Class of 2021, good afternoon.
I was tasked today with
writing an uplifting speech.
(Which is to say:
I was told to pour twelve years
into a simmering cauldron.)
(Which is to say:
I must cook down the ugly into a
palatable mush, the food of infant contentment:
symbolic progress without condemnation.)
In doing so I hope to be the bird
at the front of the V: to lift us up
by the wings and shepherd us forward
into whatever dawn approaches.
(Sometimes I wonder about this
word choice: why uplifting and
not reflective? Not empowering?
Why focus on transplanting us
toward some higher power, uprooting us
from our tainted soil? Why not
mirror back what we've experienced? Or give strength where we are? Why not
examine what poisoned ground we stand on
and find out who pissed in the dirt?)
Perched atop this pitcher’s mound
(which is to say: toxic dirt)
I peer into the crowd today and see not just your faces
but all the faces you wore before.
The round foreheads and
bulbous cheeks of first grade.
(That pressed necklace pendants
into ivory foreheads, pressed words
tremorous and feral into caricature.)
The narrowed faces and
newly pierced ears of middle school.
(Whose harsh gazes slid over me in the halls,
whose hands shoved small boys into lockers
and ridiculed their acne-scarred cheeks.)
The stubbled faces sunny with
twelve years of schoolhouse laughter.
(Whose laughter, and not words,
surfaced at the ugliest times:
who heard their friends play devil’s advocate
and laughed.
Who saw their friend assault a girl
and laughed.)
As I leaf through these memories
I’m amazed by the feats we’ve accomplished.
The incredible dances put on by ASB.
(Which is to say:
Blurred nights of spilled drink
and brazen hands
and ripe coercion.)
Countless victories from our athletic teams.
(Which is to say:
Boys who dripped sweat and racial epithets
onto the courts; who left soiled clothes
and ranked bodies in the lockers.)
Beautiful artwork and writing from our students.
(Which is to say:
Art wrung from jagged scars
and inky tears
and anxiolytics.)
Undeniable learning within our classroom walls.
(Which is to say:
Learning to survive. To find the nearest
emergency exit. To experience locked doors
and hissed rumors that someone has a gun.)
Class of 2021, I’m so proud of all we’ve done.
(That we’ve endured for this long.)
Look how far we’ve come.
(Which is to say:
Look what pain we’ve caused.)
Look how beautiful we are.
(Which is to say:
Look what masks we wear.)
Today, as I look to the future, I’m filled with hope.
(Curled inward with apprehension.)
In this crowd, we might have the next president.
(The next colonizer. The next racist apologist.)
The next big comedian or actor.
(The next rapist. The next abuser.)
The next workers and mothers and fathers.
(The next victims of a mass shooting.)
I can’t wait to see all we do.
(Which is to say:
I’m afraid to see
what havoc we wreak.
What worlds fall
down at our feet.)
Congratulations, class of 2021.
(Which is to say:
please don’t fail us.)
Carla Lin is a 19-year-old writer from Seattle, Washington. When she’s not writing, you can usually find her sampling matcha-flavored desserts or practicing violin.