year-round buy three get three free sales.
Unfortunately my manager Katie soon recognized my comfortable demeanor around customers and decided that it was time for me to start piercing ears. On my next shift, Katie had me watch a six-minute video and practice on some cardboard ears at the front of the store. Thinking that I would spend several more weeks practicing on the cardboard ears, I was quite surprised when I showed up to my next shift to Katie asking me to start the paperwork for my first ear piercing. My face immediately flushed and my hands started to shake, I walked over to a very nice looking blonde lady and tried not to look nervous. She tried to make some small talk but all I could manage to respond with was head movements that I hope somewhat resembled a nod.
Despite my nerves, everything was going great until I held up the mirror to discover that I had pierced her ears crookedly. Hoping that she wouldn't notice I told her that they looked great and rushed her over to the counter. It was after this experience that I decided that it was time for me to try and find a new job. But, finding a new job proved to be harder than expected. After hitting an all-time low of submitting an application at Justice, I decided to look outside of retail. Dragged in by the 15% mall employee discount, my parents and I ate at the new restaurant in the Rosedale mall; Crave. After eating dinner, our server Matt, asked if I was interested in working at Crave and invited me to fill out an application online.
Having never worked in the restaurant industry, I was extremely nervous for my first shift but motivated by the 1.00 increase in my wage from Icing. However, my first shift could not have gone worse and I ended up crying in my car and again to my parents when I got home. I told them that I was never going back and that I would work at Icing for the rest of my life if I had to. But, after sleeping on it, I decided to give Crave one last try, and I couldn't be happier that I did.
My job as a restaurant hostess, which at first, seemed like the lowest rung on the proverbial ladder, taught me more about myself then I could have ever imagined. Initially, this job represented a means to an end but gradually provided me with an outlet that soccer never had and gave me a broader perspective of who I was and could be outside of athletics.
Despite my rocky start with Crave, I was determined to keep at it in order to pay for soccer. And, to my surprise, it became so much more than a job. After starting Crave in November of 2017 I quickly found myself working 25 hours per week. Needless to say, trying to balance a more intense working schedule, school, and soccer during my junior year proved to be a challenge. I remember so vividly when a classmate came up to me and told me that I would never be able to do it and that it was a bad move. "Shouldn't you be focusing on school junior year is super important," he said. But can't I do both I thought to myself? I was so mad at my classmate's ignorance. But the thing is that I needed this job and did not necessarily have the option to work less as my parents will tell you elite soccer is not cheap. So, I let his comment roll off my shoulders. For the rest of that day, I walked around school in a haze of confusion. Was this all worth it? I headed into work in the sour mood that had persisted all day at school and was determined to keep my head low and wait out my shift. But my co-workers refused
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I
And
you
feel like a scared child when the old man drives slowly beside you. You feel helpless when he asks your eleven-year- old self if you have a boyfriend. You hate yourself when you smile and laugh pretending nothing is wrong. You're relieved to see your house a block away. You don't ask to walk the dog anymore.
You're eleven and walking with your friend on Grand Ave. You're wearing your favorite outfit: white shorts and blue flowy top. You feel older and sophisticated. A group of men across the street yell out to you, "hey ladies come on into the bar with us." You throw the top out when you get home.
You're twelve and excited over your first pair of denim shorts. Your friends all have them. You're heartbroken and angry when your mom tells you to change. You scream
change. You scream and cry and call her names. Why can't she let you fit in? You're too young to notice how scared she is to let you out of the house by yourself. You're too young to see her panic about you becoming a woman. You're too young to understand how scary it is to be a woman on her own, let alone a girl.
You're fourteen and you're so excited it's finally hockey season again. You and your friends will be at the state tournament all by yourselves. It's not until you're there that you understand why the older girls stay in groups when they go to the bathrooms. Young and old players all around grope and catcall you and your friends. They laugh. They smirk. And they don't care.
You're sixteen and finally able to drive. Freedom is yours. You're even excited to pump gas. The guy parked next to you leers at you and asks if you're a Pilates instructor. He's old enough to be your grandfather. You shield your eyes, give a polite laugh and shrug off his comment. It's not socially acceptable for you to yell and be offended.
But why is it socially acceptable for him to comment on your body?
You watch the Kavanaugh hearings and finally understand why your mom can't sleep until you're home at night. And honestly, you finally get why men and women don't come forward with sexual assault allegations.
Truthfully, at this point, you're more confused as to why any person comes forward at all. Theoretically, you understand, they want the perpetrator in jail. But realistically all that happens is that they fall victim to more bullying and assault. You realize that you never told your parents about your experiences with creepy men. And you realize that you don't tell them because it seems to be normal.
You don't know what to wear anymore. You feel pretty in your strapless maroon top but you're told it's too revealing when you're traveling on your own. And honestly, you agree. You're comfortable in your white tank top. Then the volleyball ref asks you to cover up because you look like you're wearing a bra and she's "embarrassed for you". You wear a Wild jersey and your brother has to tug you closer to him because he's scared for you when you pass a group of men shouting obscenities.
You're almost eighteen and you still don't walk alone at night. You're almost eighteen and you still don't pump your gas at night. You're almost eighteen and you're more concerned about getting sexually assaulted in college than actually getting in.
And they tell you to take an Uber. "It's safer. You won't be walking alone." But it's not being alone that's scary. It's realizing that you're not alone. Uber doesn't calm your nerves. Because your rides are spent checking your maps to make sure your driver is going the way they're supposed to. And you're busy texting the license plate to your mom because all you see on the news are unsuspecting women being assaulted in cars.
The saddest thing about this speech is the fact that most of the women in this auditorium aren't even surprised about the experiences that I've had. Because some of them have had experiences that were worse.
You're supposed to have all the answers by senior year. It's your speech and you have to inspire those 9th grade girls. Give them advice, tell them how to survive in this world. The truth is, you don't really know what advice you could possibly give them. It's scary out here and you desperately miss the days when you didn't understand. Because now it's clear, now you understand that one in four women are sexually assaulted in college, you understand that you can't run alone at night because so many female joggers are raped and murdered, and you understand that you can never unlearn these facts. You hope it changes by the time you have kids. You hope you don't have to laugh when a man offends you. You hope you can run at night one day. You hope you can walk home three houses without feeling afraid.
You do a lot of hoping
William Welsh
of
-
When I think of the worst days of the week, two days stand out to me: the first is Friday, and the second is Saturday. For most
you,
these days are probably the highlights of your week - last day of school, time to sleep in, catch up on your favorite TV show, and most importantly: spend a lot of time with friends. Even though I enjoy school, for the most part, am awake by seven. almost every day of the week and don't watch enough TV shows to "catch up" on them, the last thing - spending time with friends - has always been a struggle for me.
-
The first time I fully understood my social situation was in 9th grade. Having made many social transitions during 8th grade, I felt very uneasy. I had had a small group of good friends during 8th-grade, but as 9th grade began, we each started to go our separate ways. I always struggled to find someone to sit with at lunch, and mostly sat with people that I was friendly with but wouldn't consider my close friends. As my 9th-grade year progressed, I made a few new friends who I would spend time with at school during my free time, but I would rarely see them on the weekends to spend quality time with them. By the time golf season rolled around in the spring, I wasn't at school enough to develop those relationships and didn't reach out when I was at school. Even though I formed a strong bond with the members of the golf team, I still felt this gaping hole every Friday and Saturday, which I always spent at home alone.
What I needed was some way to connect with people. As an awkward introvert, talking to people who were not necessarily inclined to speak to me was incredibly nerve-wracking. I was given an enormous amount of opportunities to make some new friends, such as soccer, Student Political Union, and orchestra, but did not take advantage of these because I was too scared. I was hoping that something would change about me that would find me a great group of friends, but what I did not acknowledge was that if I wanted this to happen, I had to change my approach if I wanted my situation to change.
Early in my 10th-grade year was much more of the same as 9th grade: having a tiny friend group and rarely going outside of it. But then two amazing things happened in my sophomore year. The first was that I got my license. I passed the test on my 16th birthday, and being able to drive anywhere was so liberating for me. I was able to see my friends much more often now, and I became a little bit happier every time we got to hang out. This led to the second amazing thing that happened to me during sophomore year: I was invited to my first party. It wasn't one of those crazy parties that most people would imagine, but that night was the first time in a long time that I had genuinely enjoyed myself. But this feeling didn't stick for long.
I spent the entire next weekend thinking about the past, and wishing that I could have that sense of security again right then - but it didn't return. I reverted to that feeling of loneliness and social insecurity, and it made me question myself more profoundly than I ever had before.
Why am I sitting in my room on Friday night, being jealous of others who were having more fun? Why couldn't I feel that sense of security I felt last weekend all the time? The answer I would come to over time was that I didn't keep pushing myself to pursue those friendships. I put myself out there once, but I underestimated how much energy I needed to invest to further them. Had I seriously pursued those relationships, I would have been a much more confident person who felt comfortable in his own skin.
Junior year will always be the highlight of my high school experience because I reaped the benefits of pushing myself to open up. I had moved up to the highest orchestra in my youth orchestra, I made the varsity soccer team, and I was elected as a member of the vestry at my church. I was growing as a musician and began to appreciate the art of playing the clarinet. I was able to exercise, have fun and connect with others through a sport I loved. I was able to spend time focusing on helping others while developing my own sense of self-purpose. Not to mention that another close friend of mine had convinced his parents to move back to Minnesota from Japan, and so I had another close friend to spend time with on the weekends.
But I also felt somewhat lost. After practice, some of the guys would go hang out at one of their houses, but I didn't have the courage to ask if I could tag along. When I went to Spain during spring break, I felt nervous about going off with the others when I wasn't close enough to them to be myself and let them see the confident side of me. I felt like I was living two separate lives at once; one where I was confident, fun, and loved life, the other where I felt alone and unsure of myself. I felt so confused about who I was that I didn't even invite friends to celebrate my birthday. I hoped that latter me would go away and I would be myself all the time, but I knew that I had to put myself out there so I would make myself much happier.
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principals work great for everything around us. For a newspaper its material cause is paper, its form in sheets folded in on each other, its agent a reporter and printing press, and its end is to inform the reader of current events. It also works for animals, the material form of a squirrel is meat and bones, its form is a small rodent, its agent is its parents, and its end to survive and reproduce.
Matter, Form, Agent, they all work for humans, but the fourth one, the End Goal, that's much harder to pin down. There's a great word, Telos, meaning the ultimate aim or goal of something, and it relates quite well to Aristotle's end cause,
You see, the squirrel does not have the time or brain power to question its own reality--it's too busy trying not to die all day- but we, unlike the squirrel, can. This puts us in a strange place in our world. We have evolved to a level of sapience where we can question such fundamental ideas. So what is the Telos for humans? Evolutionary biologists would clump us in with all other animals, saying that the end goal of a human is to make more humans. And while indeed without reproduction we would eventually cease to exist, it still feels empty, and unfinished; we're more than that, right?
So what's missing? I would argue: Purpose. In modern society, each individual human is able to specialize in something to benefit society as a whole. This is something new to humanity, for close to 200,000 years all members of a tribe were master- hunter gatherers, as they needed to be in order to survive. Each tribesman could hunt or fish or forage, and had an accurate mental map of their areas for miles around them. Nowadays we can't even get to a friend's house without GPS. Not everyone needs to know how to hunt or produce food for their survival. Now we can be botanists, bankers, bartenders, butchers, biologists, bricklayers; the list goes on and those are just a few that start with 'B'. But just because we can specialize does not mean that we have found purpose. For some, sure. I'm sure that there are plenty of people who are peachy-keen to get up the morning and put up drywall for eight hours every day, but I'd wager a guess that that isn't true for most people.
in
Philosophers like Immanuel Kant or Leo Tolstoy, have a more depressing approach to human existence. Kant believed that "Without man and his potential for moral progress, the whole of reality would be a mere wilderness, a thing in vain, and have no final purpose." On a similar note, Tolstoy taught that "The only absolute knowledge attainable by man is that life is meaningless." While they definitely aren't the happiest outlooks of all time, I'd take it a step further and say that because life has no inherent meaning, it is whatever you want it to be.
There is a large amount of people for whom the answer is simple. Their Telos resides in the higher power. For them, the purpose in life is to serve their god or gods, and be given an afterlife of reward. It's easy to see why they would choose this path; it has to be incredibly comforting to think that you will live forever in pure bliss after dedicating your life to god.
I, however, think about it like this. Imagine a universe, where gravity is too weak, and stars never form or collapse, so planets never form so life never arises. Imagine another universe, beautiful and vast like ours. Infinite possibilities and countless questions to answer. But no intelligent life ever evolves. Calculus is never derived, the stars are never studied. A universe goes to waste. Imagine one where the laws of physics are nothing like what we have here, if they exist at all. Where matter is not made of quarks and light is not the fastest that something can go. But that is not where we find ourselves. As far as we know we are the only intelligent life form in the universe. We evolved consciousness, free and abstract thought. Despite this, we are no less
of the universe than a neutron star or a black hole or the planet we stand on. And as a result we find ourselves in part a special place among the cosmos.
We are, for all intents and purposes, the sensory organs of the universe. No other Earthly species has been able to uncover the mysteries of the universe like we have so far. Every question we have asked has been answered or is being answered. We haven't hit a roadblock yet, nothing has stopped us in our tracks of progress. Maybe one day we will, maybe one day we will find that there's something we just can't crack. But it hasn't happened yet, and I'd be surprised if it ever does. Because no distant human cousin has worked out the laws of planetary motion. No sea creature experiments with quantum physics. Birds don't practice nihilism. There does not seem to be a cap to human ingenuity. I believe this to be our Telos. To use the boundless intellect that we have chanced into, and give our lives a self driven purpose to understand, fundamentally, everything about the universe we were created in, and are a part of.
Imran Umer
As I was sitting in the auditorium every week during freshman year, listening to the speeches of the seniors who would be graduating that
year, I kept hearing a lot of people mention how they had been procrastinating writing their speeches up until very last moment. Through all that time, I kept thinking to myself "I'm gonna be really smart and think of my speech topic this year so I'll have 3 more left to finalize it".
the
many
Well, I did have a couple ideas back then; however, I never really got around to writing them down so I eventually forgot too
crucial details about them. Lots of things happened that year including many stemming from my outrageously quirky habits, my very first suspension, my lightsaber battle with Michael Forsgren, and more that may have been speech worthy, but I let them all slide saying "I still have another couple years to start writing, I'm in no big hurry".
I toned it down quite a bit in my sophomore year after I tore my hamstring during Taekwondo and had to sit out of any form of exercise for well over half a year but even despite all the emotions going through my head at the time, I told myself "don't worry about writing anything right now, you still got another couple of years" which in time, I managed to forget most of
anyway. I didn't do much else that year that would warrant a good 5-7 minutes for a speech as the requirement states and it kinda just flew by but as soon as that was over, I found myself sitting in my room one day during the summer before my junior year, my heart racing uncontrollably, trying to think of a speech topic as if I was about to go on stage and give it right then and there. I had to remind myself, however, that I wasn't even technically a junior yet so I shouldn't be worrying about my speech for probably another year.
Alright so by now most of you can probably can tell where this is headed. If so, good for you; and if you don't know quite yet, please continue listening. I got a job the summer before my junior year at a sort of daycare program for the YMCA in downtown Minneapolis which was pretty entertaining, but again, probably wouldn't fill out 4 pages of a speech.
Junior year was pretty lit. Got some baller classes and there was this one long weekend towards the start of the school year where I had to write 2 essays on top of taking the SAT and the practice ACT all in the span of 3 days, so yeah, that was fun. Spoiler Alert: I ended up grinding both essays on Sunday night, but I'd attribute this more to exhaustion than anything. Fast forward to Junior Retreat at good ol' Camp Courage. It was a blast and easily one of the best memories I have of this place. I don't think anyone would disagree with me when I say our grade truly felt more connected than ever there. Towards the end of it, JCLC, myself included, went up to draw names out of a hat for senior speech dates and I had absolutely no idea what to hope for or expect. When it was my turn to reach into the hat, I wanted it to be me for irony, but at the same time, I hoped it wasn't. Inevitably, my name was eventually drawn for the 10th spot and I said silently to myself, "well, guess I better start drafting." Very soon afterwards, I heard a different, yet far more persuasive voice in my head saying....well I'd assume by now you guys could probably predict it; "don't worry you still have four months".
I spent nearly my entire summer this year desperately in search of the perfect speech topic. Many thoughts crossed my mind, such as different inspirational quotes to talk about, inspired by my trip to a summer camp called du Nord, or political matters such as gun laws inspired by the Jacksonville shooting in late August. You see, after all this thinking and pondering, the new school year began and I had to have a draft done by September 2nd. Well, I frantically started many different drafts and I was even completely sold on what I was going to write my speech about by the time Advisory conferences rolled around but afterwards, I just sat there and said to myself, "there is no way I can find a topic that I'll have enough to write about in this amount of time". The weekend had gone by and suddenly, a deadline that I assumed would never come was less than 12 hours away. So I sat down on my bed at 7 pm on September 1st and before I could even start thinking, an idea popped into my head.
Well, more so a series of ideas that had really just been there the whole time. I didn't need to focus on just one singular event. I could talk about all the events leading up to a certain moment and what exactly linked them. This certain moment, being the climax of writing my senior speech. So yeah, I ended up procrastinating it just like how I didn't want to, and yes, procrastination is the keyword here and what I've been getting at this whole time. But let me tell you right now; it doesn't stop there though, oh no. I received loads of critique and was supposed to have a second draft of my speech done by September 17th. Well, I didn't do so much as open the document again until 4 pm on September 16th.
Now let me shift the focus a little bit. Although I should note that I turned in both of my drafts on time, the point I'm trying to make stays the same. This situation can really of be thought of in many ways applicable in most life scenarios. Not
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accusations. Additionally, there are far, far more incidents of sexual assault that are not in the judicial system or even reported. But, while we try to fix the past, we must also look forward to the future. How can we prevent this from happening 50 to 60 years down the line? We have to stop it now. Things like the MeToo movement are good first steps but now we need to take victim's experiences into account and learn from them.
So, how can you, as a single person, begin to tackle such a monster of a problem?
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) Educate yourself on what affirmative consent is: a clear 'yes' is the only thing that is sufficient enough for consent. Then, educate everyone else that you can reach. Push back on behavior, in any form, that undermines the message that basic decency and respect require the understanding that no one is entitled to anyone else's body.
2) When victims come to tell you such a private piece of information, do everything that you can to support them. They need to understand that it wasn't their fault, because it is never someone's fault that another person chose to disrespect and violate them in such a horrific manner.
And 3), when someone is assaulted, understand that the same society that fosters an environment in which 20% of women will be assaulted is the same society that will attack, disparage and dismiss them when they come forward. Recognize that. Recognize that, and honor the courage, strength and fortitude it takes to speak out in spite of this reality. So if someone does confide in you, the least you can do is listen. And believe them.
Gemma Yoo
When I was five, my kindergarten teachers sat my parents down at conferences and said: "Look, you should really just get her a cat."
I think the idea was "maybe then she will talk about something else, please." So that backfired, but anyway, when I was five I got my first cat, and the responsibility of naming him. The first name was easy. My first pet was a fish named Swimmy. My second would be a cat named Chaser. Done. He had been given the name Sean by the shelter, which I hated, but I figured it was only fair to keep it, as a reminder of who he had once been. The middle was a good place for Sean. Hidden, somewhere it could be abbreviated down to just an S. The last name was where I got stuck. My dad and I have the last name Yoo, while my mom's last name is Mulvahill. It felt unfair to choose. I didn't want to hyphenate them, either-too long a last name for a cat. So, I compromised. I smashed both names together, and my cat was dubbed Chaser S. Moo, and he was the best thing ever in the world.
Looking back, I feel that combination of fondness and embarrassment for my younger self, who didn't understand things. But also, weirdly, a sense of envy. I solved a question of identity with nothing more than a laugh at the silly name I had made.
I wish it was still so simple.
I wouldn't go so far as to say that being mixed has given me an identity crisis, but it's something that I think about, kind of a lot. Maybe too much? I feel like I talk about it too much. I feel like I'm always avoiding the subject. It feels like all these questions about race and culture and what you can and can't do, all the stuff we could have a deeply awkward Harkness about, are questions that I have to answer before I can write a speech about how I know myself now.
Well, I'm giving the speech. I tried my best with the answer.
To begin with, there's an irony. I'm kind of a stereotypical Minnesotan. My family is full of Andersons and blue-eyed, hockey- playing cousins. We eat lefse at Thanksgiving. I play duck-duck-gray duck, not duck-duck-goose. I am 'one of us,' like Dr. Peterson describes it, except for that I'm not. Because when I say "I'm a quarter Norwegian" it can come off as a joke. I was born in Minneapolis, but sometimes when people ask "So where are you from?" I know that's not the answer they're looking for. The Norwegian is recessive, doesn't count, and neither does my home, I guess. If you can't see it, then what's the point?
my mind
I wouldn't care so much except for the way I look means something about where I belong, and who I belong to. In
this always happens at the airport. The people behind the counter are in charge of our identities, reading our names and matching our faces, and along the way they split our family of three into two separate groups: me and my dad, and then my mom, on her own. I don't think of myself as a jealous person, but once or twice, out with Maggie and my mom, I wondered if people assumed they were mother and daughter and I was a friend along for the day. She's mine, I wanted to yell. I'm an only child, I've never had to share my mom with anyone. She's mine, but our eyes are not the same, and neither are our names, so it takes my birth certificate to prove it.
I wish I could go on to say that it's easier with my dad's side of the family, where I don't look so different, but in many ways it's harder, and the hardest part is feeling like things should come easy. My middle name is hard for me. It's a secret, it's sacred, I keep it tucked very close. I'm not ashamed of it, I'm scared that I'm not good enough for it. It took me a long time to learn how to spell Han-Kyung in English, much longer to spell it in Korean. I didn't like to tell it to people because I was scared I would mispronounce it, my own name, and how do you come back from that? I am half Korean, but my name is two-thirds. Han-Kyung is the tipping point, and I don't know if that's accurate, if I am Korean enough for it to define me.
Every time I struggle with chopsticks or stumble over a word, the whole ocean's worth of things I don't know appears before me. Probably I will never catch up to where I think I should be, maybe because knowing everything is an unrealistic goal, but it hurts to not understand. My first summer at Korean camp, when they asked why I wanted to learn Korean, it was for when my grandfather said grace and all I caught was thank you, the names of my family, then amen. When my grandmother held hand and asked if I understood her, I wanted to say yes and not be lying, a little bit. It's my family. Why isn't it easy? For me,
my
and for everyone else. Why am I not easy?
This answer that I have doesn't really answer that question, just so you know. These things aren't totally resolved for me either.
Okay. Enough about me, for a minute. Let's talk about us. This November, the Pew Research Center released a report that Generation Z will likely be the most diverse generation yet. In 2002, about 61% of millennials were white. We are only 52%. Essentially, we are half white, half other. Does that phrase mean something to you? Does it scare you? Do you give the thought a nod and a shrug before it passes away?
Because that phrase means something to me. It has for a while now. And what I think it means is having a lot of questions to answer. Where are we from? What do we look like? What language do we speak? What legacies do we carry? What does it mean to be American? Why?
And what I've found as far as answers is that there are no simple ones. Much as I would really, really, like there to be, there is no one-sentence, perfectly balanced summary of identity. That's just the reality. Race is messy, so messy we have to gather all our courage to talk about it together. But ignoring the problem won't make it go away. I've tried that a lot, in many different ways, and so far it's never worked out. And just because race is messy, and we're different, and there are so many things we can't understand, doesn't mean it always has to be painful. There's beauty there too, and a unity that lies underneath everything else.
I find that beauty all the time in my family, and I'm learning to find that unity in myself. Because I've been telling you this whole time about halves, but the reality is I've never found a dividing line on my body, not at the 38th parallel along my waist nor vertical along the line of my nose. And there are plenty of things you can inherit from family other than eyes or old furniture. I have my dad's playfully exaggerated whining and ability to sleep on planes, my mom's tendency to be late and mental wordbank of crossword puzzle answers. A matching set of lines on my palm from one grandfather, and a delight in touching other people with my cold hands from the grandfather I never met. Both my grandmothers' love of flowers.
So if somehow it were up to me, I wouldn't change a thing about my family or myself, even though we're not easy. Not my eyes, not my name or my mom's name, not even the name I gave the cat. Because if there was one thing my five-year-old self understood, it was that my family is not about choosing sides or proving yourself. My family is about love, and my roots run far too deep for me to doubt myself.
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!
:
Margaret Youngdale
I love you. And I forgive you.
Because, mother,
we have always been each other's.
I became yours
when the fear rose within
you
after
your underwear was left unstained by specks of red
soon
after
you
laid down with a man, either as an obligation or from desire,
and you waited, yearned, hoped that it wasn't true.
I became yours
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when you dreamed of easier times
and wished for better outcomes as the tingling in your breasts grew and your hands and feet swelled.
You grew fascinated with this new life inside of you; feeling every roll, kick, and punch to your stomach
as you cradled me
with your fingers and your worries, wondering
if I'd ever be like you.
If my veins would form hills along the bones,
if my voice would crack while under pressure, or
if I'd ever embody my namesake,
while piecing together a different reality for us.
Your body became the epitome of motherhood
as I felt your laughter and heard your cries
when you thought there wasn't enough money, or food, or luck
to make it through the blood- soaked sheets,
and the clenched eyes, and the greasy hair plastered to sweaty skin.
But, when you felt my small wrinkled self
being lifted out from your defeated body
and heard my shrieks pierce the air,
relief spread.
You became mine
when you gave me the black birthmark around my right eye, and
the long fingers that twist at the second knuckle, and
the three small ridges on the roof of my mouth.
You became mine
when
you tried to engrave me into your memory
as you rubbed my fingers and toes
and held me against your breast,
letting me drink you up until I cried my lungs out
and laughed as small squeaks escaped my gaping mouth, knowing that these precious memories we had of each other
would quickly dissipate.
Me
Those few months that we existed together
were too short to be called forever
and too long to be called a tragedy
when you whispered sweet nothings in my ear
and waited, yearned, hoped that I'd forgive you for letting me go.
But, I couldn't forgive you
when I learned
to drag another language across my tongue, and
to smile more with my teeth than with my eyes, and
to wear this skin as if it were my own.
I knew that I was supposed to be grateful
for my parents who embraced me before they could hold me:
for my father, who lost himself to the mundane help,
but still clings to the parts of himself he still has left, and
for my mother, who apologizes for existing by giving all of her love away,
for my sisters who cried tears for their mothers and laughed tears with our mother:
for my oldest sister, who forged our parents' temperaments
into armor and wields her sadness like a weapon,
for my second sister, who dances like everyone's watching her
and smiles like she's never experienced pain,
I'm supposed to be grateful
for the ones who celebrate their forgiveness
when they wear the bruises on their knees like performance make up, and
for the ones who briefly returned to our homeland,
only to feel even stranger there than they do here.
The ones who passed by others with
curly hair, and crooked teeth,
darker skin, and dimpled cheeks,
but still couldn't find any one who resembled them,
I'm supposed to be grateful, too,
for having another family, and
going to school, and
breathing clean air, and knowing what not to do.
But, if
I'm supposed to be grateful for all of this,
then I'm also supposed to be grateful
for mothers, like you,
whose sufferings were the currency for lives, like mine, to unfold.
Mothers, like you.
The nameless women.
The faceless women,
The ageless women.
And, no matter how grateful I may be,
gratitude doesn't give life back to
mothers, like you,
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everything is all about who can do what faster, in the end it's all about effectiveness and what works best for different people. Sometimes you just have to go with the flow and let it take you wherever it wills. It's not always about the end point, but more so the path you took to get there. This has been put into great words many times but the one I feel does it best is from a Hindu Proverb I randomly came across on the internet while I was supposed to be writing my speech. It says that: "There are hundreds of paths up the mountain, all leading to the same place, so it doesn't matter which path you take. The only person wasting time is the one who runs around the mountain, telling everyone that his or her path is wrong."
Procrastination is often viewed as a bad thing due to how it may encourage the opposite of the "work before play" ethic that parents especially seem to love. But everyone has their own reasons for doing what they do. I have ADHD so I have massive trouble focusing on things until a deadline is staring me in the face. Your reasons may be different. But beyond just work habits, it can be counterproductive to try and change aspects of a person just because you personally don't agree with them. This will, more often than not, simply lead to both parties being miserable. So run up that mountain, or walk or take a helicopter. But pick a path and make it your own.. Thank you for listening to my TED talk.
Jennie Verhey
We have all had the privilege to build and shape our individual time at SPA. What we tend to forget is the community in its entirety. The people that have touched you the most may not be those who you will stay in contact with when we all go our separate ways. Some people in the class of 2019 can probably recall a memory that we have shared, but many of them will be surface-level conversations or passing each other in the hallway. However, those memories should be valued just as much as the deeper friendships that you've developed. The class of 2019 has shaped me and I will always remember the lengths to which you have gone, the goals you have accomplished, and the stories that you have shared. Our community is built on big and small moments of love and empathy. It is in the simplest actions that I recognize our community's compassionate and thoughtful spirit.
My advice is to hold on to the little moments as best you can. I won't forget the sound of my mom's knees cracking on the stairs and the fact that I have to wait to take a sip of my latte when I first pull away from the Starbucks drive thru to avoid the potholes I have memorized. Like these, all of you have provided me with lasting and fond memories that I will never forget.
These are just some of those moments that I will bring with me...
In 9th grade physics, Ethan Asis taught me that grades don't define your worth.
Adelia invited me to her sixth grade birthday party and it was my first SPA event as the new kid. Her warm personality welcomed me to this school.
Elea showed patience when I continuously forgot to respond to her emails about her organized voter registration events. Sorry, Elea.
Joey's rare love for Davanni's pizza brought laughter to the US History classroom,
Annie Bottern is welcoming and constantly includes everyone, something I will always admire about her.
Janie's bubbly personality has brought laughter and light to my life since sixth grade.
Zoe and Peter are both great listeners. They opened up at Junior retreat and show empathy towards others daily.
Kaia's interest in politics inspired me to learn more and volunteer hours doorknocking for candidates this fall.
Izzy Dieperink is superwoman and helped me through every pre-calc test review.
Ethan Dincer carpooled with me from sixth grade until sophomore year. He never complained when we were late in the morning, even when he showed up at 7:20 am and Bobby wasn't even awake yet.
Mimi writes me a valentine for the holiday every single year, and constantly demonstrates her love and care to me.
Will Rinkoff made every Chinese quizlet since 6th grade. And we all know we would've failed without them.
Annie Kristal gave me the most thoughtful gift basket in the junior class secret snowman exchange and I never properly thanked her.
Nik carries around bottles of hand sanitizer in his backpack. I ended up asking him for some so often last year that he went out and bought me my very own stash.
Gabby Harmoning cried with me at every tourist stop in China. We got each other through that trip.
One time, Emma drove an hour from Minnetonka and back to pick me up because I got my license 6 months late.
Koji sends a thank you text whenever I host or drive him anywhere.
Daven sat by me on the flight home from China and made the 12 hours feel like 2.
On JV softball, Jazz brought snacks to every game, demonstrating her thoughtful spirit and care for others.
On the first day of chem, I texted Ethan Less for help. His response was "oh boy this is going to be a long year". But no matter what, he was always there to help.
The day I shadowed SPA in 5th grade, Maggie Hlavka pulled me aside to show me the different plants that the class was growing. This gesture represented Maggie's welcoming personality and infectious curiosity.
I owe William and Roan quite a thank you for getting me through clarinet scale tests. They both always made sure to play loud enough so the teachers wouldn't hear my mistakes.
In visual narrative, Nora Turner lit up the classroom with her laughter and witty insight.
Isa taught me to always make an entrance and exude confidence, whether it's Paris fashion week or science class.
Gabi Seifert has distracted me, and probably the rest of the grade, in a multitude of classes over the years with her stylistic chicken drawings.
In every class that Jenny Sogin and I have ever been in together, the teacher always mixes us up. They would ask a question and follow up with "Jennie?" If I stayed quiet and acted confused for long enough, Jenny would say the right answer and save
me.
Eric Lagos peer edited all my drafts in short form literature. I didn't get an A, but the team effort was there.
Tristan waited by my locker every morning to walk to advisory together last year. He got me snack everyday, but made me pay 50 cents for the "shipping fee" from the cafeteria.
Tom and Isaac explained sigma versus pi bonds to me in chemistry last year. I still don't understand the difference, but their genuine effort to help me didn't go unnoticed.
Mashal will always be my hype girl and inspiration.
Muriel taught me to always be yourself and that a card holds more value than any other gift could.
Andrew has shown me genuine kindness since sixth grade. In middle school, he let me borrow his sweatshirt for "Girls wear
boys sweatshirt day" He gave it to me after he noticed the way I stalked him from the lunchroom to his locker.
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Dr. Peterson taught me the set up for a perfect bocce ball toss. A lesson I will carry with me forever.
Wang lao shi taught me to never give up on other people, as she never gives up on me when asking how my weekend went and my reply is "yes", thinking she's asking if I was tired.
T Fones taught me to work hard, but at the end of the day, you'll value the laughter more than the success.
I hope these stories remind you of some of the positive and humorous moments we've shared. Although I had hoped to mention each member of the senior class, I couldn't capture everyone's personality in 7 short minutes. It's evident to me that our class is a special and kind hearted group of people. We should always strive to radiate that positivity each day, so we can be better people and push each other towards our goals. Your words and actions decide how this community will remember you.
I hope this serves as a reminder to use kind words and even kinder actions. People remember the things that you say and do, and there's truly no point in being disrespectful or bitter towards one another. At the end of the day, we are all put on this earth to find happiness within ourselves and bring it to those that surround us.
I believe the class of 2019 has treated one another with grace, kindness, and humor. We have shared moments of love, laughter, pain, and care, and have made tremendous leaps of growth from those experiences. As we now move onto a new phase of our lives, it is time to reflect and remain proud of the community you represent and the memories we will carry with I want the seniors to remember that your goals are not far out of reach and to always be the best version of yourself. With that, I owe all of you a very sincere, thank you.
us.
Reuben Vizelman
My Dad always asks me "Ruba, why is your chain hanging out?"
In the past, I didn't know how to respond so I would shrug it off and just say it fell out. That was partially true because that does happen but there was a deeper meaning that I couldn't quite articulate at the time. It's a meaning that I now identify as
my shirt for recognition and proud assertion of myself. I wear the star of David because I am a Jew, and I wear it outside of all to see because I want the world to recognize and respect me as a Jewish person and Judaism as a whole...
When I was younger, I was only somewhat aware of my religion. I went to an all-Jewish elementary school, then later I went to Hebrew School, and eventually, I had my Bar Mitzvah. After my Bar Mitzvah, I began to want to express my Judaism more and more. I got a necklace, I went to Jewish camp, I went to some services, but I eventually ended on representing it through my necklace, and even though I would never see others wearing it the same way I did, I always felt like what I was doing was right to me. I am proud of my Judaism, and I feel that by showing it on top of my clothes from around my neck is one good way to express that. While so much of my understanding came from the Jewish community, my understanding of my faith and
life started with and was driven by my parents.
my
M? ????x??? ? ??????? ??? ??c. We came to America for you. This phrase repeated once every few months to me, usually is said when talking about my family's life back in Khmelnytskyi, Ukraine. My family had a tough life in Ukraine. The government was corrupt and oppressive, most people were poor and anti-Semitism was rampant.
Every day, my parents were subjected to taunts because of their identity. "You stinky Jew," my Dad was called. My mom was once asked by a teacher who is the Jew?' before a presentation.
My parents immigrated here in 1989 to escape these indignities and in the hopes that their children would not be subjected to them. But while the United States enshrined religious liberty into its Constitution, it has not prevented anti-Semitism from plaguing this country like it has the rest of the world for centuries. You may not see it, but it happens.
The world, as well as America, has come a long way since World War II. The number of Nazis has decreased greatly, Jewish people can hold good jobs, we have equal rights as everyone, so society thinks that we can just move on from the issue of anti- Semitism because it no longer exists. This is wrong. Peel back the layers and you will not only find anti-Semitism to be present, but more than you might think.
On October 27th, 2018, Robert Bowers entered Squirrel Hill Synagogue in Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania and killed 11 people inside. Days went by, with the usual "pray for the victims" "hold them in your thoughts" and the Instagram Stories saying pray for Pittsburgh and Stronger Than hate, and then silence. 10 days were given to cover this, and then it was gone. And while it was in the news, I found much of the coverage very disappointing. A tweet that I saw captured a lot of my frustration. It said: "social media doesn't really change anything, but the silence on the #PittsburghShooting from 99% of my liberal non-Jewish friends (who are usually so quick to speak out) has sent a very clear message to me about who they consider marginalized and deserving of protection."
This observation rang painfully true for me. Not a single non-Jewish person I knew had posted anything about the anti- Semitic massacre. Some of my friends didn't even seem to know what happened five days after the shooting had occurred. And I wondered why? Why did it seem like only Jewish people that I knew cared about this horrific attack? I don't mean to suggest that the people who I know were OK with it but their silence spoke volumes, hurtful, seemingly indifferent volumes.
Attacks on Jews are too easily forgotten, daily indignities are too easily ignored. One major thing that happens almost every day showing me that anti-Semitism is alive and well is the jokes. Not the occasional one-on-one conversation where I say wow it smells bad and they say well I wonder how you know, I mean the constant public humiliation of my nose and ears. Every day, I hear the same joke over and over again, about the nose, the ears, and the Holocaust. I can't even begin to count how many times the same joke about the Jew in the oven has been made, the joke about Jewish money has been made, even seeing people asked to school dances with slogans like "Sweethearts would be a Hit(ler) with you, and I could Nazi myself going with anyone else. Be mein? Yes or nein. And then saluting as Nazis did.
But I can tell you that I'm sick and tired of having it pounded into my head constantly. Because I am one of many who carries on the burdens of the people murdered because of their identity, and it is on me to make sure that what happened then never happens again. But the constant presence and use of these malicious slurs makes me think that people see this moment in history as a joke and something of the past that isn't relevant anymore. Well, I'm here to tell you that it is still relevant.
That the Holocaust doesn't happen without the attacks, and the attacks don't happen without the epithets and the so-called jokes, because it's all related in the dehumanization process. You have to first devalue life before you take it, and that chain of events started with a slur.
I don't know why people make these jokes, whether to be funny, to not be the only one not doing it, or whether they are anti- Semitic. I really don't know, but I do know that it needs to stop now. Because if we believe in the equal dignity of everyone regardless of race and religion and gender, if we believe in the equal dignity of people, full stop, then we have to live that principle every day for everyone. And this means proactively, consistently speaking out when we see or hear things that challenge that principle. Because if it's a principle we believe in, and it's a principle that applies to everyone, then we have to step up for anyone who's under attack, regardless of their sex, race, religious beliefs, or anything else.
I wear my necklace conspicuously because I want to be noticed as a proud member of my community. And I want all of you to be noticed in word and deed as members of a community who will defend the Jewish people and stand up for everyone else as equal members of this country and this world. Thank you.
Jazz Ward
The blue tricycle catches your eye. It sparkles in the sunlight and the little girl riding it seems to be about your age. She's new. You've lived in your house for about three years now. You and your mom walk the three houses down to meet the new neighbors.
She becomes your best friend and your childhood is spent at each other's houses. It's not until you're nine that you question why you can't stay over past dark. It's not until you're ten that you cry to your mom about how unfair it is that your brother can walk home anytime he wants. It's not until you're eleven that you understand why.
You love living in Saint Paul. You know all your neighbors, you have a park one block away, and the hills are great for sledding. Best of all, you can play fetch with your dog every weekend. You feel like an independent woman the day you get to walk dog by yourself.
your
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48
who buried their children in their hearts
and waited, yearned, hoped that they would be forgiven.
My mother, you,
whose child grew up to be
an adult, believing oversimplified answers to the neverending questions
about why we were separated so long ago:
An adult
birthmark, female, unwanted, better life.
who loves cheese and hates chocolate,
who fears the inevitable and their insignificance,
whose chin stretches wide everytime they smile their too big of a smile, and whose voice is the most unreliable thing about them.
An adult
who knows it's selfish to want you to remember them;
to remember the shades of darkness that hid their right eye, and
to know that they existed, once, in your imperfect memories
as they try to write you into theirself.
I wanted to believe
that you hated that eternal blackness;
less because of its appearance
and more about what it evoked.
Which was that,
it would've been impossible to cut it out of me
when there wasn't enough money, or food, or luck
to make it through the wreckage and imprisonments
for choosing to hide me from the authorities.
I wanted to believe
that those three black splotches
were part of a blessing you casted
when you knew we couldn't keep each other,
despite the constant inquiry from strangers
about its origin and appearance
that riddle my memories
of bearing the only notable piece
I thought I had left of you.
I used to believe
that if I ever came back to you
and you saw those same three black splotches surrounding my right eye,
you'd know that we have always been each other's. So,
I believed
that it was my responsibility
to carry that starless beauty for us,
until it became something hideously permanent
from the ignorance of strangers
that dulled my eyes
and weighed down my heart, letting them bleed my blind hopefulness
into colorful rivers
of guilt and shame before the first stain
was cut out of me.
But, I watched
how a child peered through her glasses and smiled as she saw only one of everything and how a child bounced his three fingers up along the sides of a chair,
as if he was dancing along to the music of his joy,
how a child with scars over their flattened top lips and
how a child with spots of light running down the middle of their chests never seemed to hate these things about themselves,
which made me respect them, so enviously. Because,
to love these things that their mothers gave them would mean
to love how
joy grew
from the red of their mothers' sorrows,
from their tongues stumbling over characters,
from the beatings of different hearts they've pressed their chests up against, and
from the things they have and haven't experienced yet.
To love this thing that you gave me would mean
to love the hope that you don't suffer when you say my name,
to love these words that I've so carefully laced together for you, and
to love forgiving you for letting me go.
This life that you gave me is a double- edged sword:
where joyous lives grew from your pain and my death,
where the depths of my gratitude is filled with your blood, and
where my entire existence is still being shaped by your absence. So,
It is
you, the one who gave me life,
and the others, who taught me how to live it,
whom I dedicate this thank you, apology, and deliverance to
in its entirety.
Because, mother
I forgive you. And I love you.
Adam Zukowski
I love God, my parents, the sport of hockey, and my best friends. I love the life that I have been given and I am deeply grateful for the abundance of opportunities that have been provided to me. Not everyone is nearly as fortunate, but we all share the incredible gift of life. Let us behold the love this world has showered upon us, and return it.
We have just returned from Thanksgiving and are now in the midst of the holiday season. It's meant to be a season of joy and love, family and giving. We give our time, gifts and last week, many of us reflected and gave thanks. Finding good things
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59
I'm going to tell you what I needed to hear.
For whatever reason you might be suffering or doubting, your life is worth so much more than what your body looks like. Nothing is worth so much energy and thought and pain. I'm here today as a sum of the successes and failures of my relationship with food and with my body, but what I want you to hear is this: you don't want to lose all of the beautiful things in your life for one singular, unattainable goal.
Emily Schlinger
I don't know.
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26
I find myself responding with these exact three words multiple times a day. I just never really know what I want. I have been told that I am a thinker, which seems like a good thing, but not when you think about everything over and over again without coming up with an answer. Being indecisive also provokes worry, and so thinking all of the time means that I worry all of the time.
It goes back as far as 6th grade when I had to pick an afterschool activity. This was one of the hardest things that I had ever had to do. There were so many options to choose from. I really didn't know what I wanted to do so I just went with what all my friends were doing and I chose soccer. I played and I was terrible but I actually enjoyed it. I quite, though. Then I started acting, which I really enjoyed. I participated in all of the plays all throughout middle school and I loved it. My roles got bigger every year. I didn't continue this in high school though because none of my friends were into the theatre and I wanted to be like them, so I had to find a sport to play again. I was so nervous about starting a sport so late so I thought about it a lot, and finally, I figured I would play soccer because I had the most experience in it. After that I decided to run track because my speed was really all I had, and even though I was pretty good I eventually quit that too. I also tried basketball and, yep, I quit that.
And now today, I don't play any sports because my indecision meant that I was never able to choose just one and stick with it. How could I pick something that was going to take up so many years of my life? The pressure was so intense to me, I lay in bed every night wondering if I was spending my life doing what I was supposed to be doing, and being who I was supposed to be? During all of that thinking over the course of all those nights, however, I didn't stop to think about how when I was playing soccer or acting I did indeed like it.
Everything I do somehow has to be looked at from the worst case scenario possible, and I never do anything without thinking about how it is going to affect my life or my future. It isn't always such a big choice though, it also affects me in smaller ways. For instance, I can never decide what I want to eat, where I want to go, or what I want to do. I have watched the Netflix series The Office probably about 6 times all the way through by now. That's 1,206 episodes. At least six times. I know that many people love The Office and have gone through it many times, but not to the level--or for the same reason-- that I have. The Office is the only show I watch because I can't decide on any other show.
Whenever I try to find a new show I will sit forever staring at the screen, never able to find something good enough to watch. Most people would just pick a show and go with it but me, no. Before I click on a show I think about how it will affect me a week from then, like is it good enough to not waste my time, but not too good so it doesn't take over all of my time? Somehow I don't stop to think about how thinking about whether it's a waste of time is indeed the real waste of time. This balance of a show being good enough to not waste my time but not too good so as to take over my time is crucial. I have to watch something that I will be able to stop so I can do my homework, but be able to enjoy enough to have some good laughs. The Office works because I know what I'm getting, which takes *some* of the thought out of it. But lately, I have been facing the problem of picking the perfect episode, and I don't know how to deal with that yet. I guess I'll have to make a tally of how many times I have watched each episode to keep it even.
My indecisiveness really affects my school work, especially during Harkness discussions. It is really hard for me to speak up because it takes me too long to think about what I am going to say and how I am going to phrase it and after that, I have to
with think about how stupid it might sound so I just keep quiet. I always envy those kids that shoot their hands up right away an answer and formulate their sentences and ideas while talking. It's truly amazing. I could never do this, because whenever I do try to speak up, I usually fail. At least it seems that way. Or I worry about that happening.
Indecision also tends to make me really nervous, about so many things that really shouldn't matter. Like, in the grand scheme
my
of things, one Harkness discussion doesn't matter, but what I'm referring to is something that's *really* unimportant. For example, one day I was at Subway. I could not decide what I wanted on my sandwich and it stressed me out so much that brain froze. This is the point where words start to jumble up inside my brain and disappear, to the point where I forget how to identify anything in front of me. The guy making my sandwich asked me what kind of vegetables I wanted. Luckily I was able to get through lettuce after a few confused awkward seconds, and tomatoes and cucumbers, but then came the moment of truth. I stared at the vegetable in a sweat. I knew that I needed it on my sandwich because if I didn't I would get really stressed out later. But for some reason, I couldn't remember what it was called. They were purple and long, and they make your eyes water when you cut them. I finally blurted out "purple peppers." They were onions, of course, and they would have made my sandwich perfect. Because I want my life to be perfect so that one day when I am old and grey and I look back at my life I can
that I lived the life that I was meant to live.
say
The problem is that I'm doing more worrying about how I'm living than actually living, which I suppose is actually a form of living itself but despite all of my indecision, what I can decidedly tell you is that this is no way to live. What I can tell you is that worrying about what you're doing obscures the fun in what you're doing. Because I've had plenty of fun, enjoyed plenty of things. They just got lost in worrying about whether there was something more fun that I could have been doing, I don't quite know how to break this cycle. It's not like I can just turn my brain off. I always lay back at night wondering what I could have done better in my life that I can never get back so I have messed everything up. I know. This is insane, and I know everyone has these thoughts from time to time, but for me, it is literally every single day.
Living in the moment. That is what I want to learn to be able to do. I want to be able to let myself be free from my thoughts, take chances, not thinking about how it's going to affect me in the future. Maybe I worry so much about unimportant things because I have nothing really worthy of worrying myself over. Now that is an ironic luxury, one worth thinking about. But not for too long.
Krista Schlinger
I hate talking in front of a group.
I can usually handle 2-3 people, but after 4-5 it starts to get iffy. My voice gets really high and begins to shake while my face turns to a bright shade of red resembling a ripe tomato. I tend to avoid participating in anything that will bring attention to me because of this fear I have that I will end up embarrassing myself. And standing in front of this crowd, knowing that there is possibility of choking or fumbling my words scares me. So basically this is the second most humiliating moment of my life.
The first takes me back to a little incident that happened in fifth grade and I'm betting a few of my classmates can probably remember this one. See, growing up, I had pretty bad Hemophobia or the fear of blood. And what makes this unique phobia extra special, is that it often triggers a little reaction known as vasovagal syncope causing a sudden drop in heart rate and blood pressure. What this essentially means is that blood made me pass out. Or even anything vaguely related to human anatomy. So unsurprisingly, the puberty unit we began in class made me feel slightly uncomfortable to say the least. I remember sitting amongst my classmates who were all giggling, like normal 10 year olds do at subjects like this one, while I sat there utterly shocked at the topics our teacher was introducing. What she was telling us felt completely inappropriate. All of this new information was a lot to take in and it was making me feel a little strange. I began to nervously shift around in my seat when an uneasiness settled over me. The feeling wasn't new; head spinning, nausea, fuzzy hearing. I knew exactly what was coming but I was so nervous that I was able to convince myself that I could just ride it out until class was over,
It wasn't until my vision started to completely black out to the point where I couldn't even see the table in front of me when
I finally decided this may be a little more serious than I had thought. And because I knew that simply letting my teacher know about my situation would draw too much attention, I decided the reasonable thing to would be to discreetly escape to the
restroom.
Long story short, I didn't make it.
I collapsed immediately after stepping outside of the classroom. And let me tell you, it wasn't graceful. From what I've been told, my head made a big clunk sound when it smacked the window on my way down. The window that happened to be
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