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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.
04 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. ? 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
05 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
33 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.
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. - 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
38 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
39 ! 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
23 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.
44 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
54 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?
) 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.
55 ! : 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
56 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,
57 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.
47 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
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
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.
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
27 60 I couldn't have been more proud with what I had created, but in reality, it couldn't have been further from what I imagined it to be. To give you a visual comparison, it looked like you were looking directly into the sun, but the sun was covered in quarters. When the day of the derby finally, arrived, I finally how little of a chance I stood against the other scouts. So, in a frenzy of fear, I did the only thing fourth-graders knew how to do: Demand a trade with somebody else. I scoured the gym, hopelessly begging to trade for anyone else's car, offering only my friendship in return. You couldn't put a price on my friendship, I thought. Wrong. I was very wrong. When the race finally began, my worst fears were realized. I finished in last, and it wasn't even close. You could have walked home, eaten dinner, and climbed into bed, and just as you would be falling asleep, my car would hit the finish line. It took me a while to get over the defeat, but after I, with much sadness and regret, left my Webelo Den behind, I was ready to begin my journey through middle school at SPA, Some noteworthy memories from that time include the fact that I really only wore grey clothes for almost two years of my life, how I fell asleep in basically every car ride I took, no matter the distance, or how I legitimately thought I was going to die the first time I rode the Wild Thing at Valley Fair, otherwise known as the place I like to call the endless land of cut off t-shirt tank tops and drawstring backpacks. At the time, I didn't know how to face the pressure these experiences posed. But, I was a kid, and I saw pressure as a burden, and not an opportunity for growth. However, as I entered high school, my mindset changed. The pressure was no longer about roller coasters and Cub Scouts. It was bigger than that. We can all agree that we are challenged in every way as SPA students; the academic rigor we face in classes or the social challenges we deal with as students attending a small school can be difficult to manage. Facing pressure is unavoidable, so all we can do is make it positive. For me, that began academically, as I began to see classes as an opportunity for success, and not a burden. I challenged myself to reach out to my teachers and contribute to class discussions. To me, success meant working hard. Athletically, I wanted the ball in my hands to take the last shot at the end of basketball games. I strove to rise to the occasion, and even if I failed, I understood that the lessons learned would only set me up for success in those same moments on the court in the future. Outside of the school environment, I pushed myself to do things that were totally out of my comfort zone. I went on the Spanish exchange trip, and brought a piece of Madrid back with me; the pressure I faced while trying to navigate a foreign country piqued an interest I didn't know I had to explore the world around us. To be clear, in no way am I minimizing the experiences of people who have had pressure overwhelm them. It's a fine line between rising to a challenge and taking on too much responsibility, and facing pressure should not come at the expense of losing perspective on mental health. The point is that you can control how you confront pressure: You can choose to fold under it, see life as a compilation of failures, and miss out on fun, or, you can tackle pressure head on, live with the results you get, and look back on what happened with a smile on your face. Enjoy life, work hard, and never take yourself too seriously, because, at the end of the day, there's always tomorrow. Lastly, I want to thank some people that have helped me deal with life's pressure and have been by my side for as long as I can remember. First, thanks to Tommy Stolpestad and Adam Zukowski for being by my best friends for almost a decade. Charlie, thanks for being the best brother I could ever ask for, and also for being on the receiving end of the majority of my jokes. Dad, Nans, and Peeps, thanks for being my greatest role models, and finally, and most importantly, thank you to my mom for making everything in my life possible. Thank you. Rachael Johnson All of my friends trust me with the aux cord: it's the single greatest accomplishment of my life. Everytime I'm in control of the music, it's not only expected but guaranteed that I will play bangers. As much as I like to credit it to having incredible taste, the truth is that I simply know what my friends want to hear. Since I know their personalities well and what they already like, it's quite easy for me to hit the nail right on the head and find music that fits who they are because art is the most honest mirror. In 10th grade Wellness, the most memorable assignment was to choose a song that you feel represents you and play it for the class. As I listened to everyone else's songs, I didn't hear a single one that didn't fit. I could easily pinpoint the intellectual yet fiercely passionate sound of a Hamilton song in the person who played it. I'm no exception to being exposed by the things I like. For me, virtually every aspect of myself is reflected in some song or movie I care a lot about. I can see my sensitive, private and sentimental nature in my love of Frank Ocean's album Blonde. Similarly, my playful soul finds a home in Chance the Rapper's lighthearted Chicago beats. After spending nearly the entire summer hanging out with kids as a camp counselor, Coloring Book now sounds different to me. Everytime I listen to it, I can hear the natural joy they brought out of me in Chance's signature "yuh! yuh!" and as I hear the steel drums ring in my cars I see my 11 year olds smiling up at me, begging the kid in me to come out and play. Ferris Bueller throws gasoline on my adventurous and mischievous spirit, I watch my best. friends bicker around a bonfire out of familial love like we're in a scene from Stand By Me, and my inevitable teenage spirit shines through in my love of Troye Sivan and stereotypical teen movies like "To All The Boys I've Ever Loved Before". It's well understood that art is a form of expression for the artist, but it's overlooked how it's also a form of expression for the consumer. You unintentionally reveal what you want the most, what you're afraid of, what you value, what you're insecure about, when you fall in love with a piece of work; and as you grow and change, you let go of things you don't identify with anymore while you pick up new things you discover. Because you can't help showing yourself in the things you like, if you piece together the art that means the most to you, you can get a pretty clear picture of yourself. Not only is art telling of who anyone is, but especially for me, since words can be incredibly difficult for me sometimes. When astronauts are in space, the only way they can communicate with Earth is through radio. As long as their radios work, any minor issues that arise can be documented and the hundreds of people on the ground whose only job is to make sure this mission goes smoothly can do their jobs and help them out, and everything will be okay. Now imagine the astronauts are on the moon and one of their instruments malfunctions. They're perfectly capable of repairing it if they can get the instruction manual from Earth, a simple fix, but their radio has failed and they can't communicate with mission control. The news has spread like wildfire. People on the ground know that the astronauts are in distress and can sense the impending disaster. Even with all of Earth looking up at the moon in the night sky, knowing that there is someone out there that needs help, if the astronauts can't communicate what's wrong then no one can help them. Even if it was possible to hear them shouting from 200,000 miles away, sound doesn't travel in space. Anxiety fills my mouth with so much "space" sometimes that even if the words are there they can't be heard; they're swallowed up and silenced by my mind making up a million fake reasons why letting them be said would be the end of the world. That's only when I'm lucky enough to actually know what to say. Maybe now it's too late to develop the proper connections in my brain but it's as if I never learned how to translate emotion into language. There's just such a disconnect, like a wire was cut in half and sparks jump between the frayed ends but never a complete articulated thought. I can see my friends and family watching me with sympathetic eyes, begging me to just say something and it hurts me that often I literally just don't have the words. They always want to help, but I can tell that they walk away not really understanding what's going on. From my many previous attempts I know I only end up frustrated with myself and confusing the people who care about me, so I choose not to say anything at all. With this much emotion built up inside of me, it's no wonder I became a passionate musician with skill in five different instruments. It's no wonder I became a filmmaker of a sorts for a few years, making artsy videos with my friends and my camera. It's no wonder I became an actor to step outside of myself and embody someone bigger than me. It's no wonder I became a photographer obsessed with capturing the spirit of a moment forever because, yes, a picture is worth a thousand words. In music, in film, on the stage, and in photos, there is no barrier. It flows out of me easier than any words could stumble out of anyone's mouth; it taps into the undercurrent of complicated, messy feelings when language is only capable of reaching the tip of the iceberg. When I play piano, most only hear my ten years of technical experience that I use to play impressive sounding passages that satisfy whoever's trying to show me off, but what's more important to me is the of emotional experience I have at my disposal to color the notes on the page in a way that only I can. With all these different forms of art at my fingertips, I'm like the human embodiment of making your crush a playlist: collecting a bunch of art to say how you feel without needing to actually say it.
7 years year. Often art is just a direct conversation between you and the artist as you find common ground between your experiences and theirs, but sometimes it becomes about more than just you. It was the dead of winter, the darkest and coldest day of the Two of my friends and I sprinted the distance from the car to the Uptown theater in sub zero temperatures, hurdling like Olympians through piles of snow almost as tall as us. Despite our extraordinary athleticism we had still managed to lose all the heat in our bodies and sat down in the theater shivering and laughing. Having seen Call Me By Your Name once before and loving it, I was bursting at the seams with excitement to see it all again. The first time through, I watched it from afar. I was busy analyzing the artistic choices and trying to figure out the plot, criticizing the acting and the direction. The second time 61 62 way I watched it though, I paid less attention to it as a movie and more so as a story. I let my emotional guard down so it could touch me in the that it was meant to. When my friends and I left the theater, we walked this time and it felt a lot colder and darker outside. We didn't play music or speak a word the whole 20 minute car ride back to my friend's house: we let the silence weigh on the space between us, as we were all too caught up in our own minds and feelings to pay attention to anything else. That certainly wasn't the first time that a movie had affected me like that, but it was the first time I had been with people who were just as overwhelmed as I was. Later that night after we had processed enough to talk about it, I noticed that it moved each of us for different reasons, but in the same way. Depending on where you are in life, the parts of a work of art that stick with you are going to be different than the parts that stick with someone else. Since two people could watch the same thing and take away a completely different understanding of it, when you find people who gravitated towards the same messages you did there's an immediate understanding of what you're both going through, a connection on a level that is hard to match. I don't know if anything we could have said would have communicated as much or made me feel as close to my friends as that silent car ride did. Pay attention to the art that you surround yourself with. You like it for a reason, whether you know that reason or not, and you can and should take it as an opportunity to learn about yourself and the people you spend time with. Sawyer Johnson He held his head low as the crowd sped past, running faster than he ever had. With shaking legs and lacking breath his eyes began to fill with tears. He felt he wasn't good enough, fast enough, strong enough. He felt as though he had let down the people who had come to support him and cheer him on. He was only in first grade and already struggling with forms of toxic masculinity and body image issues. I wish I could go back and tell this little boy that not only was he not a let down, but that he was an inspiration to all who watched him put his little foot up against the starting line and give it his all as he struggled to reach the finish. He didn't realize how little the people around him cared about how "masculine" or "strong" he was and how proud they were that he was able to power through and give it his all. He watched through a glossy finish as his loving mother took him in her arms and told him how proud she was, telling him how brave he was, how loved, how strong, but he couldn't believe it. He looked in the mirror to see his ribs staring back at him, effortlessly showing through his tight skin. He longed for the perfect body all his life knowing it was unattainable, not realizing he was so much more. He covered his emotions in a smile and veil of confidence pretending he didn't mind when someone called him a "stick" or a "toothpick." I wish I could go back and let him know that these people meant nothing by these comments and just failed to understand what he was going through, I wish I could stand by his side and hold his clenching fist and help them understand, knowing now that is all it takes to release the anger and make him feel loved. He cried himself to sleep at night every time his baseball coach threw him on the b squad and made sure not to let him get on base. He bottled up his anger trying his hardest to stay level headed and not put himself in a place he didn't belong. He wanted so badly to fit in and he knew having a temper wasn't a way to do that. He laughed off the insults and degradations hoping the more he showed he didn't care the quicker they would go away. He tried to tell himself that his problems didn't matter because of the privilege he was blessed with, I wish I could go back and tell this boy that a problem is a problem and will always matter, because forever and always, "a person's a person no matter how small." He was constantly told to present the world with his true self, but he was confused why his true self was annoying and unbearable. He couldn't find the balance between fitting in and being himself. He tried his hardest to become "one of the guys." He became "different people," he lost friends. He wanted to be smart and look dumb, he wanted to be cool and be kind, he wanted to be feared and loved, he wanted to be strong and to embrace his weakness, his mind became a labyrinth. He was trapped inside begging for a way out, overthinking every situation as the labyrinth grew deeper and darker. I want to call out and tell him that it's all ok, that there is hope and a light at the end of the tunnel. ? He dutifully took his daily medication, hoping somehow this concoction would outwork the last, praying for some miracle drug to save his mind. He stayed up late feeding the ever curious mind he was dealt, searching for answers to each and every burning question bouncing around his crowded brain. He rolled out of bed groggy and unprepared losing the care for the one thing that he loved the most. He shielded off the world under cozy joggers and a soft hoodie, shadowing his face under the brim of a dirty cap. He told everyone he was fine hoping his problems would simmer away, hoping his conscience would forgive him. I scream to him, longing for him to find a way out, longing for him to seek help. But my cries can't reach him. His self confidence hit an all time low when he couldn't even keep his job for half a year. He blamed his alarm for his lateness and worked halfheartedly, telling himself it was their loss. He felt lonely and unloved, blind to the caring mother and father who loved him more than life itself, taking out his self hate on his friends instead of seeking their comfort for help. He kept it all inside for fear of disappointing or getting in trouble. He kept it all inside because he felt it wasn't him, it wasn't who he was supposed to be. He began to fold further and further into himself, isolating himself from those who loved him and lashing out when they tried to help, too self conscious to admit he couldn't do it on his own. His regret reached an all time high when he constantly pushed his parents out of his life in order to suck himself back into his phone, his "safe place." I wish I could tell this maturing boy that his struggles are shared, that his pain is well known, that help is all he needs to succeed. He finally broke down, and let them in and realized nothing mattered more to them than his happiness. He has started a new medication, started sleeping better, and has begun seeing a therapist. He has opened up to his classmates through his speech and can finally see the light breaking through the cracks as he takes a breath of fresh air. I wish I could go back, god I wish I could. But I can't. I can't go back and tell him all of the things I long to, but I didn't have to. Through each and every step I was surrounded by people that cared for me, loved me, and inspired me. It took a lot of patience, pure, complete, patience to deal with me at this time and I can't emphasize enough how helpful that was. They held me close even in my most inconsiderate of moments and let me know that I was not alone and that they were here through thick and thin simply because they knew that under everything, I was still me. Ryan, wow, where to start? You are very big, we all know that, but what some people may not know is that 99% of that big is full of joy, love, happiness, and a whole lotta dork. That 1% of rage is solely reserved for when we play Minnehaha or Breck, but we don't need to talk about that. Sugar Shane. No matter how engulfed I became in this darkened mindset you were there to say something really stupid and pull me right out with some obnoxious laughter. Both of you are always there for me no matter what and Ryan, I know you're going far away for college, but Shane please go to the U, you can't both leave me. Thanks for being ma buds. Lucas, I've done all of the calculations possible and I've come the conclusion that, no, I couldn't have had a better brother than you. Although you always take the car and I will forever be annoyed by that you are always there to provide me with sage advice and kind words, and most importantly, constructive criticism to my terrible humor. Love ya lots and I'm excited to see your pieces on the front page for years to come. Father. I haven't, don't, and probably never will understand all your obscure movie and TV show references, so I hope you can understand mine. Me lobe yoy long tim, and for those of you that don't watch the office, that translates to I love you long time, which I do. Love ya dad. of Momma. I know it's probably too late now, but I brought you some tissues, you'll probably need em right about now. You have been my rock ever since I can remember, you're there whenever I do something stupid and need your help to get me out of a tough situation. You're the first person I go to when I need a hug or just some advice. I look forward to every night when you are too tired to form coherent sentences and laugh till you can't breathe. College is gonna suck without you, but that's why I chose to go only 45 minutes away. Love you to the moon and back. With all of your help and support through these times, all I can say to this boy now is, "keep it up kid, your doing great." 63 76 But I continued to be self conscious about where I lived until in the spring of my sophomore year. I got my first job at Cossetta's, an Italian eatery, next to the Xcel Center. I was ecstatic about getting my first job. Over my shifts making salads and serving pasta to crabby customers. I got to know my coworkers, and on every shift, I learned a new story from them about what was going on in their lives and what they were struggling with. One of the girls that I worked with told me about getting kicked out of her mom's house and supporting herself on her $9.50 an hour paycheck. She was seventeen, only one year older than I was at the time. This shocked me and made me realize the privilege that I had even though it did not always feel like that with the wealthy peers that I was surrounded by at school. During my six months working at Cossetta's, I worked with many people: immigrants, dropouts, teen moms-- that had experiences completely different from mine as well as most of my peers at school. Despite Cossetta's being a less than an ideal place to work, it opened my eyes to my privilege. I did not have to worry about where my next meal would come from or how to cover the rent. I was free to focus on school and ordinary teenage challenges. Before Cossetta's, I had never accepted how lucky I was when I was constantly focusing on what I wished I had. My neighborhood was something that I had thought of as a burden in my life, but in retrospect, I appreciate the valuable life lessons that it's taught me. The fall of my junior year, I spent many nights peering out my bedroom window, watching the downward spiral of my neighbor as her meth addiction took over her life. Each night, the sounds of her parties and arguments with her dealers floated in through my window. Due to my naivete, I did not know that she was a drug addict so this fall into chaos left me wide-eyed and concerned. When she moved in, she was a sixth grade math teacher, who was a fun, athletic mom that loved her two sons. Over the course of a few months, she lost her teaching job and lost custody of her sons. Random people moved into her house and took her car, showing the sad truth of addiction. By the end, her possessions were strewn across the boulevard. Old math textbooks, professional clothes, and a half-finished bunk bed for her two sons told the story of her old life. After watching the nightly saga, I would go to school the next morning where most of my peers had slept soundly and considered how my life experience differed from theirs. From my neighbor, I learned how substance abuse can shatter a life, a lesson that I remember far more vividly than any school lectures on the dangers of drug abuse. Looking back, I also see the positive impact that my neighborhood has had on me. My neighbors have taught me about working with what you have and being generous with others no matter your material wealth. During my early elementary school years, I spent nearly every day down the block hanging out with the neighbor kids. Our favorite activities included ding dong ditching our neighbors until they threatened to tell our parents, making our own America's Funniest Home Videos of us falling out of chairs, and creating a DIY waterpark with a broken pool and a hose. Two neighborhood kids, Cody and Nathan, kept my sister and me entertained for hours and taught us that you don't need fancy things to have fun-- your imagination is what counts. One day on a walk back from the park with Cody and Nathan we noticed a dumpster outside a house a few blocks away. So we headed back to our houses, grabbed our sleds and began to explore the contents of the dumpster. It was like Christmas. Signed baseballs, snow cone machines, old legos. It had everything to make us kids light up with excitement. My parents were alarmed by our dumpster diving, but we didn't know any better. We were too excited by our new loot. After Cody and Nathan moved away our block lost some excitement but their creativity stuck with my sister and me. How I felt about my neighborhood was all about my perspective. I accepted the negative stereotypes of my neighborhood being dangerous or inhospitable as true and dismissed what I had learned from my neighbors over the years. I felt lesser because of where I lived even though I had no control over it. I focused so intently on this instead of realizing how much I do have. Gaining different experiences from living in my neighborhood, working at Cossetta's, and attending SPA have been crucial for me to appreciate what I have and to discover what values are important to me. We are all incredibly fortunate to attend SPA and benefit from the opportunities given to us here, but it is crucial to look outside of ourselves and learn from different perspectives. Who we are as individuals is not determined by our material wealth, but our wealth of character and experiences. Nik Lehtinen Most of the people in this auditorium right now know me as a bit of a jokester, and granted, I am one, even if my jokes are terrible and I most likely learned them from my dad. I use them as a way to bring joy into situations whenever I'm given the opportunity. Contrary to this appearance, I have struggled with depression and anxiety for a lot of my life. So today, I'm going to outline my struggles, share with you my story, and explain what helped me move past all that has stood in my way. While many of you who suffer from similar worry and sadness may not share my exact experiences, or you were not able to heal in the same way I was, sharing experiences helps everyone grow. I hope that I can teach you some things and you can teach me some things, and together, we can erase the grey cloud that is held over ourselves, and the stigma around mental health. I'm going to begin during my 8th grade year. I was always a scatter brain in middle school, and Dr. Wahmanholm can attest that my attention span is still very short. That being said, it became harder and harder for me as winter progressed in my 8th grade year to focus and have energy to do anything with school, especially in math. I began to not turn assignments in, cry in school, and shut out my teachers and parents, causing confusion and anger from both parties as to how I went from an upper echelon student into a seemingly lazy and unmotivated teen. My teachers tried as hard as they could to understand, but when I didn't understand what was going on, it was hard to explain to anyone else what truly was happening. As the school year progressed I began to go more and more inward, taking out my frustration with my inability to understand what was happening, on myself. Fast forward to my freshman year. Now after a solid first quarter, the winter clouds came in, and so did that same energy withdrawal that had plagued me earlier. I began to tune everyone and everything out again. I was wallowing in sadness, feeling as if I had no one to turn to. I couldn't focus, I couldn't get anything done, and I hated the fact that I wasn't doing well in school, but I felt hopeless and just gave into my own demons because fighting them was too hard at that point. After two or three months in the solitary confinement of my own mind, I finally broke down and expressed to my parents this fear of making mistakes that made me so sad that I stopped doing work. I realized that I needed help, and while I was sent to a therapist by my physician, I still felt weak and insecure because I was unable to deal with my issues under my own power. I didn't tell many people the truth of why I had so many doctors appointments in a year, and lied saying it had something to do with my foot, even though my foot was perfectly fine. As a sophomore I again got out to a hot start, this time continuing my success past the first quarter, and through the whole of the school year, which was an improvement I noticed in myself. Away from school, however, I was really out of it. I was again down, my mind resembling the cold and dark afternoons that haunt Minnesota winters. I began to stray away from friends outside of school, and spent most of my time laying in bed at home playing video games or watching videos. I didn't feel joy, I didn't feel anything really. I just felt as if all I had to do was just do the motions. It continued and continued, even as I got help. Finally, once spring rolled around, I started to feel somewhat better, but it still took until around August of 2017 to really feel normal again. My junior year again started off great, even during the cold and cloudy winter months, I was thinking clearly and being more social. However, when I went down with a nerve injury during baseball season, I stopped exercising. I felt hopeless again because of another baseball season that I was unable to fully compete in due to a recurring elbow issue. I felt the true effects of my anxiety. It was taken to a new level that I had not previously felt or experienced. I began to have frequent panic attacks, forcing me to be anxious of everyday things like going to school or driving the car, all out of fear of having that raw fear pulse through my veins as my vision blurred and eyes watered, heart accelerated, and hands and arms going numb. The cycle continued despite my best efforts to beat it on my own. Even with the help of a psychologist, under my own power I was unable to do the things that I enjoy. I hated life. I hated how I felt. I didn't want to exist anymore. I wanted to just restart. I couldn't picture a world where I would have to deal with the consequences of these thoughts and emotions everyday for the rest of my life. I went to prom as a junior, not thinking about having fun with my friends and enjoying the moment, but rather just being sure I had a smile on, even though the real me was crying. I didn't want people to see the real trouble I was feeling. After the worst month of my entire life, where I wanted to find anyway possible out of my reality, I received the help I needed. I was prescribed antidepressants that helped my brain function normally again. I spent my time finding what made me happy over the course of the summer months. Finding most of my peace of mind on the open water in a boat with my best friend and my cousin Charlie, or at the cabin with my family. I realized later on that really the medicine did not do everything for me. 77 88 For every day I complete a quality training session, and every day I finish a race having turned myself inside out, I find peace and tranquility within my mind. If a training session or race goes well, I can tune out the rest of the world and am left with just me, and nothing else. I believe that the time I spend away from artificial stimulation is why I'm able to generally be relaxed about school and life. Skiing and cycling are my pressure release valves, a cathartic release. For my body, I take that a step further. I perform best, at least physically, when my mind is blank. But for anybody, the more relaxed you are, the easier it is to navigate social life, manage your mental health, or a multitude of other things necessary to living healthfully. So, I implore you all, not challenge, but implore you to find a couple of minutes every day where you can let your mind take in natural input and operate as it evolved to do. For the sake of every single person's health in the 21st century, I believe that finding this time every day is a key to not only health, but happiness too. Skiing and cycling are my two chosen forms of removing stimulation from my life, but there are thousands of other ways. From physical activity, to meditation, to a relaxed shower, it's easy to find these moments if you make the time for them. In a world that stops for no one, I encourage all of to find these moments every day. Ryan Moore you There's something I need to get off my chest. I don't know if many of you have realized it, but I've known it for a while. And in a sense, I always knew it at some level. Even from a young age. I am Big, No seriously, guess what size my shoe is? I'll give you a hint: big. I don't even have hands, I have paws. Or, as the website described when I recently bought goalie gloves, "for when you have meat hooks for hands." My position on the basketball team? Big man. As my sister puts it, there's just so much human in this. I've always been big, I was born at 10 1/2 pounds. My first-grade teacher said that when I tried to get from one side of the classroom to the other I would barrel through, leaving a wake of children behind me. By simply walking across a room, I basically parted a sea of six-year-olds. I think more and more people have started to notice too. I've been described as "the Human Clifford" and "just straight up dense." According to Sawyer, my biceps are the same size as his thighs. On countless occasions, my mom just starts laughing when I'm in a doorway because there are about two inches of space on all sides of me. Upon meeting me, one of my parents' old friends from college spurted, "You are not small." Someone else once asked me, "No, seriously, how long have you been bigger than a bear?" And the only person that can make my hand sting from a high five is me. Not gonna lie, it looked really stupid when I proved this hypothesis, because from an outsider perspective, I clapped once and then shook my hands out while grimacing. Being big comes with a lot of responsibility, though. Even the daintiest of bulls breaks some stuff when they're in a china shop. The fact that I am big is ever present in my mind. About a month ago, the girls' basketball team needed extra players for a practice, so I volunteered to fill in. Going into this I knew I was likely to flatten someone. Not to discredit the toughness of the girls' basketball team, but I'm just used to posting up David Roddy, a D1 athlete from Breck (even I think he's big!), so I was worried that I might knock the wind out of one of the girls, Or worse. It's happened before. Last year my elbow brushed Jack Hermann's head as I was trying to pass a basketball, and I Gave him a Concussion. In the moment I hadn't even realized we'd even touched. So during the girls' practice, my goal wasn't to have fun, it was to actively not be a one-man stampede. I've always been aware of my physical power, but I honestly haven't spent much time thinking about the other kinds of power that I have. My social capital. Social capital is the sum of traits that add up to make a person's influence. I have a lot of social capital: I'm white. I'm male. I'm straight. I'm educated. I'm financially well-off, I'm liked in many different communities. And
1111 I'm big. Everything I do is amplified by my social capital. I have a lot of power. I didn't realize that it mattered that much until recently. Some of you may know this already, but at the beginning of this past soccer season, as a captain of the team, I hazed the incoming varsity players. I gave them habanero peppers to eat and although I gave them milk and bread to soften the blow afterward, it wasn't a positive experience for them. At the time I didn't think this was hazing. I thought it was just a tradition, as I myself had participated when I was a sophomore. I wanted to do it because, yes, it seemed like a stupid idea, but it felt to me like a bonding experience for our team. We were suffering but we were suffering together. And I assumed it would feel the same way this year for the incoming players. I didn't think to question that this tradition might be wrong. I made sure to tell them that it was technically optional, they weren't required to do it if they didn't want to. And I never ever wanted to humiliate them or assert my dominance. My intent as a leader was to instill values of community, hard work, and a positive atmosphere while working toward our unified goal. None of that really matters, though. My intentions were not to cause harm, but I also never intended to give Jack Hermann a concussion. It's the impact of your actions that matter. The truth is my actions caused harm to my friends. I was ignorant of the social pressure that I was applying because of my social capital, and the position I was putting them in. No matter what I said, they felt like they had no choice but to comply. I regret that I put people that I care about in a hard position, and I am genuinely sorry to the 7 players I impacted. To the 7 players I hazed. My freshman year I witnessed a captain lose his captaincy and I thought at the time that there was no way that was going to be me. I assumed I'd be smarter than that. But now I stand here, as a senior and my title as a soccer captain has been revoked. Why am I telling you about my struggles and experiences though? Why should this matter to you? Well, I want to repeat, at the time I really didn't think what I was doing that night in August was wrong. It clearly was. And I can see that now. But more often than not, things don't happen the way you want them to. And you need to be accountable, especially when you are in a position of power. You may think that your intentions are good, and that's important. But it can't stop there. You have to do the right thing to make sure you can also be proud of how your behaviors ended up affecting others. If I could travel back to August of this year I would share with myself what I am sharing with you now: consider the implications of your actions. Its not just a pepper. I'm not going to stand up here and rant about the one "perfect" way to act. I just want you to think about the repercussions of your behaviors before you act. That August night I forgot some simple but wise words that my mom often reminds me of, and no matter how big you are, I advise you to as well. Be a leader, not an idiot. Thank you. 89 96 Maya Orey Stories. They're the way to share information, teach lessons, and simply something to enjoy. Everyone has stories that they carry with them. Yet I don't feel like I've lived enough to truly have a story of my own. My story has been one that has been told to me, not entirely my own narrative. An origin of mystery and a murky middle. A story told by sheaves of paper and a videotape that for years has been wanting to be converted to DVD. I am a character within these pages, a baby who I recognize but do not know. Almost faceless and definitely vacant about the eyes. I am told of a two piece outfit, a somebody dressed me in, tucked up against a bottle of milk so I know that I was cared for, The baby comes into the story, ironically placed by a family planning billboard, a tiny 2 kilograms, just over a week old. The tale continues and I take comfort in the detail that is laid out before me. Baby growing fast, a detailed schedule and description. I'm told of my favorite activities and foods. Little habits, such as covering my head as I sleep. It is as if this baby is someone else, as if this baby was a different character in this story of mine. The smallest observations told to me, even the position in which this baby, the position in which I slept. But the eight days, between my first breaths and my two piece outfit, are lost. Missing pieces to a story that is supposed to be my own. The next part, written on to a white sheet of paper; I am written into a new story. A new story, where I was another person. Still not quite Maya, but not who I was before. A step in some direction. In just over a year, that person was lost. The only thing the lost child brought with were the whole 5 pounds of herself. A what-could-have-been left in the whispers of the wind and I became a new child. A slate wiped clean. And I entered a new world yet again. Given a new name, a new place. Entered into a family that doesn't match. We are mismatched or rather mix-matched, if you will. Because when I call across the store for my mom and see curious faces, there is no obvious explanation for the lack of resemblance. Because people's minds don't immediately think: adopted, it is simply an odd occurrence. I don't even remember the first time I was asked why I didn't look like my mom. My face showing that I don't quite fit, a jigsaw piece that's in the wrong box, yet somehow we are. And I sink into this discomfort, because by now, it's a regular occurrence. I've gotten used to being the only person of color in a room, whether it be in a classroom or at a family function. And then there are the questions that nobody needs to ask. The questions that tumble out of mouths, a waterfall of words. Where my nationality comes under scrutiny and the struggle to explain to strangers that yes, I'm American, but I wasn't born here. I've lived here for all of my life, but I guess I'm not from here. Simply because I have a face that doesn't match the culture that I was raised with. A face that has brought me leagues of uncertainty and discomfort. And then when I explain, there are the uncalled for reactions that spread across people's faces, the awkward quiet moments before exclamations of fascination. Once, even, I was accused of lying. Each interaction moves me more towards passiveness. Towards a place of impasse. Because this normal. C C C C C C C C So I continue through my story adrift in this state of simply being. I don't know where I came from, so how do I know which way is the right way to go? Often, you hear students come up here and speak about whatever they're most passionate about. What drives them to make change or aspire for more. They want something different for the world and for themselves. They have built who they are around that one passion and that is who they are going to be. I think that I have no such passions, no drive behind what I do. And it's disheartening to admit that. To say that I don't know what I might want to do for the rest of my life or even what I want to do for the next five minutes. I have interests, certainly. But I don't have something that is pushing me toward a next place I want to be. But that too is something I must come to terms with. Especially right now, in this kind of turning point of life, senior year. The year where big decisions are being made and you must determine a path. A path that defines many of my next steps. And I have a few of those steps figured out, but still so much is in the dark. It's not a new making of myself again, but it is a turn of a page. The next chapter or even a new volume. A clean page, ready for a new story. Lauren Osteraas "Minnesotans will give you directions anywhere except to their own house." This is a quote I heard the other day and it stood out to me just how true it is. We all like to think that we are nice and inclusive and on the surface maybe we are. I'm sure that almost all of us would try to help someone who is lost like the quote suggests. But when the interaction gets deeper than that, if that person begins to ask more personal questions for example, our instinct can be to shut them out or dismiss them as weird because they might not be one of our close friends. When it comes down to it many of us tend to shy away from opening ourselves up to new people. This will be true for many different groups of people throughout your life, but it seems especially prevalent in high school. Being a lifer at SPA I have gone to this school with the same thirty or so people for most of my life. There are pros and cons to this. On one hand, it is almost easier because I never had to deal with coming say freshman year and adapting to a new community and figuring out friend groups because I've always just been a part of the community from the start. But going to school with people for thirteen years does not mean that I feel close with or even know all of them. In fact there are people in the audience right now who I was super close with at the lower school who I barely know anymore. I think we grew apart because as we grow up we become more self absorbed and insecure and aware of our perceptions of others' judgements about us. At the Lower School I basically only hung out with boys. I didn't do this because I thought it would make other girls jealous or anything like that. In fact I wasn't thinking about anyone else at all. All I knew was that at recess the boys were the ones out playing soccer and kickball, which seemed super fun while the girls generally stood around talking which seemed boring, so you can see who competitive 8 year old Lauren wanted to hang with. Now, however, I find myself thinking more about what other people think of me rather than making decisions for myself like I did when I was at the Lower School. I am aware of different cliques and social groups way more than I used to be. And often these cliques feel exclusive when you are not in them because it can feel like people are constantly judging you. Cliques are usually formed based on similar interests. Whether that be sports, similar academic preferences, or a variety of other factors, we tend to gravitate towards people with similar passions as ourselves. We're also creatures of habit. In general 97 92 Throughout my childhood, I saw Pakistan as a place where I could go and immediately feel comforted by the noisy streets, the colorful bazaars, the pigeons nesting in our bathroom window, and the constant presence of family and friendly people. It's home, simple as that. But when I started attending school in America I realized that no one else around me felt this way about the land I loved so much. Living in Eau Claire, Wisconsin, an endless number of people asked me questions that introduced me to how ignorant American society could be. When I was 8 years old, my hairdresser asked if I had any access to electricity or clean water there, because she thought Pakistan was just a desert. Later on, in middle school, my classmates repeatedly asked me if I would be safe when I visited, asking if I would be hit by a bomb or hurt in a terrorist attack. As I grew older, the world tried to convince me that Pakistan was dangerous, that it was dirty, that I should be scared when I visited, and that my family wasn't safe there. It hurt me. Knowing that all people thought of when they heard the three syllables that I had grown up adoring was violence, and pollution, and corruption, it truly hurt me. Your assumptions about Pakistan most probably stem from what you've seen on television: news reports from a dominant Western perspective that cater to an audience with a single-minded view of the world 'out East,' A view centered around destruction, injustice, violence and not much else. Whether you realize it or not, this narrative is rooted in years of the West portraying countries in Asia, Africa, the Middle East as helpless, until America saved them, "brought them freedom," or gifted them with "superior ideologies." Even now, despite our access to information, we accept the shallow view of places and people without considering their deep-rooted histories, their colorful cultures, and their individuality. What you see is a single perspective, but what you don't see, and what many of us have tried in vain to show you, is everything else. What you may assume about Pakistan, as people often do with majority Muslim countries, is that women don't have a role in society-that we aren't given leadership positions or respect or a voice. But what you may not know is that we've already had our first female Prime Minister, Benazir Bhutto in the 1990s. Along with that, Muslim women have had rights to land ownership, divorce, and inheritance since the time of the Prophet 1400 years ago. Like the U.S., we still have a lot of work to do towards gender equality but we have made strides that cannot be ignored. Personally, almost all of my female role models in life have been Pakistani women, whose country or religion have never held them back from being fiercely strong and outspoken. Similarly, what you think you know about Pakistan is the destruction and pollution, the grainy videos you've seen on the news of dusty villages and cities buried in rubble, Kashmir is made out to be nothing but a war zone, a place where Pakistan and India butt heads, a place where violence thrives. But what you haven't seen are the wonders of Kashmir, of Swat Valley, of Old Lahore, of Siri Pai, to name a few, that still take my breath away. The northern areas are filled with sky-skimming mountains, tops dusted with white snow, surrounded by bright green valleys. Glacial lakes bluer than any others you'll ever see, wild horses grazing in emerald fields. The north is truly magical. Old Lahore, my personal favorite, is a maze of spice bazaars, colorful tangas, fruit markets, and historic mosques that are filled to the brim with color, spirit, and soul. In the last 17 years, I have seen only a fraction of the beautiful places my country has to offer. But every time I visit somewhere new, my eyes fill with wonder and I am given yet another reason to love Pakistan wholeheartedly. I could go on and on, about music and fashion and food, every subtle unknown thing about Pakistan that has strengthened my love for it over time. The more I learn, the more Urdu poetry I hear from my dad, the more Pakistani food my mama makes, the more I fall in love with every little part of the country. I know that it is not made of violence, pollution, and corruption, but rather of diverse people, breathtaking landscapes, and a rich pluralistic culture. So, that's my truth, the truth of someone who is deeply connected to this country, Pakistan, someone who has grown up spending at least a month there every year, who knows the people, the landscape, the culture like the back of her hand. Do you believe me? Do you believe me when I say we are a country full of strong, unique individuals, not just helpless brown faces dependent on Western intervention? I want you to realize that the news doesn't define us, or any other country that is only ever shown in a negative light. So, before you make assumptions, before you write off Pakistan, or Iran, or Syria, or Afghanistan, or any of us as worthless, meaningless... remember that the media's perspective should never be your sole definition of a place or a people. Educate yourselves, reach out, get information from people who actually know that place, who love that place. Really try to seek its true value and individuality. As for me? I am proud of where I come from. I have hope in Pakistan's ability to improve and advance. And I will always raise voice in efforts to share its beauty and strength. my Thank You. Lily Nestor I've been lying to all of you for a very long time. I'm finally going to come clean to all of you. I hope you think of me the same way after this is revealed. I, am four feet, eleven and three quarter inches tall. I am asked, "How tall are you?" at least once a week. I have always responded with five feet tall. But it's worse. It's a quarter of an inch worse. There are a lot of bad things about being short and a lot of it has to do with unnecessary commentary from others observing my stature. Every time that someone sees me carrying my cello, for example, they usually say something along the lines of "That's as tall as you!" Now, out loud I say, "haha, yeah." But in my head, because I am filled with sarcasm and rage, I'm saying something more along the lines of either "Wow really? I hadn't noticed," or "That's the most original joke I've ever heard, thank you for sharing." My over 6 foot tall driving instructor felt like I needed his commentary when, after stopping behind a car, he asked me about how you could tell that you had stopped a good distance away from the car in front of you. I responded with, you can see the bottom of the back tire. In a fantastic example of wit, he then decided to say, "I can see it. Can you?" For the record, I could. But I did not appreciate the accusation. Another example was that one of the judges for a debate round wrote a comment under my name. "A little short." To this day, I'm still wondering if that was because of my speech length (which I thought was perfectly reasonable) or my height. If the comment was indeed, aimed at my height, my response is, ah yes, I guess I'll have to go casually grow a few more inches to somehow make the substance of my arguments better. Thank you, anonymous judge, for your input. In terms of day to day operations, I've had to get creative whenever I need to reach something on a high shelf. At we lowered all of the cabinets so that we can reach things, and we have step stools easily accessible whenever you need them. my house At the grocery store, or at libraries, that's not the case. You might be wondering, hey, why don't you just ask a tall person to grab that very heavy copy of Ursula K. LeGuin's 832 page collection that's at the top of the shelf? To that I respond, that's not how that works! You don't just ask a tall person to grab something for you and expect them to not politely mock you for your stature. So instead, I either search the entire library for a footstool, or, I end up doing this weird hopping thing in which I place my foot on one of the lower shelves and try to vault myself up enough to knock the book out of its place enough that I can grab it. Side note, librarians don't like that technique. Now, there are also good things about being short, it's not all bad, For example, I'm a lot closer to the ground for the times when I stub my pinky toe on the metal foot of the couch and proceed to fall down and cry. 35 93 84 I tell my story knowing it is only one of three-point-eight billion. I tell my stories for the women listening who have been through less, for the girls who have been through more. Because no matter your experience, it is not always easy to be here. Know that woman does not define you, you define woman, I tell this story for the men in this audience. If my reality makes you squirm, makes you want to stop listening, your reaction is correct. This should make you unsettled, because the lives we lead as women are unsettling. Women need you to understand that fear and overthinking whether something is safe enough or not, whether we are strong enough or not, takes up a disproportionate amount of our time and energy and that is not okay. Women need you to feel our anger, understand it has roots buried far below the surface that you see. We need you to feel our fears in any capacity you can muster, so you know what woman is on a level that we have no obligation to expose, so you know that women are hurting. We need you hesitate before you opt-out of our discomfort, because this part of our existence is not opt-in. I do not say these things because I resent you for your power over me, over any woman. We grew up on opposite ends of the same system, we have been taught to move through different worlds. I tell you because I need you to understand that I am angry only because I'm terrified that things will never change, and that too many more girls will grow up the way I did - violently, and too fast. -- I tell you these things because I've decided to trust you, because I think that it's time we demand our boys become more than just boys. I choose to believe that you will hold this knowledge gently, because I've been given hope by the boys and men in my life who have decided to care, who are not perfect but keep trying. I choose to believe that you will feel our discomfort, take it on as your own, and recognize that our pain is not right, and that in this process you begin to realize that we are not yours to define, because only a woman makes a woman. Aidan McVea I have always had a bit of a problem with my observational skills. Very obvious information stares me in the face, and sometimes, it just doesn't find a way into my brain. I'd like to think it's just my brain working efficiently, dumping out all the useless information I've collected as fast as it can, but, honestly, a lot of the time it seems to go a bit over the top and it ends up throwing out stuff I actually really need, like the time I'm supposed to arrive at advisory in the morning, or the due date for the first draft of my senior speech. Really, this problem hasn't harmed me too much, beyond occasionally causing me to get confused in conversations and forcing me to ask questions with shockingly obvious answers. For the most part, I notice the real important stuff happening around me, but sometimes stuff just slips through the cracks. One of the most memorable examples of this was the time I almost let my house burn down. It was a normal afternoon after school, and my mom was getting ready to go and pick up my sister from her violin lessons. Right before she left, she put some banana bread that she'd been making in the oven and told me to watch it and make sure that nothing went wrong. I was lying on a couch in the next room over, reading a book, and I just responded with a distracted, "yeah, sure". Now, the oven she was using for the banana bread was one of those microwaves that doubled as a convection oven, and in her hurry to get out the door, she had set it to microwave mode instead of oven mode. So now, I was alone, sitting right next to a loaf of banana bread set to microwave at full power for 40 minutes. Now you'd think that I'd be pretty quick to notice the awful smell of burning banana bread, or the smoke that was slowly filling the room to the point where it was becoming a little hard to see, but, in an incredible feat of concentration, I somehow missed all that and kept reading. I don't know what would've happened if my mom had been gone for much longer, but, unless the house had actually caught fire, I doubt it would have ended with me ever realizing anything was wrong. Anyway, eventually my mom did come home and pulled out the banana bread, and everything was fine, except for the microwave, which was pretty messed up. Honestly, the whole experience was a pretty terrifying way to learn that none of our fire alarms worked. But not every lapse in basic awareness of my surroundings has had such dramatic consequences. Most of the time, they were just mildly embarrassing. When I was around seven or eight, I was dragged along to watch one of my brother's soccer games. Being a kid and also a younger sibling, I didn't care at all about anything my brother was doing, and halfway through the game, I spotted a cloud of gnats hovering nearby that looked like much better entertainment. I chased after the gnats, clapping my hands together, trying to crush as many of them as I could, somehow completely unaware that I was running right out onto the soccer field. I spent the next few seconds in blissful ignorance, until that illusion was shattered by the soccer ball bouncing directly to my feet. I looked down from the gnats and found two whole soccer teams worth of very annoyed looking ten year olds staring directly at me. That's not an image a kid forgets quickly. I stared back at them for what was probably a very long time, until one of them finally said something along the lines of, "Can you please give us our ball back?" I kicked the ball away and ran off the field, thoroughly humiliated. Another time, around when I was in 3rd grade, I was sitting in front of the fireplace in my house with my winter coat on, warming up and getting ready to go outside and make the freezing trek to my bus stop. I was talking to my brother and eating breakfast, and as I relaxed, I leaned backwards against the wall. At least, I thought it was the wall. What I was actually leaning against was the metal grate of the fireplace, which was incredibly hot, but, caught up in my conversation and the bagel I was eating, I failed to notice the burning sensation that was creeping up my back. My brother suddenly made a face, looked over into the kitchen and asked, "Is something burning?". I didn't smell anything. Then my dad walked in, and I stood up, ready to leave for the bus stop, and, to his horror, my dad saw the huge piece of my coat that had melted and been left behind on the firegrate. I'll never forget the sight of that molten wad of plastic and feathers that had once been over half of the back of my jacket. I'll also never forget how cold it was walking to the bus stop that morning without a coat on. But, despite the embarrassments I've suffered for my obliviousness, I think there is something good about them. See, when I was reading that book while my microwave was on the verge of bursting into flames, I was truly enjoying it. When I was chasing those gnats around a soccer field, I was having a lot of fun. I wasn't thinking about anything else, I wasn't worried about what could be happening elsewhere or what could be happening in the future, I was just appreciating what was happening now, right in front of me. It's advice I can guarantee you've all heard before, but I hope I'm making it clearer: "Live in the moment". In the modern world, where so much of our attention is expected or demanded by so many different things, it's becoming harder and harder to just get completely lost in something. It doesn't really matter what it is. It doesn't have to be important, or life-changing, or world-changing, it just needs to be something you can dedicate all of your attention to. I think. if you occasionally let your guard down and let your hyper-awareness of your surroundings fade away for a while, even if you risk missing something important or doing something embarrassing, you might enjoy things in an entirely new way, and you'll be happier for it. So, while maybe you should pay attention to fire hazards that are quickly developing next to you, or exactly where you are in relation to that soccer game you're supposed to be watching, the next time you find yourself passing the time by obsessively checking your phone, or worrying about things you can't control, just choose something, and lose yourself in it. Max Moen People love to chide me for being the zealous polyglot that I am. "Ugh, Max," they say, "We get it- with your love of scarves, efficient public transportation, Amsterdam, German chocolate and Angela Merkel. You are the literal definition of Eurotrash." It may be easy to write off my affection for language as mindless folly, but to cast it aside would be to throw away a big part of my identity. The languages I have learned have taught me significant lessons about myself and the world; lessons that I've noticed too easily fade into the background in this era of noise and distraction. And so, I begin my appeal for the continued relevance of the humanities in the 21st Century. Specifically, the continued importance of world language education. What amazes me about language is the potential that it has. The feeling that something will never be the same after you speak. The fact that the slightest change in punctuation or vocabulary can entirely change the effect of what is said. And yet, world language and humanities instruction continue to hold less importance in the realm of American education, as they're seen as unimportant facets that have little practicality in the modern world. After all, everyone learns to speak English, right? 85 ! 74 Abby Lanz many of I am a people-pleaser. I have been for as long as I can remember. For those of you who know me well, and honestly, probably who don't, this fact is supremely clear. I always help people when they ask, I am always there to support my you friends and listen when they need someone to talk to, and I put other people before myself 100% of the time. Now I know some of you are thinking, "But aren't all of those things just being a nice person?" and to that I say, "Well, yes, but there was a piece I left out." The line between being a nice person and a people-pleasing is fine, but it's an important distinction, and the part I left out draws that line. That part is that I can't say "no." I To me, saying "no" makes me selfish. I help people even when I am really busy and don't have the extra time or energy to help. friends when they need me even if it means forgoing much needed sleep or setting my own feelings and troubles support my on the back burner or holding them in because I deem them to be less important. I put other people before myself because I think they matter more than I do. On top of that, I could never ask for those things in return. I thought that doing so would make me a burden, so no matter how much I needed it, I tried to avoid asking for anything. It's this kind of toxic correlation between kindness and self-worth that makes people-pleasing so dangerous. It is awesome to help others and do nice things for other people. A lot of the time, it can make you feel good, too, and that's perfectly fine, and you should keep helping people when you want to. The key aspect is the "when you want to." Helping other people should never come at your expense, and that is precisely what people-pleasers are prone to doing. What I am prone to doing. What other people think of me has always been unnecessarily important in my eyes to the point where I let other people's opinions dictate how I see myself, I seek validation in everything I do. If I don't receive praise, I'm a failure. If people don't like me, I'm not loveable. If people are mad at me, I have no worth. My only purpose in this world is to make other people happy, so if I'm not doing that, I don't have a purpose. It was when I almost gave up singing that I realized I had a problem. I love music, but after trying out for choir solos for the third year in a row and not getting one, I started thinking that maybe music, especially singing, just wasn't meant for me despite the happiness it brought me. I thought that since I wasn't one of the best and the brightest, I didn't have anything to offer. Similar things started happening with violin and piano. All around me were kids who were way more talented than I have ever been, and I couldn't help but compare myself to them. I felt like a failure, like I wasn't going to get anywhere in life because I had no special skill to make me different from anybody else. But I couldn't stop singing. I went back the next morning and found that it still brought me the same joy it always had. I couldn't believe that I had almost given it up. I had let need for validation overshadow the personal satisfaction that singing brought me, and that was a terrifying thing. my I started looking at other aspects of my life. Grades, sports, personality, physical appearance, even key aspects of my identity... It startled me how other people's views and opinions reigned supreme over mine in every single one of those categories. I avoid conflict at all costs. I don't share my thoughts or opinions for fear of backlash, even if that isn't logical. I am always agreeing with people, nodding my head and smiling even when it feels wrong because I'm afraid that if I don't, they won't talk to me anymore. Harkness discussions are my worst enemy. I am constantly afraid that if one word comes out wrong, the whole class and the teacher will hate me. If I have a disagreement with a friend, I immediately become paranoid that they will turn the rest of our friends against me, not because that friend has given me any reason not to trust them, but because I fear that none of them liked me all that much in the first place, and I just pushed their kindness to its limit. My grades need to be flawless, otherwise my parents won't be proud of me, I won't get into a good college, or my friends will think that I'm too stupid to hang out with them. If my project didn't get above a certain score, even if I was happy with the product, I let myself get dragged down. I thought that my teacher thought I was less of a student and that my parents thought I was a waste of the money they spend to send me to school here. One "bad" grade, and in my mind, I could no longer call myself smart. I lost something I used to convince myself of my worth or value. In sports, if I decided that my performance wasn't stellat, i.e. I missed a basket, one of my dives wasn't as good as it usually is, I got winded during a track race and slowed down, I thought that my coach was upset with me and didn't see me as a valuable member of the team anymore. I thought that I had let them, my team, and my parents down by "underperforming." It didn't matter if I was having fun. All that mattered was whether I had gone above and beyond to prove my worth on the team and whether everyone else thought I had done well. It took me way too long to understand that none of this is true. None of it, Other people's opinions don't have any impact on my worth, and even if they did, I judged myself way more harshly than anyone else. The standards that I held myself to didn't apply to anyone else, so why should they apply to me? I realized that it isn't selfish to put myself first sometimes. I am allowed to say "no" if someone needs me to do something for them and I don't have time. I am allowed to make mistakes. I am allowed to do things for myself and do what makes me happy without worrying about what other people think. My value does not stem from other people. The fact that I am here and I am doing my best is enough. To my fellow people-pleasers, your worth doesn't stem from other people either. You are smart, you are strong, you are powerful, you are beautiful, and you are valued. It doesn't matter what anyone else says. If someone doesn't like you, that's their loss, not yours. If you're doing your best, but you aren't living up to someone's expectations, you aren't a failure; they just need to get new expectations. We don't need to change who we are to make other people happy. That isn't our job. That isn't our purpose. If we aren't "good enough" for someone, they need to lower their standards because we don't live to please them. We live for ourselves, and that isn't selfish. And while I am telling you to live for yourself, I actually wrote this speech with someone else in mind, but by my own choice. I wrote this speech because I know that someone in this audience probably really needed to hear it. They needed to hear that they're valued. They needed to hear that they're loved. They needed to hear that they are perfect just the way they are, no matter what anyone else says. And I needed to hear it, too. So, I wrote this speech for me and for you, dear audience member, because we deserve to hear that we are always enough. Kaia Larsen My family and I have lived in our bungalow my entire life. Our house sits a few blocks from the river bluff on the West Side. It is the most ethnically and economically diverse neighborhood in St. Paul. The West Side is a working-class neighborhood, across from downtown St. Paul. It is known as an immigrant neighborhood, these days you may have visited it for its Mexican cuisine or the Cinco De Mayo parade. Prior to coming to SPA I had attended the St. Paul Public Schools, starting at Crossroads in Pre-k and then Capitol Hill from first through seventh grade. I took pride in going to a public school and had never thought of leaving the school system until my mom hatched the plan for my sister and me to attend SPA. I was immediately apprehensive due to my lack of knowledge of private schools and the little that I did know were stereotypes of rich, snobby kids in designer clothes. When I reluctantly toured SPA, I was impressed... by the fancy pasta and breadstick lunch that outshined even my favorite lunch of the famous Italian dunkers of the St. Paul Schools. But I was still not convinced that SPA would be for me, so when I returned from Camp St. Croix the summer after 7th grade and my parents informed me that I would be attending SPA I balked. I was a public school kid who would not fit in with those rich kids. From the start, I was nervous that people would judge where I lived or how small my house was. I thought this would be how people would determine my worth. This made me prefer to go to my friends' houses that were tucked away in quiet, well off neighborhoods, which were in a stark contrast to where I had grown up. A couple of times, after coming to my house, some of my classmates made comments about being scared of my neighborhood. Because it didn't look like the orderly suburbs they were accustomed to, they thought that I lived in the "ghetto." They may have meant no harm, but these comments stuck with me and made me feel embarrassed about where I lived and like I was a lesser person. However, despite these comments, I found that the majority of my SPA classmates were caring and compassionate and not snobby like I had feared. 75 combination with the subject of history was the most dangerous place within the school grounds, but somehow, Señor proved me wrong. It turns out that, contrary to what you would believe, a bright and loud room with extreme weather patterns can still cause you to fall asleep regularly. My initial judgement of the library classroom was that it would be the last place that I would find some rest, but I made a mistake and stopped thinking there, I should've taken the next step and thought about what I wanted to do with that information. If I had just not let my guard down and regularly checked myself during every single one of Señor's photo album displays, I might've had a chance to reduce the number of times that I lost consciousness, which would have technically been the right thing to do. As you can hopefully see now, the steps that take after you make that initial judgment really matter. And while sometimes you those steps amount to something as little as a deduction in someone's grade, sometimes it amounts to much more. I want to ask a question of everyone here: how many times have you been stopped at security checkpoints when travelling? I'd bet a lot of people would struggle to remember that one time they were stopped, but for me and my family, we struggle to remember that one time that we weren't. I've travelled a lot in my lifetime, and I've grown accustomed to being stopped for little things. I always convinced myself that my mom just really sucks at packing our luggage, which is why we get stopped all the time. But I'm forced to look deeper than that just because of the way that our society is shaped. I can't just blame my family for the small injustices that are regularly afflicted upon us, I have to start looking to others. Are people usually stopped at those checkpoints for brief checks that literally result in nothing, every time? I know that my parents aren't dumb. I've known that for a long time. So then why did I force myself to believe that it was their fault that we were being stopped every time we try to navigate the airport? I'd argue that it wasn't something as stupid as believing it was our burden as immigrants, as Muslims, to fundamentally be suspicious, but something much dumber. I saw those blue and black uniforms, decked in shining badges, equipped with comms and weapons to stop any potential threats, and I believed that those people were here to protect me. That was my initial judgement of them. And I was not · wrong at all, that's not what I am trying to get at. But what I did next was to take that initial judgment, and make it my reality. In my head, I negated any possibilities of them doing things that would contradict that first judgement. In simpler terms, I thought of them as capable of doing no wrong to me. That was my mistake. I ignored the fact that behind their equipment, badges, uniforms, and training, there is a human there, not a robot. A human, who is taught all about racism and discrimination, but is still imperfect. Whether they heard about terrorist attacks on the news, or heard a conversation about the mass shootings, somehow small biases still reach them. All that they are taught helps fight off their initial urges to discriminate and judge others, but society's pressures are not an escapable force. They are strong enough to subconsciously influence anyone, even another Muslim, African American, or middle eastern person to judge someone of their own ethnicity based on just their appearance, and I can relate to that. I can't say that I don't make those judgements, so like I said in the beginning of this speech, the next step you take is the important one. I could continue to believe in my initial judgement and blame my parents when our bag is pulled over to the side, or I could realize that the security guards are human too, and start noticing the difference in treatment that happens around me. And although it might make a world of a difference to some, in reality, not everyone is affected by this equally. Some people look like what we would consider normal in today's society, and others, whether by choice or by birth, don't. Thankfully, I'm confident that everyone in this school is capable of taking those next steps and judging each other fairly. But, if you think doing something purely to benefit someone else is too hard, I have a more selfish reason why you should take my advice: If you don't judge everyone properly, well, you're a nerd. Thank you. Eliza Reedy I have a long, complicated history with water bottles. When I first came to SPA as a 9th grader, I would bring water with me to every class to make sure I was hydrated by the end of the day, when I had to go to cross country practice. In the process, I would leave the water bottles everywhere by the end of the first month, I had left a water bottle in every class on multiple occasions, at cross country practice and in my advisory more times than I bothered to count. Some of them were lost permanently during that first semester, and I went through several before I found a solution: I named a water bottle. More specifically, I named him Jerry. While none of my previous water bottles had lasted longer than a month or so, Jerry stuck around. I still left him everywhere, but would always end up finding him again. Jerry was an important personal belonging rather than a piece of plastic, which was actually a very effective anti-forgetfulness strategy. It's like in movies, when parents tell their kids not to name the stray dog or sick animal they're trying to befriend once you name it, you'll become attached. And I was definitely attached to Jerry. I brought him pretty much everywhere (I was Very hydrated), and spent a few months in denial of the fact that he was starting to fall apart. Jerry was a loyal water bottle and friend up until the end of my sophomore year, when I eventually had to accept that he was broken. The next phase of my hydration journey started in March of 2017. Before I left for the Odyssey trip that spring, I had to get two new water bottles that would fit with the trip's water filters. I got two nalgene bottles for that trip, one clear, and one dark grey. They were filled and refilled many, many times over those first eight days in the canyon, sometimes with Gatorade and sometimes with water that smelled so bad I could barely force myself to drink it. I dragged those nalgenes through bushes, over rocks, up cliffs, and by the time I came back from the trip the sides of the bottles were entirely scraped-up. Most of the damage was from the fourth day of the trip, when we took a break from carrying our packs and went for a day hike, which included climbing up an almost-sheer rock face. After that climb and in the weeks following Odyssey, I felt stronger, more confident and capable than I ever had, and every time I look at the scratches covering the clear plastic bottle, I remember that feeling. I The following summer, after retiring Jerry, I brought the gray nalgene on a trip to Alaska with my family. I didn't usually bring a water bottle on trips like this, and decided to find a sticker for the nalgene at every stop, to commemorate the trip. When got back to Minnesota, I had 5 or 6 new stickers plastering the sides of the water bottle. Once I'd started stickering, it was impossible to stop; and by October, the sides of the bottle were barely visible at all. And the collection is still growing, filling up my desk faster than I can find places for them. I have a few running-related stickers, one from the store where I've bought running shoes and gear since I was in seventh grade, and one from the Roy Griak invitational, a meet where I've been a spectator for the last seven years and finally qualified to run this fall. There's a bright yellow "protect wild Utah" sticker, a gift from another member of the Odyssey trip. For Christmas last year, I got a Parks & Recreation sticker from a cousin who shares my love for the show, and one from my grandma, of a sunflower, the state flower of Kansas. I took a trip to New Orleans with my mom and grandma this spring, and came back with a sticker of a "Lost Dog" poster with an alligator on it, just because it made me laugh. On election day, I added a rainbow-striped "Stacey Abrams for Georgia Governor" decoration. There are stickers of dogs and bears and flowers and leaves, stickers from hijab day, international women's day, SPA cross country, images of states I've been to once and the state where I've lived my entire life. I look for them whenever I'm in a new place, and by now have multiple family members who will mail me the small decorations from stores, cities, events, or any other convenient source. I don't lose my water bottle very much anymore. I can partially credit this to the fact that I generally function better as a person now than I did when I was 13, but also because it's harder to lose an object that means something to you. Every single decoration I've collected reminds me of a person I love or a memory that makes me smile, and the nalgene is a sentimental object now, not a piece of plastic. I've moved on from the Jerry-era strategy of naming my water bottle, and onto a new one; making it... me. my I'm a pretty reflective person, and I love giving myself chances to reminisce about the last 16 of years life. Everywhere I go, I tend to fill the corners of my life with little memories in a way that makes nostalgia impossible to avoid. There's a paper bag of old birthday cards, letters and journals on my bookshelf that I look through when I'm feeling down, and a bulletin board over my desk covered in baby pictures, valentines from my friends, gifts from kids at my summer job, friendship bracelets, and other assorted trinkets. Being constantly surrounded by my best memories and favorite objects reminds me to appreciate the world and the people in my life. And it helps me stay positive about myself to remember how many experiences and how much happiness has gone into the person I am now-a work in progress, but someone who I'm happy to be. With only a few months left of high school, it's easy to get caught up in all the emotions of leaving. I'm probably not the only senior here who spends a lot of time thinking about the memories I've made here, and what it'll mean to leave. My goal in my final minutes up here is to not let myself leave the stage today without really thanking all the people that I love in this audience. I'll start with the cross country team. Some of you I've known for only a few months, and some of you I've known since before I even started school here, and even been lucky enough to captain with. You are an amazing group of people-the strength, support and spirit you show me everyday can't be beat, and I'll always have a special place for you all in my heart.
11 68 I first watched Stick It, an angsty teen gymnastics film, when I was about twelve. Since that day, I watch it every time I feel insecure or do not feel motivated to train. Haley, the main character, is a feisty gymnast who stands strong in her beliefs and shares her opinions freely. Watching a teenager who is not afraid of what others think encourages me to be a strong-minded, athletic, and muscular woman. Her character gives me comfort with what I do and who I am. Current media increasingly portrays role models like Hayley. Real athletes like Serena Williams and Lindsay Whalen exemplify strong and smart women who pave the way for female athletes around the world. The "#likeagirl" is trending on Twitter, a hashtag people use when they post media that celebrates female athletes. When society sees female athletes in the media who are proud of their accomplishments and body types, young and adult women feel more inspired and confident to be athletic and muscular. What does this all mean for me???? Perspective. I work hard to channel negative stereotypical experiences into positive ones. As I become more aware of stereotypical social standards and norms, I want to react and resist. I hope this will not change. The quote "because I am a woman" is never a reason to do, or not to do something. I feel lucky to be guided by these strong views. I am not only better prepared to react to uncomfortable, unfair or unequal gender-related stereotypes, but I am also better prepared to positively channel reactions and behaviors that used to irritate me. While this awareness is so important to how I feel about myself, I remind myself, often, to react to opportunities and challenges, not as a woman, not as a man, but as a human being. Weightlifting is something I enjoy, and has become an inspirational reminder for me to combat gender stereotypes with positivity, Speaking of perspective, after this week, this speech feels so much less important. Henry's passing is horrible, and something I cannot even begin to imagine happening in my own life. It is yet another crazily sad reminder of how fleeting life can be, and again, speaking of perspective, how fortunate I am- even on my hardest days- where things are off or I am feeling badly for myself. So, whether it's something so small as a bad day at practice, or something ongoing like the gender related experiences, or something so tragic like Henry's passing, I know that it is not contradictory, but instead a reminder, to both recognize and appreciate how fortunate we are as well as continue to make our world a more equitable place for everyone. Eric Lagos We are creatures of habit. Our lives tend fall into repetitive patterns, and our routines drive our days. So much so that we live the majority of our lives on autopilot. Our lives become dull, and we miss out on experiences. But why do we let this happen? Well, our routines don't require us to think, and believe it or not, thinking, requires a lot of energy. This is why I choose only to think for the most important things, like fantasy football trades. While this may not be entirely true, I have actually had moments where I found myself coasting through life. Living out my day-to-day routine by simply going through the motions. However, sometimes I break my routine and leave my comfort zone to take in new experiences, Here are just a few of those times: Back in elementary school, my grandma taught some of my cousins to knit and crochet. It looked pretty interesting, but I certainly wasn't going to go out of my way to do it... Until, to my surprise, I suddenly signed up for a knitting and crocheting class at "The Yarnery'. Of course, I was very apprehensive about taking this class. I didn't like a lot of things about the situation, most notably, I thought I couldn't take the embarrassment of the activity. I wasn't going to say no though, as the people encouraging me to take the class thought it was "extremely important" for me to "improve my hand-eye coordination" to match my foot-eye coordination from soccer. So on the first day of class, my mom took my sister and me to "The Yarnery'. As I walked up the front stairs, I tried to tell myself 'it won't be so bad','it's just a few hours'. But then I walked in the door. OH NO OH NO OH NO, Seated in a circle around the room were approximately 20 girls and absolutely 0 boys. Oof, I've micalculated, this IS so bad. I'm pretty sure I immediately calculated the number of hours I would have to spend here throughout the course of the week. But as it turns out, after all those hours, it actually wasn't so bad. I found that I liked crocheting and actually continued to do it out of my own enjoyment. That year, I ended up crocheting pieces that I had designed for my Destination Imagination team, a problem-
111 solving competition designed to promote creativity with both a performative and structural design aspect. The judges were quite surprised that I was the team member who crocheted the beret, the snowflakes and the Eiffel Tower, used in our performance. We finished top 20 in the world. My initial fear and embarrassment had almost turned me off from trying something new and gaining a skill. I won't say it's an incredibly useful skill, but still a skill nonetheless, which is why I am thankful for those in my life who encourage me to try new things. Thank you, Grandma. Last fall, as a junior, I realized that I had reached the halfway point of my high school years at SPA. I had devoted a significant amount of time to soccer, but had the realization that maybe I was letting some opportunities offered to me slip through my fingers. So, as a junior, I decided to take a leap and try beginning debate. Traditionally, junior year is a little late to begin debate, but some of my friends were taking the class, and it seemed like a lot of fun. Although we spent a lot of time preparing for our first tournament, I was still incredibly nervous and if it isn't completely evident by now, I am terrified of public speaking. Imagine my horror at drawing the first day of senior speeches. So I was definitely nervous as Jack Benson and I were going to my very first tournament. We walk into the room and see our opponents sitting there and much like what I thought at 'The Yarnery', and much like what I'm thinking right now, I'm thinking, what have I gotten myself into. I deliver my speech, which actually went pretty well, but then their first speaker stands to deliver his speech, and to my surprise, it was so bad. Pffffeww. This is good. This is very good, I thought. No, actually this was bad. This was very bad. Facing an opponent that easy had lulled me into a false sense of security and come round 2, we faced a good, not necessarily the best, but an incredibly harsh team that just completely dismantled our arguments. Although this experience was disheartening, and although we didn't know this at the time, we ended up coming back and winning the round late. And because we pushed through this rough patch, we ended up having a very successful tournament. When debate wound down and when soccer season ended last fall, I didn't have a whole lot to do, so Eli Striker and I let ourselves be persuaded to join the swim team. Joining swim team in the winter of my junior year was the first time I had even conceived the idea that I would swim competitively in my lifetime. I had always hated swimming lessons growing up, and, in fact, by the time I was in the "rainbow trout" level of lessons, I would beg my parents not to make me go. So last winter, when I told my parents I would be joining the swim team, they were, unsurprisingly surprised. It turns out that while I hated swimming lessons, I absolutely loved the swim team. Now don't go and get that confused with the act of swimming, because that part was awful, but I did love being on the swim team. I am 100% a land-based athlete, and for a couple weeks before the swim season officially began, Eli and I met the team captain for refresher swim lessons at Oxford pool just to be ready for the horrors of the first practice. My main bone of contention with swimming is not the level of exertion, it's just the fact that you have to do it without oxygen. Needless to say, I was and continue to be very uncomfortable in the water. I am no rainbow trout. During one of the first swim meets of the season, which also happened to be the City meet and full of not only people I knew but actual legitimate swimmers, I was spending my hours on the pool deck mentally preparing myself for thirty seconds of an activity that I hated. your When my time comes to get on the starting block, I had finally come to terms with what was about to happen. Swimmers, take mark. Bzzz. I dive in, and as soon as my face breaks the water, my goggles flip over so that the backs of them are painfully pressing into my eyes. And here's a little known fact, It's actually very hard to swim in a straight line when you can't see. So I'm banging against the lane lines as I flounder and flail my way across the pool, praying that I would at some point feel a wall. By some miracle, I managed to blindly execute a turn and head back in the other direction. I zigged and zagged my way back down the lane until finally I couldn't take it anymore. I grabbed onto the lane line and stopped, and when I took off my goggles and regained my sight, I saw that I was just three feet from the wall. I was disqualified. Although this experience was horrible in the moment, we all had a good laugh after, and it has become one of my fondest memories of swimming. Even though I faced this minor setback, I ended the day with my personal best 50 freestyle time in the next race. So when you're trying a new activity, keep at it, because in all likelihood you're only three feet from the wall. Life is just a culmination of all our experiences. Why then do we choose to experience so little. Even if you try something and hate it, the more things you try, the more you've lived. And even by failing, you've succeeded in learning. So as my speech comes to its conclusion, I'd like to leave you all with a challenge for this new school year. And this extends from freshmen to seniors, faculty to invited guests. Go out and try something new. Take on a project you've been wanting to do, learn a new skill, or try a new activity. This winter, you'll be able to catch me on the cross country ski trails as I take on nordic for the first time. So go out, get the most out of life, and make it a great year. Thank you. 69 70 Annie Lam The old man sitting across from me was once a starving, orphaned young man in a cell, jailed for stealing food from his neighbor. The boy followed the promise of a stranger in the next cell, swimming from Shenzhen to Hong Kong, the first step in what became a long path towards American citizenship. My parents are seated beside me, both the second youngest of many children, raised by widowed parents in struggling countries. They came to America alone: my father a Vietnamese teenager and my mother a young Chinese woman pursuing a better education. It is through their perseverance, indomitable stubbornness, hope, and pure dumb luck that we find ourselves together, sitting around this dinner table. The old man and I have never exchanged more than simple greetings in broken Cantonese, Mandarin, or English. And despite no blood relation, I call him, grandfather in Mandarin, for the loyalty and guidance he has afforded my family. Every time I see him he manages to slip me and my sister red envelopes of money, regardless of the fact that he doesn't make much money himself. At seventeen, I'm no longer the little girl with pink jelly shoes and bows in her hair, and yet this little tradition continues just the same. Our relationship has been cultivated through these small gestures that have a remarkable ability to speak volumes in the absence of a common language. He shows his affection in the careful letters that spell out my birthday on the yellowed pages of his address book and in pictures of me and my sister that hang either side of his own. And I've learned to listen closely to find the familiar tones of Mandarin amongst the clashing consonants of Cantonese to piece together meaning from fragments of phrases or measure my reactions based on facial expressions alone. I always find myself back here sitting around this table, with its language barrier, generational differences, and cultural disconnect. When my family returns to China, a trip we take every few years, my mind works to replace the children I used to run around my mother's hometown with, with the adults sitting across from me that have taken their place. Back then, wandering under the red glow of the lanterns hanging on Xi'an's ancient city wall, it felt as if we had grown up together. In a way, I suppose we have, in snapshots interspersed throughout the past seventeen years. But now, the ever-expanding differences in culture, language, and experience run between us cousins. And my ever-diminishing Chinese vocabulary in contrast with their increasingly sophisticated command of the language renders our methods of communication rather limited. It seems that as I get older, the easier it is to move away from the languages, cultures, and people that I grew up with. Even though Chinese was actually the first language I learned, it became inevitable that as my English improved with constant use in school and everyday life, that my proficiency in Chinese would regress. And the differences in our upbringings seem to become increasingly important. My family lives tucked away in a corner in the suburbs and me and my sister were given every opportunity and resource to ensure our future success. She's currently studying neuroscience, and I will enter college next fall. We will inevitably find ourselves in careers that will provide us with the economic stability that our parents have geared our lives towards. In contrast, many of my cousins never went to college and now work in relatively low paying jobs. It seems that in our recent trips to China, my cousins finding points of comparison between us has become a common occurrence in our conversations. The inevitable divergence in our futures, coupled with growing gaps in culture and language made it easier to distance ourselves from each other, and to be content with that separation. But last spring, what the grandfather figure in my life died suddenly from cancer, I found that my perspective had shifted. After his retirement, he no longer worked for my dad so I saw less of him. When we were younger he used to watch me and my sister while my parents were at work and knew us better than his own grandchildren who live oceans away in England and Hong Kong I remember how he was stubborn and coarse he was with everyone else, but always kind and patient with me and my sister. But as school became more demanding and extracurricular activities piled up, there was something more important than going
111 to see him. Whenever my parents proposed taking him out for a meal, I always pushed back saying that I didn't have the time and that we should do it another week. In truth, I did have the time, but communicating could be exhausting, and there were always other things that I'd rather be doing. My perspective was so focused on my life in that moment that it became easy to take for granted the role he had played in my life. And losing this relationship, made me think about my family abroad. I've been incredibly lucky to have been born with a place in two continents, and three countries. I have a place in the bustling marketplaces of Xi'an, in the lush pineapple and coconut forest behind my father's childhood home, and of course, a home here in Minnesota. Growing up at the intersection of these places and fostering relationships with the people within them have enriched and diversified my perspective of the world. And that is something that I should embrace, not distance myself from. Thank you. Zeke Lam I said I would give my speech about bananas. I thought I would deliver something light, easy to give and forget. I planned a basic structure, and formulated a message artificial but believable. But something I thought I'd forgotten wormed its way to the front of my brain and shoved aside that facade in favor of a memory more vivid, more raw. To me, a banana is more than a fruit. I knew that before I'd started writing. I'd tried to hide, run away, forget. But "banana" is an attack, a weapon aimed at identity that doesn't puncture but scrapes --- slowly at the mind, eroding solidarity, dissolving the sense of self. Being a banana means that you are fake - yellow on the outside, white on the inside. Not a real enough person to live up to your assigned place in society. And at fourteen, hearing it used all too playfully in a YouTube video though it couldn't deliver a stinging blow to an identity-made me question my own. as a product of rebellion against expectation, half white, half Asian - I wondered if the term really applied to me, whether I - a had any right to lay claim to it at all. Because I didn't know what it meant to act white, or look yellow. Did I express one, conceal another? Was I both, or neither? Thoughts swirled, and anxieties multiplied. Parts of my body became extensions of my identity as I scrutinized what I had once accepted. My nose, small and flattened, was more like my father's than my mother's, whose was more pronounced. My parents told me that it was because I was Chinese - that my face reflected one side of my heritage. I could see my father in myself: my eyes the same shape and the same coppery brown, my hair so stiff and straight that I would go fourteen years buzzing it the same way he did before even thinking about another option. Yet other parts of my appearance belied the other half. My hair was not black but a dark brown, hanging in spectral balance between mother and father. My skin never felt like a burden, close enough to my white classmates' that it made little difference in how they saw me. But in first grade, when asked to draw myself, I tried to use two markers - labeled "peach" and "beige" together, only to throw away my drawing in rage at my failure to represent myself. For the first time, I felt frustration at my race, knowing that I was different but forced to box myself in with a single shade. It wasn't until high school that I had any idea what it meant to leave that box of normalcy, of whiteness. I knew my skin was another body part I couldn't change, that it would make me forever uncertain about what to check, what to say, how to respond when asked where I am from. So: where am I from? What people do I represent when I walk onto this stage, lay bare my conflict, and try to answer that painfully simple question? How should I present my name: Lam, forest, Hong Kong's answer to America's Smith or Johnson, true to me but too foreign for my country. Or as the Midwest decided: Lam, nasal, familiar enough to compare to a sheep or a criminal on the run. Was I one, or both, or neither? I could never tell, never stitch closed that cultural gash in my heart and feel like I was enough. 71
18 ........ As important as it to open yourself up to influence, it's equally important to be selective in where and who you seek influence from. The people that we hold the closest -- our friends, our family, and our mentors -- are ultimately the people that we want influencing our lives, whether it be something as small as inspiring us to listen to the music that we listen to, or something as large as instilling within us the beliefs that we hold and the values that we carry with us in our everyday lives. These are the individuals whom we look up to, as these people have the best intentions for us, and therefore, can help mold us into the best people that we can be. While it may be tempting to take influence from more accessible sources, such as mass media, and more specifically, social media, these forms of influence don't in any way have your best interests in mind, as they are rather just counterproductive forms of senseless conformity. Looking to social media, or any other form of mass media, for influence will ultimately prove harmful because these platforms act as a spark for feelings of envy and loneliness rather than sparking feelings of fulfilment and true inspiration. Being diligent in selecting the places and people that you find influence from is vital because it allows you filter out the things that wouldn't necessarily help you become a better person, and in some cases, helps you filter out the things that could turn out to be destructive. In today's society, we've become so used to believing that uniqueness necessitates the denial of influence stemming from anyone but ourselves. However, this belief is fundamentally flawed because being your authentic self entails growing off of those around you. The people we choose to surround ourselves with ultimately help define who we are as individuals, and if we carry the notion that we're the only ones capable of instilling change within ourselves, we won't ever grow. Furthermore, we must not only be responsible for promoting our own growth, but also help those around us grow as well. We can help promote the growth of others by expressing our identity and our ideas freely and openly, in ways that we deem positive. We can be aware of the fact that the way we express ourselves to others, in our words and in our actions, has an influence on the people in our lives, and that that influence should be used as a stimulant for growth and insight and not a deterrent towards self-improvement. With these ideals in mind, we can not only help shape the identities of a few individuals, but collectively, we can encourage the growth of our entire community. By opening ourselves up to influence, we're welcoming those around us to help shape who we are and how we're to be defined, and in the process, we're helping others with that same daunting task. Just because you let someone else influence a part of your life doesn't mean that you aren't unique, or that you aren't expressing your true self. The nature of our individuality is much more complex than we realize, and by carrying the notion that you can't be changed by others, you're only restricting who you could be in the future. As Abed from Community said, "When you really know who you are and what you like about yourself, changing for other people isn't such a big deal." Thank you. Betsy Romans It all started in the KA coat room. My lower school legacy that is. You see, I like to refer to my elementary years as my Glory Days, because honestly that's when I peaked. As a child, I was constantly just doing weird things. But this was the moment that would spark his era. I didn't know it then, but this story I'm about to share with you pretty much sums up everything I strive to be. So like I said, the KA coat room. It was the end of the day and most of my classmates had already left. It was just me alone in that coat room and I wasn't ready to head over to the after school program just yet. So I did as any kindergartner alone in a coat room does: I tore off my pants and began dancing. Yes, that's right, pantsless dancing was my kindergarten cure for boredom. My long, messy pigtails swung through the air as I threw down move after move, our recorder rendition of Oats, Peas, Beans and Barley Grow playing on loop in my head. The maquarana here. The worm over there. It was epic. "Wow," I thought, "Pants have really been holding me back all these years." And that's when I noticed the two other kindergarten boys who had been there the entire time with a look of absolute terror on their faces. I can only imagine their fear that the crazy underwear girl might notice them or even worse, talk to them. Now most people would run and hide at this point out of total embarrassment, but no not I. Instead I decided that this pantsless confidence could not be taken from me so instead I encouraged them to strip away all societal norms, fears and structures or in other words their pants and join me in song. I was a leader. A pantless inspiration. If only our principal, Dr. E, could have seen it that way. But apparently yelling at the two boys to "do it, do it, do it, or else I'll punch you" was actually a "threat" and I hadn't inspired, but "peer pressured." I was no longer invited into the coat room. My coat and other layers had to be brought to me from the forbidden room by a teacher. I thought kindergarten was supposed to be a place to find ourselves. To grow. But apparently we had to do that with our clothes on. My punishment was harsh, but all great leaders have to face resistance. I cannot for the life of me remember exactly why I took off my pants. I was an amazing dancer so that's definitely why I started dancing, but my rebellion against pants appears to be a bit more complex. The only reason I can think to describe what was going on in my mind is through my response to my mother when she confronted me the day after the incident had occurred, saying something about the importance of wearing clothes. With a quick glimpse back I exclaimed, "Mom, I didn't know it was a rule," and ran away. Because fact: they never once said you have to keep your pants on at school. It really just seemed like more of a suggestion if anything. This is why I believe I shed that uncomfortable navy uniform. It was simply because I honestly didn't know it was wrong. Or more likely I knew it was wrong, I just didn't understand why. I was five years old. I was just an easily bored kid who was always ready to bust a move. I also just knew it would make me happy at no expense to anyone else. Like I said before, I could fill a book with all the weird things I did in lower school. For instance, I used to just snack on butter, Like my friends, and kids I just didn't know, would bring me packets of butter saying "Here's a present Betsy. Hahaha." But the joke was always on them because haha guess what I'm over here snacking on my favorite snack and living my best life. I do believe that everybody has the capability of change and growing up can be healthy, but I'm not going to lie, I'm really proud to be that crazy underwear girl. I've gotten a lot of comments along the lines of "Wow Betsy remember when you ate all that butter?" or "Wow Betsy remember when you took off your pants?" and I always find these comments ironic when said in a judgemental tone because yeah, funny enough, I do remember being five years old and already being amazing at being myself. I mean honestly I sometimes miss my younger, pantsless self because she truly knew how to do what made her happy and not base her actions on the judgements of others. Now I want to make something very clear. I am in no way suggesting that any of you should publicly remove your clothing, especially at school. We are not five years old anymore. We have learned that it is indeed a rule and there are real world consequences, I am only here to say that sometimes we care way too much about following other people's standards. Kindergarten me defined these standards as pants, and I wanted nothing to do with them. And I strongly believe we could all learn something from that crazy girl in her underwear. So, I encourage you all to find your pants, your metaphorical pant, whatever is holding you back from being your absolute happiest, weirdest, most authentic self, and I encourage you to take them off. Because honestly, pants are really holding us back. Dylan Rosso I have always enjoyed camping but my family has never had a successful camping experience. It's not from a lack of trying, we've gone camping several times together but it just never works out as we planned it would. My first experience camping was at a young age. My family drove to Snake River to spend a couple of days in the outdoors.
24 to let me stay down. Ali, the assistant manager at the time, was the first to notice my sour mood and was somehow instantly able to make me feel better. For the rest of my shift, I bounced around the restaurant with higher spirits. For the five or so hours that I was at work that day I forgot all about my bad day at school and the stress ball that was the winter of junior year. It was then that I stepped back and noticed that some of the best times that I had been having that year were at work. Whether it was listening to Josh talk about his latest girl, running up to the expo line as soon as Chef Erica called for hands, sneaking bread up at the host stand with Lydia, maintaining triangle position at all time per the request of Justin, having Ryan teach me how to dance, or (my personal favorite) getting to talk Ali about literally anything, my shifts at Crave proved to be an escape from the small communities that I had always been attached to. And to the surprise of myself and my parents, my performance at school was at an all-time high. Working a job where my contributions were recognized and rewarded not as a friend, or daughter or student-athlete: all identities to which I had been tied, gave me the freedom to decide and determine what type of employee I would be. I wore my new position with so much pride that I would forget the years and world that separated me from the others who worked there. I found confidence inside of Crave and loved seeing how it began to manifest itself in other ways. The confidence I built through working allowed me to mentor my teammates struggling to break through mental roadblocks and developing a resilient team culture. Now I know that I am no longer just a student-athlete but a leader that just happens to play soccer. Lucy Sandeen When we were still sticky-fingered and shiny-eyed, curious about everything in the world and with no sense of the limits of reality, we were always told to reach for the stars, to set lofty goals. The adults in our life assured us that anything was possible: do you want to be an astronaut? A doctor, a veterinarian, an apple tree, a dog? It's all within your reach. When I was nine years old, standing on a plastic step stool in our bathroom, I stared into the mirror at my dark, thick eyebrows, my chubby cheeks, and my big nose, and I decided that even if I could never make my face pretty, I would do anything in my power to make my body beautiful. What happens when our goals are unattainable? What happens when the goals we strive towards will only bring us pain? As I grew older and passed that age of general pre-pubescent insecurity, body image remained a thorn in the back of my mind, slowly deepening with every year. Soon, I became more fixated on details the specifics of body image. In ninth grade, I quickly found that I could extend my love of organizing and counting to other parts of my life: I could log every bite, every calorie, I ate to ensure that I didn't gain another pound. I memorized the caloric content of every possible food that could cross my plate, and I was perpetually dismayed by my weight, which fluctuated around that ever-elusive "ideal" number. That all changed last year. Driven by my heightened insecurity after a rapid weight gain in early February and new academic and personal stressors, I widened my calorie deficit and felt in control of my life for the first time in a long time. But as my body slipped into starvation, my stomach no longer comfortingly rumbled in agitation every night. It began to feel bloated again, and I could feel my thighs and arms expanding with every bite I ate. So, I started to restrict even more. In the mornings I would black out as I walked down the stairs; I had to sit out of one of the only Ultimate games I actually attended because of my lightheadedness; I became unmotivated and fatigued. But for some reason, I was unable, or unwilling, to connect the dots. I supplemented my diet with iron and vitamin D; I saw a neurologist about my morning blackouts; I quit Ultimate; I began to see a therapist because I thought I was depressed. Meanwhile, I met my goal weight and passed it by without so much as a nod. My therapist first broached the possibility of my having an eating disorder in early July. From there it was a whirlwind full of tearful parents, an angry heat in my stomach, and even more severe restriction. My doctor told me that if I continued to lose weight, I would soon be in a state of medical compromise. I was looking forward to a trip with Camp Menogyn with one of my oldest friends at the end of the summer, but if I didn't start gaining weight, I wouldn't be able to go. I tried to gain. I really, really did. But it was too hard to look at my bloated stomach in the mirror after a large dinner, and it was too easy to hike fifteen miles on Mount Hood on only half of a donut, a cup of tea, and a sandwich, even as I struggled to control my breath and my legs felt weak beneath me. It was too comforting to walk the road with my grandparents in the evening with only water in my stomach and see my knees violently protruding from my skin. It was too easy to hear my mother fret that I was getting thinner because all I could hear was "you're so close." It was too satisfying to feel small in grandma's fleece sweatshirts after years of feeling conspicuously tall and large. my When I returned home from Oregon with my family, I had crossed that line into danger. While my diet had taken plenty from me already, I only became aware of how much it could destroy when my father called my friend's mother the day before our scheduled departure for the Boundary Waters and, with tears choking his throat, told her that I wouldn't be able to go. I was checked into the Melrose Center in early August. I was diagnosed with anorexia and thrown into family-based therapy. When dad fed me mac and cheese for lunch, all I could feel were my thighs bulging and growing and rubbing together and my stomach folding over, so I ran upstairs, screaming, to do 300 sit-ups through angry tears. my Over the next few months, I visited Ms. Short's office every morning for a snack, I left school during lunch to eat with my dad, often in the car only a block away. I missed classes for appointments with doctors and dietitians and psychiatrists and therapists, all the while doing my best to avoid being seen by my friends. My doctors told me that treatment would destroy my relationships with my family and reduce my independence to that of a two year old, but I was lucky enough that this wasn't the case. Instead, the hardest part of treatment was the unshakable guilt and responsibility that I felt for my disease. While my doctors emphasized that my eating disorder was not me-they called it "Ed" and spoke of it as if it were another person in the room, I was never able to separate the disease from myself. The eating disorder's voice and my voice were one and the same. Determined to wage a battle against my own mind, I shut down and withdrew from my friends and family. Exhausted by an impossible fight for which I believed I was somehow to blame, I suffered in isolation. I'm not telling you this story because I'm special or because I believe that I have uniquely struggled. I'm actually so unbelievably lucky. My recovery was remarkably quick. My family wasn't torn apart by the disease. We could pay for the treatment. I wasn't hospitalized; my heart didn't give out. I'm still alive. I'm telling you this story because I couldn't recognize my own disordered behavior even when my body was screaming for help. I'm telling you this because my story is the opposite of unique. I know that SPA's focus on perfection and our incessant competition is a perfect breeding ground for disordered behavior, and even after I was diagnosed I still had a voice in my head telling myself that it wasn't real, that I was still in control, with another voice hissing that I was actually making everything up, that I was only looking for attention, despite the fact that I had hidden every symptom from those I loved for as long as I possibly could. I was recently discharged from Melrose in early February. My weight has stabilized, although I still don't feel comfortable enough to know what that number is. But my story isn't over, and I'm afraid. I'm afraid that my weekly yoga and cycling classes with my mom will become obsessive. I'm afraid that I never actually recovered, that somehow my eating disorder has been in control this entire time and was only waiting for the doctors to go away to crawl back into my mind. I'm afraid when I look at my plate and still have to concentrate to keep the numbers out of head. my And I'm afraid for those I love, too. I'm afraid for my sister, who's growing up so fast and is so beautifully confident and full of life, and I'm afraid that insecurity might take that away. I'm afraid when I see my friends obsess over their bodies or their plates, or when they so triumphantly tell me that they fit into clothes that haven't fit for years. I'm afraid when I see those I love so unhappy with their bodies. And I'm afraid because while I can see how beautiful every person in my life is, I also know how impossible it is to look in the mirror and be content, and I can't sincerely tell them to just please love yourself without feeling hypocrisy gnawing at my stomach. I know how easy it is to lose control without even knowing while your body slowly tears itself apart. We hold so many stereotypes about who can and cannot suffer from an eating disorder and what eating disorders actually look like, and that only makes it easier to struggle without truly recognizing that a problem exists, or feeling like you need help. I'm not going to tell you you're beautiful, or that you're strong, even though you are, because I know that when I heard those words, it didn't do anything to silence the destructive thoughts in my head.
20 This was meant to be an inexpensive weekend getaway but it didn't turn out that way. Upon arriving at the campsite my parents let me pretend to drive the parked car while they set up the tent and other supplies. Little did they know, they had left the car running with my sister asleep in the backseat. After I had finished pretending to drive the parked car, I hopped out and hit the lock button, slamming the door shut behind me. Moments later and to their alarm, my parents realized that I had accidentally locked my sister in the car. Forcing us to smash the car window to get her out. This took some strategy to figure out which window to smash as she was still in the car and we wanted to make sure not to hit her with the broken glass. We packed up early, using a piece of cardboard as a temporary window for the ride home, turning this weekend camping trip into a much shorter and much more expensive one than originally planned. A few years later we decided to try camping again. We went to Bear Island and this time both of my sisters were old enough to join us, which meant that we would naturally have a lot more stuff to pack. We lost track of what was getting loaded into the car that we packed so excessively. Once we filled up the inside, we resorted to the roof in order to bring everything with us. Our car resembled the Griswold station wagon in Vacation. We had packed several coolers and full size pillows on top of bulky bags containing more clothes than days we would be camping. Packing this heavy didn't seem like a problem initially because you can typically pull your car straight up to the campsite to dump everything in place. This is usually true except for this time we annoyingly had to take a boat and then hike into our camping spot. There were two hiking trails to choose from, each led to our campsite. The first path was a shorter more direct path as labeled on the sign. The second was a much longer and indirect path that would take twice as long as the previous one. The choice was simple, take the first path. But to our disbelief, the first path, the shorter one, was closed that day for maintenance. This meant that we would spend the next hour and a half hauling our stuff up the lengthy trail to our campsite, knowing we would have to repeat the same process when it came time to pack up and leave. This hike wouldn't be a problem now but at the time my sisters and I were very little which made the many trips back and forth feel more like a punishment than a reward. Our next family camping experience came many years later. It was the fourth of July weekend on Lake Superior. We were much more experienced this time around having already learned to pack lightly and to bring a spare set of car keys just in case. However in our attempt to pack lightly this time we forgot to pack some essentials. The most unfortunate thing we forgot was the rain cover that goes over the tent. We didn't think much of this at the time because even if it did rain, we believed our tent would be water resistant enough to withstand a little shower. Had we looked ahead to the weather forecast, we would have known that it wasn't a little shower that we could dismiss so casually. It was supposed to be a complete downpour for the first two nights that we would be camping. But we went to sleep that night without this knowledge. By the time we were woken up, our sleeping bags were floating on top of a puddle of water that slowly filled up the floor of our tent. We retreated to the shelter of our car, unable to find any dry clothes. We drove for four hours that night in search of a hotel but as it was the fourth of July weekend they were all booked. By the time 4 am rolled around, we gave up our search for a place to sleep and resorted to an early breakfast at McDonalds. We didn't want to let that stop us from enjoying the fourth of July though so we stopped at a convenience store to buy a tarp and some rope which we used to completely cover our tent, waterproofing it for the next night. This was a solid plan except we overlooked the fact that tarp doesn't allow for any air flow, making the temperature inside the tent twice as hot as the temperature outside. Leaving us sleeping in the car yet again. While most families might have realized they weren't equipped for camping at this point, we decided to give it one more shot. This time we realized that our family wasn't cut out for tents, so we found a cabin to rent inside Yosemite National park. My youngest sister Lydia had been paying close attention to the signs on the drive in, telling us about the danger of bears and their presence in the park. She continually expressed her concerns that the park wasn't safe enough to stay at until the end of our trip. We dismissed her concerns as childish and ignored them. We were in a cabin after all so we didn't have to worry about hiding our food in metal containers to keep the bears away. She eventually gave into reason and dropped her concerns. The next day we packed lunches and water in preparation for a hike that would last most of the day. We continued to tease my little sister about seeing bears on our hike the entire time just to get a reaction from her. When we returned to our cabin that night, there was a handwritten note taped to the front door. It read "Dear camper, we regret to inform you that while you were away a bear broke in, please call maintenance with any questions." At first we thought it was just a prank but unwilling to take the risk we decided to open the door in a slow manner. The note failed to mention if the bear was still in our cabin. We cautiously opened the door and searched the place. We didn't find a bear but we did find that we had left the windows open and that one of the screens was pushed in. Following from the window to the kitchen was a trail of muddy footprints clearly belonging to a bear that led up onto the counter, to an empty bottle of peanut butter and a box of pancake mix that was cut in half While none of these family camping trips went exactly as planned, I can look back on them and see that they were still fun in their own way. Experiences like these have taught me the importance of going with the flow and making the best out of any situation. Despite these camping experiences being miserable at the time, they are some of my best memories because they are the ones that my sisters and I can tell over and over again. Even though many of these stories focus on the negative events, that's not the reason I tend to focus on them. They show that while things happen, it's easy for them to seem horrible if they aren't going as planned, but in reality when you look back on these moments they aren't nearly as bad as you had originally made them out to be. Isabel Saavedra-Weis Mama tells me that when I started to babble as a child, my words took form in both Spanish and English, interchangeably, unaware that there was a difference. In the photo albums she curated of my childhood, there are photos of me decked out in feather boas, silk rebozos, sparkly dresses, and Mexican folkloric dance skirts that expanded into full circles when I spun. In calendars she saved from my early childhood, the squares are filled with details about my daily life as a toddler: grocery shopping at Trader Joes and El Burrito Mercado, watching Sesame Street, and its Spanish equivalent Plaza Sesamo, visiting family and friends in two different countries, celebrating my birthday with an Elmo-themed cake and a piñata, writing a letter to the three kings on Día de Los Reyes and Santa on Christmas. My bedside bookshelf was filled with the classics: Blanca Nieves, Cinderella, Ricitos de Oro y los Tres Osos, and The Tale of Peter Rabbit. And as far as nursery rhymes go, I knew all about how Little Bo Peep lost her sheep, and how el patio de mi casa es particular. I've recently been thinking about all these memories a lot, fascinated with the life I led before I knew what "biracial" meant and before I realized that it meant to be "me". Looking back, it looks so smooth, natural, peaceful. There was a time I didn't overthink my right to be in a space, or code switch, or try to filter or separate myself. There was no day or moment that changed everything. It was all very gradual. I could speak more Spanish than most kids in my elementary school class. I was faintly aware that my papi took tests and swore oaths to this country. I realized that other kids weren't fighting their parents on eating their slimy, green calabacitas. But in all honesty, I liked that these things made me unique. Like the Jewish boy whose mom came in to teach us about Hanukkah, or the girl who spent a year in Tanzania on a mission trip with her parents, I too had a claim to fame: I am part Mexican! However, racial tensions eventually infiltrated my cocoon, too. Headlines about immigration on the radio, viral videos of people yelling "go back to your country; we speak English here". Stereotypes on the screen of women with full hips, throaty accents, fiery tempers. Questionnaires that ask me to define my race and ethnicity by checking one box, causing me to look at my sister in confusion, her reply being: "I don't know, I was going to ask you." It became apparent to me that there was a whole system already in place outside my sheltered upbringing that took two major parts of my identity, parts which had coexisted quite peacefully in my home, and pitted them against each other. We live in a world with racial divides so deep that we can't seem to find materials stable enough to cross them. There is no handbook for those who literally embody those tensions, but I looked for one feverishly. It's very strange to be the oppressed and oppressor, the conquistador and the conquered, the minority and majority. I often searched for validation in the way my skin tanned in the summer, in tired, harmful stereotypes that I shamefully tried so hard to match, in the approval of people who I believed to be more authentic than I was. I've written drafts and snippets of what I thought my speech should be about for a few years now, and while the topic was always the same, the tone differed. I read them all back in preparation for today. Some of the early ones make me wince. They are full of confusion, bitterness and an ache for clarity.
21 we like to stick to our routine because we are weary of change. Since there is such an emphasis on similarities and especially since our community is so small, it can be isolating if you don't feel like you have a solid friend group that fits you. Feeling like you are different or unable to be truly accepted for who you are is dangerous. It can lead to feelings of loneliness and self doubt and like you are not worthy of others' friendship or love the way you are. Trust me, I've been there. Questioning your value to others and your own self-worth does not feel great. No one wants to feel this way. But while the degree to which you have experienced this varies, I believe that most people have at one point or another felt lonely or excluded. A big issue that contributes to this exclusive environment is judgement. I am not saying to get rid of judgement altogether because to some extent it is just a part of life. Being able to make quick judgements and decisions is a survival instinct. The issue is when we apply this instinct to other people and don't push back against initial judgements. By judging a person based solely on first impressions or rumors other people have told you about them or stereotypes based on who they associate with, it closes you off from really getting to know them. And when we are choosing to surround ourselves with people who are similar and not as willing or comfortable to break out of our own groups and embrace change, we are inevitably continuing the cycle of exclusion and missing out on the opportunity to get to know people who are different from ourselves. There are many reasons why we don't always reach out when we see someone being excluded. Maybe you don't notice or you choose to ignore it. I try to be inclusive because I understand how frustrating it can feel to be left out. And for the most part I think I do a pretty good job. But as uncomfortable as admitting this is, I know there have been moments where I wasn't as inclusive as I could have been because I was trying to fit in with a certain group and I didn't want to risk my own sense of belonging, Thinking back on this I feel a little embarrassed because I let my own insecurities get in the way of being kind and welcoming to another person. I believe I am not the only one who can relate to this situation. Deep down everyone has their own set of insecurities, no matter how put together they seem. And it can be hard to overcome these insecurities and break your normal routine. But going out of your comfort zone and talking to or being around new people can be very rewarding. A great example of this is Junior retreat. I don't think our grade has ever been closer than we were at Junior retreat last year. We were able to hang out with new people without the pressure to stick with our usual group of friends. In fact there were times set aside when we were forced to interact with people outside of our comfortable group. One moment that stands out for me were the dyads. I remember being paired up with someone who I hadn't talked to very much before and was nervous that it would be awkward and we wouldn't have anything in common to talk about outside of school. However, not only did we find things to talk about and bond over, but we ended up walking through the woods together for probably forty five minutes and were one of the last groups to come back. I was happily surprised that I formed a connection with this person who I probably wouldn't have before the retreat, because we had different close friends. I felt a sense of grade wide inclusivity and support on that retreat that I had not felt before, and unfortunately have not felt since because once the retreat was over everyone fell back to their normal patterns of not branching out. Towards the end of retreat people were given the opportunity to share personal things with our class in a candlelight ceremony. The number of people who came forward about having dealt with things like anxiety and depression shocked me. It made me realize just how many people have their own issues going on and made me wonder how many of them could have used an extra friend when they were at their lowest. I also realized that a lot of people who I would have thought seemed fine and issue free were actually not. No one likes to talk about it or admit when we need help but ignoring the problem and pretending everything is fine doesn't help. I know this will not fix depression or anything like that but if we maintain the same supportive community that we had achieved on Junior retreat and carry it out in our actual lives, maybe people would feel a little less anxious and alone. Human relationships and a sense of belonging are so important. It is easy to get caught up in your own life. But taking a step back and looking around you can be helpful too because you never know what people are going through, and chances are there is something going on because we are all complex people with our own insecurities, doubts and fears. Sometimes the smallest gestures can have the biggest impact. Next time you walk past someone in the hallway use their name when you say hi. When you eat lunch try switching up who you sit with. And especially if you see someone sitting alone go sit with them, even if you aren't very close. Because let's face it, at the end of the day we all just want to be accepted, and if everyone keeps an open mind and makes an effort to be a little 98 more inclusive, we can be.
1111 Elise Parsons We are what we're afraid to lose. I can't bear the thought of losing things that I love, even if it's merely a memory. Perhaps even especially if it's a memory. My room is cluttered with souvenirs, ephemera to most maybe, but to me, capsules of cherished moments: a stick on my windowsill, a bar of Bodylish "Cowgirl" soap, books I loved and books I've never read, scraps of paper filled with doodles and poems by me and by people I once loved. But perhaps I'm too nostalgic; I cling to memories of small moments that are insignificant to the course of my life. For example, my family recently replaced the kitchen faucet and, for some reason, it felt like I was losing a part of myself and replacing it with a newer, shinier-and, granted, more functional piece. But the faucet never held any particular significance to me until I knew it was being replaced. Perhaps I projected my love for my house, the house that I've lived in all my life, onto this small piece of it. And maybe I conflated the way I cherish my childhood spent in that house with a love for the house itself. Memories of my childhood are saturated in a halcyon glow, and each memory is etched into the rooms of my home. To remove a piece of that home, like the faucet, is an ending. I'll never feel its handle in my palm or wash my hands under its clear water. It's a trivial sort of ending, not the kind that should inspire any nostalgia, but it's place in the greater picture of change within my life right now is what makes it so startling. Change starts intangibly, but then we see it manifest in little things, until you don't recognize your reality. It feels as though life is full of endings recently. This past summer was the last summer of my childhood, my 18th birthday passing just as school began. People have jokingly said to me that the best of my life is now behind me; it doesn't always feel like a joke. Will the rest of my life be living in the past and for the future? Perhaps I shouldn't call it an ending. When a building is torn down, it is usually with the intention of building a newer, and presumably better, building in its place. It's an evolution. Soon the whole city will be unrecognizable. What scares me is to have my life be that city, it's history buried beneath newer, shiner memories. Each day, I forget something from my past, be it a song I used to love and know every word to, or the way that I used to dance. Childhood is such a precious thing and I'm only fully appreciating mine now that it's gone. I'm on the outside looking in, seeing childhood only in glimpses through a clouded lens. When I look at my drawings and writings of even only a few years ago, they are first the works of a child and mine, only second. There is a rift between the me I am now and who I was. I can't help but feel as though I've lost more than I've gained. Nostalgia comes from the Greek words nostos, meaning to return, and algos: pain. Nostalgia, then, means "the suffering evoked by the desire to return to one's place of origin:" the pain of remembering. That "place of origin," for me, will always be home, which is more than a place. Home is a collage of memories just under the surface in each room in my house, each wrinkle or smile line on my loved ones' faces. It's a feeling of safety and freedom in the same moment the color of evening sun through purple stained glass and the taste of coffee in the morning. I'm scared that once I leave and come back, I'll see my home differently. That it won't feel like home anymore, that "home" will only be something that I remember having. The place and people will remain unchanged but I'll be altered, I'll have forgotten. Forgotten the little moments that amount to home, to love. So while nostalgia invokes pain in remembering-remembering your place of origin, your home, a time that is gone and can't be regained-I find that there is a more acute pain in forgetting. Especially to know that you once remembered but have since forgotten. Already there are things that I'm beginning to forget, things I can never get back. Things like my childhood best friend's voice or what life felt like before my older sister left home or what inspired me to spend every moment drawing when I was younger. I only remember that she spoke, and what it felt like last time my sister was home, and notebooks and sidewalks filled with colorful mermaids, swirls, trees, sunlight. I remember the outline of my life. 385 99 impact everyone differently, but my ADHD mainly causes me to be incredibly impulsive and unfocused. Immediately upon my diagnosis, my doctor prescribed me Adderall, a neurostimulant used to minimize the symptoms of ADHD. Between the ages of seven and thirteen, ADHD played a minimal role in my life until everything changed in 8th grade when my metabolism slowed and I switched from Adderall to another medication: Ritalin, on a higher dosage, I did not realize at the time, but the side effects of Ritalin significantly shaped my identity and reputation at SPA. Before 8th grade, I was known as the super loud, funny, hyper girl who could often be found running around in circles or climbing trees. I lost this key part of my identity during 8th grade. Between 8th and 11th grade, my intensity and focus were raised to a level where I could not let go enough to relax, laugh, and banter with my friends and I could only have intense, usually stressful academic, conversations. Accepting the unintended consequences of taking medication was initially difficult for me until I had a conversation with a peer during my sophomore year that changed my perspective on ADHD. They told me they had ADHD and took meds for it until they realized their medication dulled their personality and heightened their anxiety. Their story made me wonder if my medication could also be responsible for my changed personality in high school. Their story inspired me to ask my friends if they sensed a difference in my personality during the school day versus after school at ski practice when my meds had worn off. Everyone said they noticed a dramatic change in my personality and attitude. They told me, I was more "relaxed," "funny," "outgoing," and "fun" at ski practice. But at school, they said I seemed "intense," "serious," and "quiet." These responses about ski practice startled me because their descriptions echoed remnants of my identity before 8th grade. Although hearing I was more likable off meds hurt, I also noticed the difference too when ski practice was one of the few times where I could laugh and fully connect with my peers. By the end of my junior year, I started hearing rumors of people complaining about me being too serious and stressful. I began to avoid socializing during the school day because my meds made this task incredibly demoralizing. I started bringing a snack to school so I could skip lunch because this was the time when my meds were the most effective and I felt isolated because I knew I would not be able to socially connect with anyone and I did not want to stress out my peers. This past summer, I decided something needed to change during my senior year so I would be happier and feel less isolated. Recently, I have started skipping my meds on days where my schedule is light because I hate the feeling of being medicated. To students with ADHD who take meds, do not skip your meds unless you have consulted with a doctor. My decision to skip my meds was irresponsible because skipping meds can result in withdrawal symptoms which can wreak havoc upon your physical and mental health. Additionally, I skipped meds on school days where I clearly needed to focus. Anyway, I tended to skip my meds on days when I had math, history, and two free periods. I noticed the difference in my personality especially during math class where I sit at a table of five people and the curriculum is heavily based on collaborative group work. As a student with ADHD, math class is the bane of my existence both when I am on and off my meds. For the record, I really like math as a subject, but learning math in a class setting, even when I am on ADHD medication doesn't seem like it will ever happen. Sorry, Ms. Armstrong. I cannot learn math in a class setting while on my ADHD meds for three main reasons. First, just because I can focus enough while on my meds to take notes does not mean I am focused enough to understand what I am writing on the page. Second, I have never completed classwork during math class. This is because I likely do not even know how to solve the first problem and I have too much pride to ask for help during class. And even if I did ask for help, I would not be able to focus on the teacher enough to comprehend their explanations. And third, to learn math, I have to be alone in a semi-silent room, with dimmed lights that cannot be located on the ceiling, and at least three hours of free time, so nothing can distract me. And even in this semi-silent room, it is likely that I will become distracted by the hard back of my chair, a bright light located on the ceiling, or by the fact that I am breathing. Yeah, it's a lot. And so is math. When I attend math off of my medication, I cannot even take notes during class to stay engaged, because I am probably already too engaged in a loud side conversation or argument with a 9th grader. I am unable to start class work off meds because I cannot focus enough to read or comprehend the directions. Having ADHD during math class is like having your head in the clouds while at the same time upholding lively, disruptive conversation with anyone who will listen. my My experience this year during math class has made me realize that I cannot stop taking my ADHD meds without jeopardizing future at SPA. While I currently have a system of doing classwork and review at home or in a silent room at school, this strategy depends on me taking ADHD meds to focus. Don't get me wrong, I love the refreshing, carefree and happy attitude that I have off meds, but my corresponding inattention and impulsivity is terrifying and limiting. If I did not take ADHD meds, my parents would need to manage all aspects of my life from chores to homework. It is likely that I would have to drop classes, quit leadership positions, and quit debate. ADHD is not something that I would wish on anyone because it literally prevents me from focusing on the tasks necessary for me to live a productive and independent life. Off my meds, I am living in a world where I am totally unfocused and this is debilitating. While my meds are not perfect, I have decided to continue taking them because I need to be able to focus and I cannot justify risking my future just to have some more fun during the school day. My ADHD journey has not ended. I am still struggling to find the right medication for me and accept that my personality might have to be drastically different on meds. What has gotten me through this journey has been support from my friends and family. I have found people who love and accept me on and off my ADHD medication and for that I am so grateful. I dedicate this speech to students with ADHD. ADHD can be really hard to manage so I want you to know that your journey matters and you are not alone. There are so many people who love and support you. To everyone in this audience, regardless of whether or not you have ADHD, you do not know what all of your peers are going through. So, cut your peers some slack from ridicule and judgement. Have empathy-because you do not truly understand someone until you have walked in their shoes. William Rinkoff If you're in 9th, 10th, 11th, or 12th grade, these next few minutes are for you. I present to you: the 5 pieces of understanding anxiety. But first, about me: I've had over three years of experience being unhealthily anxious in different places at different times. Some examples of my work include: crying in class, my chest tightening during exercise to the point where I can't breathe, staying perfectly still for long periods of time out of fear people are watching me, inability to feel emotion, recurring insomnia, and a pervasive sense of existential dread. Now you might not have as impressive of a track record. That's fantastic. Here's how to keep it that way. 3) - Anxiety at its core: Anxiety is, at its core, an innate response to threats. Your brain thinks you're in danger, and you go into high alert. In your head, thoughts are racing to analyze the perceived threat with the goal of getting you to safety. In your body, the heart pounds, muscles tense up, breaths are quick, metabolic rate is high, it does anything to put you on edge. With the brain and body ready to act, a crucial but simple decision is made: fight or flight. Now this might seem good if you're an elk and you see a hunter, because an elk wants to act quickly. It needs to. But you're not elk, because when you're driving on a rural highway at 9 pm, and a roadside elk sees your headlights, there's a 50% chance the elk will run onto the road and not into the forest. They know they need to run, but they can't reason as to where. We humans have logic at our disposal. When a car drives at us, we run away from the car. But cars aren't usually that concerning. We have more complicated threats. School is one. If our brain registers a poor grade as a threat, then we'll respond the same way. Like if you're at home studying and you can't grasp a certain concept, or maybe can't focus on the homework, your brain will remember the threat of bad grades, and that a lack of understanding or effort leads to bad grades, and now you're responding just like an elk: heartbeat, tense muscles, racing thoughts, and all of a sudden, you're in fight or flight. You either study or write more intensely because you fear grades, you fight, or give up and put it off somehow, you flee. The same feeling can drive two very different responses.
15 82 I learned a lot from watching Jackie struggle and ultimately overcome her struggles. I learned above all, that it's important for you to do what makes you happy, not just what will make someone else happy, or even multiple other people happy. More specifically, I realized through Jackie's experience that you have to be your true authentic self. You are your own person, and you can do what you think or know will make you happy. If it happens to make someone else happy, that's a great added bonus, but it's only worth it, if you are able to derive enough happiness from it in order for it to not hurt you; your own happiness is your number one priority. Some of you may be thinking that it's selfish to put your own happiness over that of your peers, but it's not. It's necessary. That's not to say that you shouldn't do anything to try to bring another person joy, especially in cases where they need it most, it's just that you shouldn't do something you're not comfortable doing depending on your current emotional and mental state. You can only really fully help someone else find happiness if you are happy enough yourself. It isn't always easy, especially when other people's expectations are involved. Sometimes you have to take risks in life in order to find happiness. You need to be willing to make mistakes, be vulnerable, and sometimes even fail before trying again. And it can be really hard to risk disappointing some people in order to find your true happiness. But acceptance of yourself has to come from knowing who you are and not from what people want you to be. I know I've frequently struggled to take relatively minor risks to find true happiness and part of it came from worry about being my authentic self and fear of judgement. And I know many of you may be very seriously struggling to find happiness, and you might think that there's no chance of seeing that light at the end of tunnel; that there's nothing you can do, But you are wrong. There is always hope, and there is always something you can do, and often it is what you need to do, in order to find happiness. Whether it's telling someone something, or doing something you really need to, you can do something and take control of your happiness. And if you are in doubt and can't see anything you could possibly do to get better, there is still one thing you can do, and I ask you to please, please do it. And that is: ask for help. Whether you ask a therapist, a friend, a family member, a teacher, or even me, someone will be willing to help. It's difficult to reach out, but doing so, because it's hard, is a sign of strength, not weakness. And that first step, often the most difficult and thus the most important, can be your first step toward finding yourself and your happiness. Thank you. Olivia McCauley What makes a woman? Is it your long, luscious hair, or a waist so thin that it's just barely there? Are you a woman in the way you think, or the manner you slink so gracefully from the kitchen to the bedroom? Woman, how did you come to be? Because you weren't a woman when you were born, you didn't emerge fully formed. Is woman made in girlhood? Where was woman on the days you wore your hair tangled and untamed in round finger shaped curls, while you splashed half-naked on shimmering, sunlit lakes? Woman was nowhere to be found at four, when you loved glue and tape whose creative opportunities offered sanctuary from store-bought femininity. You wanted to make a cardboard truck, but everyone admonished you, surely you'd prefer a small wire ballerina? But you were a determined girl, found a friend, used him as justification, glued your fingers together in the process of scraping away adhesive that seeped out from between the seams. It's your truck, but they won't let you have it, because surely it's a boy's toy, surely a little girl has no use for a truck. So, tiny fists flying, eyes streaming, you protest. It's a truck, but it's your truck. But a girl isn't made by claiming what's hers, must never come to be defined by angry, juvenile tears. Someone else's father HII steps in to make this clear, bends down on one knee to take your hands in his to tell you, don't cry. You are so pretty when you smile. Somehow, you already know it's more important to be pretty than to get your way. So you comply, stiff mouth straining against resistant muscles, watch the people around you relax. So it must be okay. Or is woman made by the body? Did you begin as small breasts began to bud on your ninth birthday, and hide beneath shirt? Were you made by the blood that trickled down your thighs at ten, by the pain that gripped your abdomen? your Did you find woman in your reflection, an image that began to morph, distort until you no longer knew what was true? Did woman grow on you like the flesh appearing on your hips and bust? You wanted your body to grow differently, to sprout lithe legs, fill in still pubescent breasts, narrow to a cinched waist. So this woman's body, this foreign body, it began to weigh you down. But you still weren't a woman yet, you tried to rid yourself of this weight. You tried to cast woman off with the hours you spent pounding out a rhythm of self-loathing on a treadmill. You tried to force her out, you tried shrink woman by giving her less and less food, punishing the body she thrust upon you. Trying took stole all your energy, it hurt you more than her. Is a woman made when others chase her body? When with each passing month the men on the street notice a bit more? They didn't see that you and woman weren't one and soon their calls became demands. You didn't know if this vulgarity was supposed to be a compliment, but the nail-bitingly intense fear made it feel like a threat. Woman become inescapable when the last boundaries of decency dissipated, when the men began to come in from the street, appeared in a classroom two hours south of here. He begins to stare at you, his eyes hungry, his body hungry for you. So while you lean against a school wall painted with the Lord's prayer he pulls up in his van, calls to you, hey girl, get inside, it's cold out there and it's warm in here. You're terrified because he could so easily force you. Because despite your body you're only a girl. But woman saved you, she took control, told your parents and the administration who claim you will be okay. But word gets out and it's all your fault. It's your fault when he cries to a crowd in the hallway. Pastors and teachers whisper it's your fault because your skirts were so short they exposed Eve's original sin, temptation hidden at the meeting of your thighs. So it's your fault he wanted you in the first place, it's your fault you didn't even get what you deserved. Now you're a woman, and a worthless one at that, that's the resounding consensus. Their scorn pursues you, breeds distress and desolation in every step, they sink their teeth deep into your skin, and refuse to let go. These feelings, they smother you. Because no one wants to listen to a newly minted woman. And even in debate, the only place you're entitled to six whole minutes of uninterrupted speech, you're still just a set of parts to choose from. Your body is the reason they all stopped listening, called you shrill and frantic and breathless, claimed they couldn't bear to listen. Your body becomes a burden that feels every lingering gaze, unable to forget every revolted turn of your stomach, governed by constant reminders so you squeeze your eyes tight but you still can't escape it. It's hard to not feel suffocated when you're the only one in the room whose worth is written on your body instead of in your words. But it's okay, they all tell you, you will be okay, at the end of the day you're a woman, and a strong one at that. But being a strong woman means that you must carry unsustainable burdens, because nobody wants to see that their strong woman's strength is just a broken body, barely held together by tape and glue, no stronger and no more free of expectations than the cardboard truck you built at four. You don't feel like a strong woman, you just feel like a girl who's been broken in. So, what makes a woman? I've made a woman by defying what woman is supposed to be. I made my own kind of woman who holds a peculiar, fragile strength, a woman duty-bound to dismantle the process that made her. I tell my stories for specific reasons. It's not for shock value, it's not for sympathy. 83
34 grateful. SPA has amazing accommodations for students with any type of learning disability or issues, and this was a major key to my success. The other reason I was successful was because of my parents. They were in my corner no matter what, defending me, helping me, and comforting me when I needed it most. Words cannot explain how thankful I am for having the best parents in the world. Without all of the help I received I would never be able to do as well as I did. During my hard times at SPA it was my family, friends, and faculty that helped me through. Not only did these people help me during my times when I was in and out of school but they helped me cope with a very hard death that I had to experience. One group of friends that helped me during my worst times was the Anarchy Boys. Michael Holman, Eddie Krasny, Michael Forsgren, Justin Hla, Harry Stephenson, Ashler Benda, Riley Tietel, and Spencer Kleve-Strabley. This group of 10 people, including myself, changed my life indelibly. All of these boys are different in their own way but we come together and make 1. We mostly roam around Eagan looking for things to do, but I have never had so much fun with a group of guys. We usually just end up playing basketball or playing video games but we always have fun doing it. When I wasn't doing well after my friend's death, these boys were keeping my spirits up and making sure I was ok. I can't thank them enough. This is just like when Mason helped me through my struggle because anyone can relate to you on the most basic level, because everyone has experienced some form of struggle they are able to express empathy and comfort you. Even if someone hasn't experienced the same things as me they are still able to support me in some shape or form. Whether it is hanging out with me when I'm feeling down, or just checking up on me in the hallways, to see that you have people that support and love you makes a huge difference. These simple things reminded me that I'm not alone in this battle and I can make it through. I have so many other people I would like to thank that helped me through my struggles but I only have a limited amount of time. What I will say is that if you notice your friend is going through some hard times and just isn't themselves, check in on them, see how there day is going. Just having a simple conversation with them could help them out a lot if they are having hard times. And if you see someone struggling who you don't know very well or if you don't know why they're having a tough time, remember what it feels like to have bad things happen to you and how much you appreciate a kind word, some patience, or any other basic expression of empathy. Because we may not know each other, much less what everyone is going through, but we all know that it feels just a little bit better when we know that we're not alone. Jennifer Sogin What does it mean to succeed in America? A lot of people that I talk to seem to have the same general vision for themselves in the future. They all want to get married, have kids, settle down and live a nice comfortable life with a high paying job. The way to achieve this standard of living is to get a high school education in order to get into college for a bachelor's degree. From there you go on to get more education or get a job and settle on the fact that there aren't many high paying jobs that will hire you with so "little" education. We grow up wanting to be rich because we equate success with wealth; at least that's what society has led us to believe. To be successful can include wealth, but success should not be defined by how much your paycheck is worth. Characterizing success by how much money you make not only poses a threat to our personal fulfilment, but to the broader society as well. Money doesn't guarantee happiness, and defining success as being rich isolates and excludes the majority of the population from ever attaining it. And yet a lot strive for this money-filled end goal because it is the norm - most of us don't know any other way. The key to achieving this definition of success lies in a promising and bountiful career, which makes education one of the most important things a person can receive in their life. In fact, most careers we can think of require so much of it. This makes sense, I mean in order to become a lawyer you have to know how to be one. So then what's the problem? The problem lies with how we have defined a successful life: a high income, a fancy job and a big house. We are raised to take the easy road, the safe road, the road of conformity in order to chase a dream that isn't even our own. Education becomes a tool to become rich and successful, a tool that only the elite are capable of using. To be rich, you need to get a good education, and a good education means you need perfect transcripts, challenging classes, leadership experience, volunteer hours, sports and lots and lots of awards. With all these standards, how do you fit your passions into such a packed schedule? For most of my high school career I have allowed societal pressures to tell me how successful I am or am not. I have worked an unhealthy amount to get a perfect score on countless homework assignments, quizzes, tests and projects that I can't even remember now. I have taken on the challenges of an honors course not because I was truly interested in the content, but because of the title I can put on my college application. We consider community service as a requirement for graduation so we look "good" on our college applications rather than considering service as the least we can do as privileged and educated individuals. I have complained about having to do twelve hours of community service for underprivileged people without thinking about how my class, race and education prime me for "success" in the real world. And if success is anything the way I and millions of other Americans perceive it to be, it's a way of boosting up the privileged while beating down on the underprivileged. Those who live in poorer neighborhoods go to underfunded schools with much lower graduation rates because kids are forced to drop out to support their families. It's amazing when a child becomes the first generation to go to college because the entire college process is so complex that even college prep students such as ourselves need personal guidance in order to maximize our chances, happiness and ability to attend an elite university. Attending college is a struggle all on its own. Without scholarship money or financial aid, colleges cost hundreds of thousands of dollars to attend. Filing the FAFSA is one of the most complicated ordeals that my mom who went to Harvard and Yale, majored in Economics and does all of my family's taxes has trouble understanding it. Now imagine an aspiring first generation student whose parents work several minimum wage jobs just to make ends meet trying to navigate this process. If a kid is so fortunate to attend college and graduate, they begin their journey into the workforce, only to find that there are so few jobs available to them while they drown in student loans. Before 2008, post-graduate students took low-paying jobs to gain experience in order to eventually score a higher paying job. However, the market crash laid off millions of Americans. Those who were unemployed took jobs that typically went to young adults, leaving few low or no paid jobs with ridiculous hours left for the millions of young adults graduating college with massive amounts of accumulated debt. Thus, the struggle to out compete each other began to escalate, making it impossible to find a good job without a masters degree or higher. Young adults focused more on pursuing job security rather than their own dreams because how else are you able to survive in this day and age? And while we may acknowledge these issues within our own community, we not only stay complicit (including myself), but we also actively support America's rigid definition of success. Why else are we at a college prep school than to get a unique education in order to get into great colleges and universities in order to go on into high paying jobs. Why do we all endure stress from our society that causes us to make this chain of decisions? Just something to think about. After reflecting on all of this, I suddenly realized why so many people who live here are so depressed, anxious and alone. We are raised to pursue such a limited definition of success that we forget about the things that drive us --we forget about ourselves. We bury the things that make us happy because happiness seldom correlates with success. We are taught to sacrifice our dreams in the name of money. But while our school may encourage unhealthy competition to be the best in order to attend a top university, it also gives us immense opportunities to discover the things that drive us. Except as students raised in the current society, we choose to focus more on honors and titles rather than the things we want to pursue. It wasn't until my junior year that I eventually learned to put things into perspective. Instead of asking myself "will this look good on my college application" I began to ask myself "is this healthy for me?" and "does this make me happy?" From there I quit the classes that destroyed my sanity and made the decision to take classes that looked really fun this year. I quit club soccer and decided to volunteer at Joy of the People for the summer. I not only got way better at soccer, but I had a blast hanging out with the kids and found I sincerely loved nonprofit work. I am the happiest and most balanced I've ever been this year because of my decisions to place my well being above my warped vision of what it means to succeed. And guess what? I still got into college. I guess my speech at its core is that cliche "follow your dreams" speech. But even though we hear this message everywhere, why are so many people sad and shattered? We preach this message, but fail to follow it because our passions are smothered by selfish motivations imposed on us by society. I would like to acknowledge that you can be successful in life and still make a lot of money. The problem comes from believing money is what makes you successful. Your life should be guided by your
36 passions, not by society's pull towards unfulfilling, high-paying careers that will only make this issue worse. We have the privilege of being able to seek, find and choose the things that make us happy in the world because of our amazing education. If we as young people change our social consciousness, then others with less privilege will have greater opportunities because the path to success will become more accessible and inclusive. The only way to topple the social norm is to stop following it. So my challenge to you is to forge your own path in this world. Jonah Spencer Mark Zuckerberg's 2018 testimony to Congress on his companies role in the 2016 election was pretty amusing, and not just to me. For a week you couldn't go online without seeing memes referencing his inhuman behavior and arguments over whether his ancestry DNA kit would've tested higher for lizard or robot. Beyond all the memes, which I rather enjoyed, I found his testimony troubling. It revealed a disturbing sentiment: the executives of technology firms have no qualms about their predatory tendencies and unabated greed. In short, they completely lack ethics. While the 2016 election was a crucial example of Silicon Valleys moral void, an issue I consider much more pressing is the exploitation of kids through social media. It may seem like an overreaction to call Instagram, Snapchat, push notifications, etc. exploitation, but few inventions have ever altered children's habits, mental health, and physical brain chemistry so radically, so quickly, and, in many cases, so negatively. Teens on average spend an unsettling 9 hours consuming media every day. Over 50% say they use their phone too much and almost 30% say they would like to use their phone less but can't. These statistics illuminate a clear trend: teens have a severe addiction to their screens, and, more pointedly, social media. However, much in the same disgraceful way Americans treat addicts and those with mental illness, we blame the victims of this unfair system rather than support them. For instance, teens are often blamed by their teachers for using their phones excessively, yet many schools facilitate a need for the internet to turn in or view assignments and for many of those students a phone is the most efficient if not the only option for doing so. We essentially ask children to ignore the aggressively marketed distracting side of technology in favor of engaging with the much more boring yet productive sides. It's nonsensical. Who in their right mind, especially if that mind has yet to reach full its maturity and ability to self regulate, would prefer to listen to a lecture on literary analysis in the hopes it might pay off somewhere down the road when their phone or computer can provide instant gratification. While teenagers often discern a deeper connection to their peers through sharing photos and "stories", research overwhelmingly indicates it actually inspires often incapacitating feelings of loneliness. The algorithms which decide how to display likes, shares, posts, and comments on Instagram may inspire a short burst of dopamine but are simply unable to provide the biological need for social interaction teens crave and replace a significant amount of time otherwise dedicated to interacting in person. The decrease in face to face interaction our generation has experienced has been disastrous to mental health. Since the invention of the iPhone, the probability of adolescents experiencing depression has gone up by 37%, and self-harm has increased at a similarly alarming rate. But statistics can mask the intimate and disturbing reality of the issue. Mark Zuckerberg once said, "The thing that we are trying to do at Facebook, is just help people connect." What Mr. Zuckerberg forgot to note is connection is not inherently positive. Too many teens have become much too aware software can catalyze an intimate connection with suicidal depression. By forcing a comparison between myself and my peers, recognizing I can neither posture nor perform better, social media facilitated my own depression and terrifying familiarity with suicidal ideation. As I sat down to write this speech I realized something is indescribably profound about depression and human connection. I've tried and failed on what seems like an endless amount of word documents to articulate that odd feeling of meaninglessness and the ways in which technology augmented it. I've rigorously analyzed the message I was going to leave behind with the hopes maybe I could just partially capture that aspect of myself. For the entirety of my senior year, I've questioned what particularly inspired me to endure. I refuse to lie and say I've derived anything from my experience that comforts me or gives me any closure. I failed to describe l l l l l l l l l l l l l the intrinsic motivation for my depression in a satisfactory way. Yet, I am oddly appreciative of the way that period of my life has shaped my character. It gave me a new understanding of the countless senior speeches prior to mine which described the nature of depression much more eloquently than I ever could; It gave me an ardent appreciation for life; it inspired a visceral desire to protect my peers from the technology which caused me acute pain; and, critically, it revealed a disturbing truth: social media is an epidemic. Its current, malignant form is exploitative. It is wrong and we are complacent. Thousands of kids are sick because of the concealment of the side effects of social media. I am disturbed, saddened and immensely angry this toxic technology has remained largely uncriticized. However, rather than wallow in my depression or stew in my hatred, I commit to combating the ideology which allowed this systematic failure of empathy. I firmly believe the creators of this technology must be held responsible for their negligence. They must be held responsible for purposeful attempts to mask the negative aspects of their products through aggressive manipulation and marketing. And we must recognize technology is at fault for rising rates of anxiety, mental illness, and suicide. Only a fundamental alteration of the narrative surrounding social media will bring lasting, impactful change. But beyond my vindictive dreams of adequate punishment for the disturbed CEOs of Silicon Valley (which most likely will never come), or sweeping reform of the way we view social media, for a fleeting moment let's address this issue in the insulated, abstract environment a senior speech affords. Forget the complicated politics and economics that interlink the first year software engineer in California, the affluent shareholder in New York, the jaded politician in Washington. Forget how complicated any solution to the social media epidemic might be. Forget about any particular issue and let me offer an immediately pertinent ethical proposition: help, not hurt. A simple maxim, possibly a little naive, but one that can lead to a lot of genuine good and one that is critical to preventing future epidemics. While the unethical choices of a powerful few have given me a harrowing exploration of depression and death, it was the ethical choices and support of my family, my mentors, and my peers which gave me the hope, the determination, and the opportunity to present this speech. It is to those people, many of whom are in this auditorium I dedicate my speech and my life. And it is because of those people I consider it absolutely necessary to impart the following: Ethics is essential, regardless of scale or context. You have an indispensable obligation to your peers, your classmates, and to me to consider how what you do might profoundly affect others. To emphasize my message I'll leave you with a quote from the late Mister Rogers, whose documentary touchingly described his bona fide commitment to ethics and inspired me to write this speech: "We live in a world in which we need to share responsibility. It's easy to say 'It's not my child, not my community, not my world, not my problem.' Then there are those who see the need and respond. I consider those people my heroes." Thank you. Kat St. Martin-Norburg I distinctly remember the first time I learned that there was something wrong with me. It was the first week of 9th grade at a huge new public high school. In one of my classes, a girl and I were doing typical getting-to-know-you banter, when she remarked, "wow, your English is like, really good. You sound just like a white person, you don't even have an accent." I was stunned. English is my first language, and I have lived in Minnesota since I was 11 months old. A few days later, a different student, remarking on my white sounding last name, asked, "Where did you get that? Aren't you Asian?" Slightly taken aback, I explained "I'm adopted. My parents are white but I was born in China." After an awkward silence, the girl muttered a quiet "Oh, I'm so sorry, that must suck." I knew then that she wasn't apologizing for asking such insensitive questions, she was instead apologizing for my seemingly unfortunate identity as an adoptee. The comments and questions didn't stop there. People always seemed to be amazed to discover, first, that I speak perfect English, second, that I have a "white sounding" last name, and finally, if I felt like indulging them, that I was adopted by white Americans. I soon grew tired of this endless questioning of my identity. I am embarrassed to admit that it wasn't until my freshman year of high school that I fully realized being a Chinese adoptee in a white family was unusual, and a weird thing to many people. For the first seven years of my education, I attended a Chinese immersion school with other Chinese adoptees, and as a result I was sheltered from the typical stigma that adoption
08 Ben Putaski One of the questions that I've found myself asking a lot, especially recently, is: what kind of person am I? What kind of person do other people think I am? Do people just think that I'm a slacker, a procrastinator? Maybe people just think of me as a friend, a goofball, or a master of puns. Some people may think I'm crazy or weird. Others may just recognize me as that Asian kid. It could be any combination of those things, Honestly, I wouldn't say any of those things are wrong exactly. As much as those questions can eat away at me, there's only so much that you can change in the present, and constantly worrying about it, in fact, does not help. Because of that, one of the most important questions for me has always been not just who I am now, but who do I want to be in the future? When I was younger, the answers to these kinds of questions always felt really simple. For me, it was as easy as saying "I love trains! I'm gonna be a train conductor when I grow up." There wasn't exactly a whole lot of thought put into it, not that there really needed to be at the time. Then, when I found out about how cool dinosaurs were I, of course, immediately jumped on that and decided "paleontologist, that's the way to go." Digging up, examining, and studying dinosaur bones seemed like it would be such a cool thing to do. Going to the science museum and just looking up at all the dinosaur skeletons, and imagining what they must have been like when they were alive, felt amazing. At one point, my cousins and I even planned on making our own restaurant. We planned out all the things that we would put into each section and what each of our jobs would be. There was going to be an arcade, a bowling alley, laser tag, and a fine dining restaurant. We were even going to have houses there so that we could always hang out together. Then, when my sister Ellie was born, we figured she, of course, had to be a part of our amazing idea. At that point, we'd kinda already decided on all the jobs, so the only thing we could think of for her to do, was to put her in charge of managing the freezer. That's the thing though, when you're young, it's easy to make plans like that. I never really thought there was much to consider about the future, outside of what job I was going to pick. The world just seemed so giant, full of places to explore, and things to do. It felt, and honestly was, just very simple in a lot of ways. When I got a little older though, I started wondering why I really wanted to do those things. For the most part, it just kind of boiled down to what I thought was interesting at the time. While each of those things still hold a soft spot in my heart for being part of my childhood, I never really had much of a reason to pursue them, outside of bursts of interest in the subject. Sometimes a sparked interest is all you really need, and that can work out well for some people; but I wanted to find something with a real, personal connection. I felt like there should be a deeper reason for doing what I decide to do. So moving on, for a long time, what I planned on doing was becoming a doctor. This is because I want to help people. This can probably trace back, all the way to the time I was three years old, when my family had a massive house fire. In it, we lost nearly everything. I was really young, so I don't remember exactly what was going through my head. But I do know, that every time I would visit my dad in the hospital, I always loved to bring my little toy doctors kit and help give him a checkup and make it so he'd feel all better. Then, in an event that I remember much more vividly, around eight years ago, my mom got breast cancer. Luckily, it was discovered relatively early, so my mom ended up being okay, but I just remember this feeling of helplessness as she went into surgery. Throughout the entire process, I really just wished that there was something, anything, I could do. The experience really lit something in me for a while. I decided that I want to help people like her get better. At one point, I was so set on this that I even planned on being one of the people to help come up with a cure for it. I realized much later, when I thought about it more, that as much as I wanted to make that happen, I'm honestly just not the person to do it. I still want to help, of course, that desire never went away and I doubt it ever will, but when thinking about it a little deeper, I started wondering about whether I actually had the drive to become a doctor on that level, and that's assuming that I would have even somehow managed to make my way through medical school. At first, it felt hard to accept. I felt like I was failing someone - my mom, the people I had hoped to help. But, everyone has strengths, limitations, and weaknesses, and eventually I came to terms with the fact that these differences are just another part of who you are. You don't need to feel ashamed of them. So, I started thinking about what else I wanted to do, where I would go from there. For the first time, in a long time, I didn't really have a plan. For a while, I was just going through the motions. So, the next question I asked myself is: what really makes me happy?
11 Some of the first things that come to mind are probably books and video games. Books, and more broadly stories, have been a large part of my life ever since I picked up the Percy Jackson series in lower elementary, Games, whether I've played with friends, family, or just by myself, have played a large role in my life, too - giving me countless hours of entertainment and helping me to connect with people that I may never have even talked to otherwise. So when I started asking myself what makes me happy, I decided that I wanted to be a game designer as my career. It is more than just liking video games, though. I want to bring those feelings of fun and excitement to someone else, to pass it on in a way. That's ultimately why I started designing games. While a lot of the enjoyment of creating does come from liking to play games - after all playing and designing video games sounds like a dream job to me - the real reason I like making things, the "endgame," is just to make other people happy: to help the little kid who feels awkward around everyone else, the child who's maybe lost friends and feels like they're alone, the person going through hardships, reminding them that it's okay. Things might be bad and yes, they might get worse, but you don't have to be miserable. The world may suck at times, but there can still be things to put a smile on your face. There are places and people out there that you can barely even imagine. All you need to do is open up your mind to the possibilities and realize that it's okay to dream big. It's been a long journey to reach who I am now, but here I am, and like so many others right now, I'm finally getting ready to move on to the next phase of my life. I'm finally starting to realize the kind of person that I, not only want to be, but that I'll feel proud of being. I want to be someone that can be relied upon, I want to put smiles on people's faces, and live my life in the most fun way I can. And you know what, at the end of the day who knows where I'll end up. Maybe everything will go just as planned and I'll become some famous game developer. In which case... keep an eye out. But, even if it doesn't work out, sometimes plans and dreams are just like that. They can ebb and flow, and yeah, things rarely do go how you think they will, but as long you stick close to the kind of person you want to be, you can trust everything will turn out alright in the end. When I was young, I wanted to make a restaurant, ride some trains, dig up some dinosaurs, and touch the stars. I'm the kind of person that loves to dream big and make people happy. So to wrap this all up, I have question for everyone out there, who you want to be? do Husaam Qureishy I am often misunderstood. Or maybe misread would be a better way to put it. Sometimes it's because of the way I act, and sometimes it's just the way I look, but either way, it happens all the time. I might be minding my own business doing my homework in the library, or walking down the hallway to my next class, but there are always people watching and judging, and I know that because I do it too. It's not something I want to do, but it just happens. And while most of the time it makes sense why I remember people, like if they were doing something stupid, sometimes, it doesn't make any sense at all. For instance, while I don't remember the name of the person who tried to trip me in my crutches last year, I do remember the name of the guy who I almost fell on. Because of that memorable moment, now whenever I see him at lunch the first thing I think of is an image of him dual weilding a spoon and fork to trying to eat a taco, That's pretty weird, and if I were him, I wouldn't like to be remembered that way. But I can't help judging him based on that, it's beyond my control. So, I'm not standing here to tell you not to judge anyone, because I know that's too hard and pretty unrealistic. I'm standing here to tell you about what you should do after you judge them, and I'll give you some examples to better explain what I mean. I think it was the first or second week of school, in my Literature of Monstrosity class. The lights were dimmed, I had my chair tilted back, and my eyes closed. Mr. Hoven, while it may have looked like I was sleeping, I was actually concentrating on the meaningful discussion about something to do with monsters that was taking place. Now, what Mr. Hoven does with the information that I was sle- concentrating, sorry, is what really matters. He could make the judgement that I was sleeping, or he could make the judgement to further investigate and find out if I was actually sleeping, which by the way I'd like to mention that I responded to my name being called right away, so I'm not saying you shouldn't have taken off some discussion points, but then again I'm not saying that you should've. On a related note, I can say with 100% certainty that I have not always taken my own advice, and I deeply regretted that last year. I always thought that the dark and peaceful atmosphere that Dr. Peterson created with his deep and soothing voice in
09 2 FIRST LINES 2019 Her past 4 years He turns off the water, steps out of the shower, and grabs a towel... In the world we live in, there is anger... I have struggled with fear ever since I first learned that the world is not perfect... "What do you think of when you hear the word scientist?"... "Where are you from?"... Who am I?... With my eyes still adjusting to the morning sun, I rolled over my bed to check my phone... Given the topic of this speech, I need to start with a disclaimer... I could talk about the sport I committed thirteen years of my life to... Being an only child can suck... It's easy to lose hope these days... I have dreaded this day for the four years... Nathalie... Syria, Cambodia, Bosnia, Rwanda, Guatemala, Darfur, Argentina, and the United States to name just a few... Dear little boy... Everyone has something that they want to keep from people... Relationships... When I was old, I heard of an interesting, philosophical question... Routine creates simplicity the same way it creates complication... It was a pleasant summer afternoon at the Carondelet fields... How far is a boy willing to go to prove that he's a man?... From when I started kindergarten to less than a year ago, I did not think that I would want to spend the rest of my life in school... green eyes glazed over, as she hung up the wet words that tainted my life... Its 6 AM on a crisp winter morning... If you're a middle aged man, you probably know of or heard about at least one peer who has killed himself in recent years... Hi. I'm Izzy, and I hate trying new things... Two boys rose, floating above a soccer field in mid-jump... When I was younger I was terrified of going to the doctor... The United States average life expectancy for males is 78 years old, meaning that I am about a fourth of the way through my life....... There are over 330 million people living in the US and around 7 billion people living on Earth... After a long day of sled racing, I sigh with relief when I come back to my perfectly crafted home... Last August I took a trip up to the boundary waters with a classmate for a 17 day canoe trip as the summer was beginning to end....... I haven't always felt the most at home here at SPA and I have struggled with that thought for years... Over the summer a close friend of mine recommended a comedian to me... When I learned that I had to write a senior speech, there were three things that crossed my mind as the years progressed... For the last eighteen years, I have lived in a shadow where all I could see was a constant reminder... This story, like many stories, starts in the dark... I'm going to tell you a tale of love... One of the biggest things I remember from my childhood is how much I hated putting myself into any remotely uncomfortable situations... When I was little, I discovered I could heat a wire by using it to short circuit a nine-volt battery... Being an SPA student isn't easy... All of my friends trust me with the aux cord: it's the single greatest accomplishment of my life... He held his head low as the crowd sped past, running faster than he ever had... What images come to mind when you hear the phrase, Asian male?... This summer, I was browsing articles in Wikipedia's "List of Common Misconceptions," reading about how the Bible doesn't actually specify that the forbidden fruit is an apple, when I saw a link to something called an "etrog."... I walked into my local gym, did a quick warm up, and headed over to the lifting platforms... We are creatures of habit... The old man sitting across from me was once a starving, orphaned young man in a cell, jailed for stealing food from his neighbor... I said I would give my speech about bananas... What do you think about me?... I am a people-pleaser... My family and I have lived in our bungalow my entire life... Most of the people in this auditorium right now know me as a bit of a jokester... At SPA, I'm given two seemingly contradicting messages... What has made you who you are?... Happiness... What makes a woman?... I have always had a bit of a problem with my observational skills... People love to chide me for being the zealous polyglot that I am... There is too much stimulation in the 21st century... There's something I need to get off my chest... For as long as I can remember, my world has been quiet... Our car makes its way down the dirt road, sunlight blazing through the towel- covered windows... I've been lying to all of you for a very long time... What is hope?... Stories... "Minnesotans will give you directions anywhere except to their own house"... We are what we're afraid to lose... Most of us in this auditorium are in high school, with limited life experience and understanding of the world... 1. It's their turn in the talent show... Until 7th grade, my family was Catholic... The season four premiere of The West Wing, a two part episode titled "Twenty Hours in America,". is spectacular television... It's a warm, sunny day in early June... One of the questions that I've found myself asking a lot, especially recently, is: what kind of person am I?... I am often misunderstood... I have a long, complicated history with water bottles... I love fruit... To truly get to know me you would have to come grocery shopping with me twice... If you're in 9th, 10th, 11th, or 12th grade, these next few minutes are for you... Being unique is a valuable trait to have in today's day and age... It all started in the KA coat room... I have always enjoyed camping but my family has never had a successful camping experience... Mama tells me that when I started to babble as a child, my words took form in both Spanish and English, interchangeably, unaware that there was a difference... Since 7th grade, I have been a member of an elite college soccer prep team... When we were still sticky-fingered and shiny-eyed, curious about everything in the world and with no sense of the limits of reality, we were always told to reach for the stars... I don't know... I hate talking in front of a group... When I was little, I used to spend hours every day painting and drawing and stickering and causing chaos and making things... I sat on the other side of a short table from the school reading instructor... Most political speeches at this school are incredibly empathetic and usually conclude with a message to listen to others and consider all viewpoints... Everyone in the world experiences struggle in some shape or form... What does it mean to succeed in America?... Mark Zuckerberg's 2018 testimony to Congress on his companies role in the 2016 election was pretty amusing, and not just to me... I distinctly remember the first time I learned that there was something wrong with me... My heart was pounding; my legs ached, my arms stiff... What you think people will remember about you at the end of your life?... I am a duck hunter... Aristotle argued that every object, alive or dead has Four Causes... 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 ... We have all had the privilege to build and shape our individual time at SPA... My Dad always asks me "Ruba, why is your chain hanging out?"... The blue tricycle catches your eye..... When I think of the worst days of the week, two days stand out to me... Most people don't consider taking action on an issue unless it affects them directly... 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 love you. And I forgive you... I love God, my parents, the sport of hockey, and my best do friends... HI! Ethan Asis He turns off the water, steps out of the shower, and grabs a towel. As he dries himself off, he sees his reflection in the bathroom mirror. "Why are you the way that you are? Why do you look like this?" He first became aware of his body's many imperfections in first grade. He was wearing gray camo long underwear and saw the way his body seemed to warp outwards where his friends' didn't. He realized he didn't fit in. He was embarrassed by himself. He turns himself to show his profile in the mirror, sucking his stomach in to show him what he thinks he could look like if he just tried a little harder. He continued to be embarrassed by himself throughout Elementary school: trying to avoid running during recess so that the wind wouldn't push his shirt into him and outline his figure. Walking through the halls holding his shirt out in front of him for the same reason. He looked at his friends and began to envy them. While they continued to order pizza on Friday nights and drink juice and soda whenever they wanted, he learned to say goodbye to his favorite foods. While they were excited about getting new shoes, something that wouldn't alter their overall appearance, he was anxious that his parents had ordered the wrong-sized shirts for him online. Even when they gave him clothes that fit him, he'd insist that they buy larger shirts that he could hide himself in. He wished that he was worried about his shoes. He wondered what it was like to not be anxious when he ran. He began to hate himself. He turns back and faces the mirror, pushing his waist into him hoping to shrink his outline. Instead, all he can see are the hands that he wishes showed more veins and that he wishes were less soft. His perception of himself worsened still when in middle school, he became even shorter than he had originally been in comparison to his friends. Consequently, he felt "stouter" too. While all of his friends' voices got deeper, muscles got larger, bones got longer, he stayed the same. He stuck out even more than when he was younger. Embarrassment amplified into hatred and he wished to hide his body. He began wearing coats inside even when he was hot. He learned to love sweaters. Each time at the doctor's office, he would ask when he would grow, hoping to not only get taller but to get skinnier too. Skinnier like his friends. He was frustrated by the doctors when they told him that he was growing normally because he didn't feel normal. The only thing that grew in between those appointments was his own self-loathing. The boy makes eye contact with his reflection and studies his face in the mirror. He smiles at the sight of his ambiguously colored eyes, the one part of him that doesn't seem to be marred by his imperfection. He touches his cheeks as he sucks them in like he did with his stomach and tilts his head up to avoid any hint of loose skin. He can see his Adam's apple jut out. "Why can't you look like this without trying?" Whenever he had come crying to his mother about the way that he looked she would always hold him and tell him how handsome he was and how nobody noticed what he always noticed. He wanted to take what she said to heart, but time he watched a movie or played a video game, all of the heroes and characters were strong, or skinny. every The girls that he liked had liked these men for this reason. The world told him that it didn't want him the way he was. He felt unlovable. He continued to hold his shirt far out in front of him when he walked through the halls. He glances now at his shoulders, biceps, the perimeter of his chest, and his waist. He flexes in the mirror to see if he can see his own muscles that he's put so much into. His arms swell without definition. His chest and abs follow suit. He hates the soft indentations that run every direction across him, ruining the smooth and soft skin his parents always envied. He is angry with himself. Each jagged scar across him isn't a mark of growth to him but a stain of gluttony: a lack of discipline, growing too fast, growing too fat. He's ashamed of himself. ?? 3
4 "I have to have a passion, right?" I thought to myself. I began racking my brain trying to think of the activities that I do and I come up with something that is somewhat categorized as a passion. I like going to yoga, playing volleyball and my family. I like my dogs, my camp and my friends. What makes these activities different from my One Direction obsession is that I am the one doing them. I am no longer living through One Direction's experiences, but I am finding activities that I like and making my own memories. The more I thought about what I like, the more I began to feel grateful. There are so many things that am able to do and so many things that I am passionate about. I am extremely lucky to have these things in my life and the people around me to support me through whatever may come in my way. It is hard to sometimes take a step back and think about what is most important to you. If you lost everything except for the things you explicitly said you were grateful for, what would you have left? Find things you are passionate about, make the changes you want in your life, and most importantly, let the people around you know how much they mean to you. Phillip Bragg Given the topic of this speech, I need to start with a disclaimer and be very clear in explaining what this speech is about and what it is not about. This speech is about the discovery and prohibition of hallucinogenic drugs. It will argue that further study is needed to determine if there are legitimate medicinal uses, specifically to treat mental illness. This is not a speech about recreational drug use and nothing whatsoever in this speech should be construed to suggest that illegal drugs should be used. If remember only one thing about this speech, it should be that. Now, with that critical framing in mind, I'd like to talk to you you about history, law and science and how they relate to hallucinogenic drugs and mental illness. The history of psychedelic drugs in the Western world is a short-lived but fascinating one. It was not until the late 1930s that Swiss chemist Albert Hofmann first synthesized a chemical known as lysergic acid diethylamide. After accidentally absorbing a miniscule amount of the drug through his fingertips, Hofmann started feeling restless and decided to take the rest of the day off. Hofmann described it as feeling: "affected by a remarkable restlessness, combined with a slight dizziness. At home [he] lay down and sank into a not unpleasant intoxicated-like condition, characterized by an extremely stimulated imagination. In a dreamlike state, with eyes closed ([he] found the daylight to be unpleasantly glaring), [Hofmann] perceived an uninterrupted stream of fantastic pictures, extraordinary shapes with intense, kaleidoscopic play of colors." Hofmann had just accidentally discovered the hallucinogenic properties of LSD, And, by consequence, Hofmann had just given us a unique glimpse into the human mind. The next few decades saw the substance used as a recreational drug, primarily being associated with the counterculture of the 1960s. By 1970, LSD and many other psychedelic drugs were declared a Schedule I controlled substance under the Controlled Substances Act. Now legally defined as a drug with a "high potential for abuse" and "no currently accepted medical use," all scientific research into the drug came to an abrupt halt. During this time the federal government was looking for any reason to decide that a drug was dangerous and had no place in our society. But attempts to prohibit use also included the more questionable restrictions on study. Moreover, an understandable desire to keep drugs out of the hands of citizens was undermined by the specific political expediencies driving it. We now know today thanks to the testimony of John Ehrlichman, one of Nixon's former aides, that the war on drugs was an inherently classist and racist system. I'll let him explain the rest: "We knew we couldn't make it illegal to be either against the war or black, but by getting the public to associate the hippies with marijuana and blacks with heroin. And then criminalizing both heavily, we could disrupt those communities. We could arrest their leaders, raid their homes, break up their meetings, and vilify them night after night on the evening news. Did we know we were lying about the drugs? Of course we did." Not only were some of the motivations behind criminalization shady, but the complete ban was an overreach. This is because of prohibition, not just on recreational use, which was a necessary measure for public health and safety, but also on research and understanding. Today, these drugs are stigmatized, seriously misunderstood and abused, all of which have serious consequences. Access to these strange substances has been completely shut off, even for scientific research. As a result, we didn't learn anything new about these substances for fifty years. This is a shame, because these drugs may be useful in limited but key ways. Not as something to be abused, but as a possible means of improving people's lives. In addition to these drugs being grossly misunderstood, they go hand-in-hand with another topic in our country that is misunderstood: mental illness. I am giving this speech today not only because I feel that both of these subjects are not only closely intertwined, but because I feel that these substances have recently shown great promise in treating and helping us better understand mental illness as well. Preliminary studies after decades of legally mandated misunderstanding are promising. Purdue's David E. Nichols wrote for the peer-reviewed medical journal Pharmacological Reviews in 2016 that psychedelics are "generally considered physiologically safe and do not lead to dependence or addiction." Since the recent resurgence of sanctioned psychedelic research around the turn of the century, nearly one thousand volunteers have been dosed and not a single adverse event has been reported by scientists. Additional research has surfaced also showing great promise for these drugs in treating disorders like depression, anxiety, PTSD, and even addiction. The idea is to use these substances as a therapeutic drug in a clinical setting. Patients consult a professional who then administers a dose of either psilocybin (which you may know as the main active ingredient in magic mushrooms) or LSD, usually while the patient is lying down, blindfolded, and wearing a set of noise-cancelling headphones. Author Michael Pollan likes to call this procedure "White-Coat Shamanism." Dr. Matthew Johnson, Associate Professor of Psychiatry at Johns Hopkins University and a leading expert on the effects of psychedelics, believes the use of psychedelics can be expanded to change all sorts of behaviors and habits, not just addiction. Johnson explains that these drugs give doctors the power to induce a sufficiently dramatic experience to "dope-slap people out of their story. It's literally a reboot of the system-a biological control-alt-delete." This can mean changing habits like smoking to pretty much any kind of self-destructive behavior. Keeping in line with Johnson's "Reset Theory," a study published in late 2017 targeted treatment-resistant depression patients. After a single psilocybin treatment, over 60% of the patients who had depression went from being very clinical to reaching remission within six months. After comparing fMRI scans of patients' brains before and after treatment, scientists concluded that the drug must have also "reset" the activity of certain brain circuits known to play a role in clinical depression. We are only just beginning to study the profound medical effects of these drugs, but I think that these can be extremely helpful tools in solving mental disorders that have caused countless human beings throughout history immense amounts of pain and suffering. But we'll only know if we do the research. It is time to scrape off that 1960s crust surrounding these substances and begin to have serious discussions again about the possible benefits these drugs could provide if and only if better understood by scientists and doctors. Just last August, the FDA approved a landmark study that if successful would carry psilocybin into Phase 3 clinical trials: the last step before FDA approval. I think it's time we join the FDA in taking a fresh look at both psychedelics and mental illness in order to see if we can better understand one to treat the other. Jane Brunell I could talk about the sport I committed thirteen years of my life to, the hundreds of hours spent doing physical therapy, or the moments trying to keep still during dozens of MRI's, but I'm going to dedicate this speech to a single moment instead: the moment when I got the scar on my right knee. This visible reminder of the annual Glendale Easter egg hunt holds a special place in my heart -and on my leg- since I really don't have many vivid memories of my childhood. However, whenever I catch a glimpse of the mark, all the emotions of that day, ambition, fear, and excitement, all come rushing back. This day was not just another day at Glendale Elementary. It was the annual Easter egg hunt and I was the returning champion and As a mature fourth grader, I was ready to win again this year. It was a sunny spring day in April and I had convinced my mom to let me wear shorts, As the teachers explained the rules, I could not sit still. I was so ready to go. My athleticism cultivated in gymnastics, track, soccer, and softball allowed me to be faster than most of the other younger and older students, boys and girls. We all gathered around the doors that led out to the blacktop, and beyond that, the playground, where all the eggs were hidden. I elbowed myself to the front of the pack and squinted out the windows, trying to spot some eggs. As soon as the doors swung open, my adrenaline kicked in. I was sprinting as fast as my little legs could take me. About five seconds in and fifty feet from the starting line, I abruptly, and violently, lurched forward. Someone had pushed me and I think I knew who it was. I stumbled trying to recover from the aggressive push, but my speed led me down to the freshly painted blacktop. My lanky limbs, especially my right knee, skidded across the gravelly surface.
5 00 8 because they resist. Just because it's easy for you, does not mean it is not like climbing Everest for someone else. I can understand why people make these mistakes, I have made them myself. People get so good at hiding their struggles from the world, but they should not have to. No one goes through life without pain. The least we can do is show compassion, regardless of whether or not the person wears their grief on their face. Of course when I began to write this speech, anxiety was right there with me. It told me to give up, to do anything I could to avoid thinking about November 30th. Even at the last minute I thought about writing a new speech, a fun speech, a speech where I did not have to confront my fears. But here I am and there it was. Adelia Bergner "What do you think of when you hear the word scientist?" It was the first day of 6th grade, and I was fidgeting eagerly in the front row of my dimly lit Earth science classroom, thoroughly unaware that I was about to witness one of the most transformative experiences of my short lifetime. To begin the lesson, my teacher had passed around a neat stack of blank worksheets and instructed each student to sketch our response to the question she had just posed. Fully confident that I possessed the answer that she was awaiting, I immediately launched into a messy doodle. ...And by messy doodle I mean a carefully thought out, color-coordinated, and labeled drawing. After a few minutes of furious scribbling, I finally felt satisfied with the finished product and sat back in my chair to admire my masterpiece. When the rest of my classmates had finished their drawings as well, we were asked to volunteer and share our interpretations. My hand was first to soar above the heads of my peers and, after a nod of acknowledgment from my teacher, I pranced up before the whiteboard at the front of the class. Head held high and a smile creeping across my face, I proudly stuck out the flimsy piece of paper and displayed my image to the hushed room. Smack in the middle of the sheet was an old man donning a white lab coat and an unruly Einstein-like hairstyle, clutching a frothing test tube in his outstretched hand. I know, yikes. Glancing over at my teacher, I instantly knew that this was not the depiction she had been looking for. But, before my cheeks melted into their telltale shade of pink, she raised her hand and uttered two sentences that, at the time, seemed so simple, yet so profoundly life-altering that they have stuck with me these past six years: "See? This is why we need more women in science." Fast forward a few years when it was time to make the transition to high school and I was finally afforded the freedom to design my own schedule. I knew I was going to cram it with as many STEM classes as humanly possible. Something about the way I could express my creativity through innovation, while simultaneously unlocking the intricacies of the physical world stimulated my curiosity in a way that I didn't experience anywhere else. I knew I had found my calling. But, at the start of my junior year, when I stepped through that rigid doorway into my first advanced computer science course, the lack of gender diversity triggered my middle school revelation to come rushing back to the surface. A quick scan of the classroom swiftly revealed that there were not as many girls present as had been in the introductory course. I'd taken in the spring of my sophomore year. But, after taking a deep breath, I reminded myself not to jump to conclusions and made my way to a seat at the front of the classroom. And everything actually ended up going as I'd hoped for a while. Even though I didn't have as many female peers as I would've liked, I still found people to talk to and I was really interested in the content we were covering. However, as the year progressed, I slowly began to notice in group settings that my voice wasn't given the same amount of weight or respect as my male peers and whenever I tried to contribute, my ideas were quickly brushed aside and glossed over. I can remember so many occasions when I would try to start talking only to be talked over, almost as if I wasn't even there. So, eventually, I just stopped contributing. As much as it pained me to take a step back from the subject I love, it was, and still is, exhausting to continuously put myself and my ideas out in the open only to be shut down and not taken seriously because of my gender. And not only is it mentally and physically tiring, it's demoralizing. I've ended up missing too many days of school over the course of my high school experience because I honestly can't bring myself to get out of bed knowing that I won't be seen whether I'm in class or at home. It is disheartening to work and learn in scientific academia when few of your peers look or even think like you. For me, it can sometimes feel as if just existing as a girl interested in STEM, especially engineering and computer science, is a political act. Which is unfortunate; I don't want to be labeled as "brave" or "trailblazing" merely for pursuing and engaging in the subject I love. It took me a long time to feel confident and capable in my technologically fascinated skin, and I am positive that I would not be continuing my studies in STEM without the invaluable support from the female mentors in my life, like my mom, my cousin, and the grad students from the U of M I met over the summer at a computing academy. Seeing these women flourish and thrive in the fields of study that I aspire to work in gives me the determination to persevere in the face of gendered adversity and work everyday to overcome the barriers that I have subconsciously been conditioned to place on myself. This vital encouragement is precisely why I decided this year to co-found the Equality in Technology club and team up with a young Girl Scout troop at the lower school to help them earn their cybersecurity badges. Seeing their faces light up when we walked into the room and their genuine enthusiasm for the subject reminds me why I keep fighting for gender equality in STEM despite the obstacles I face that can feel insurmountable at times. I hope that when they look at me, they see a role model like the ones that are now empowering me to follow my dreams, like the ones I wish I'd been more exposed to when I was their age. Now, I wish that after existing on this earth for over eighteen years I'd have some sort of revolutionary solution to the lack of representation and acceptance of women succeeding in fields of STEM. But truthfully, I am still grappling with finding space for myself and my gender identity in this complex world, and I am learning along the way. Battling both the gendered stereotypes placed onto me by society and my own internalized sexism is no easy task. It takes patience and determination and a true passion for change. So, even though I don't have a concrete solution, what I can share with you are a few steps you can take in your daily life to be more inclusive and a better ally to women. To the members of this community who do not identify as female, stand up for your female peers when you hear them being talked over and make sure you are being an active and empathetic listener yourself. Constantly check if the words you are choosing to use or if your actions are perpetuating dangerous stereotypes that consequently limit the opportunities that are available to female identifying individuals. Don't use the oppression of women as the punch line of your jokes. And to the women sitting in this audience who might feel like they aren't being heard or whose voices aren't being valued enough, just know that you are not alone. I, and the countless other women whose stories are almost identical to mine, see you and respect you. So, speak up for yourself if you feel comfortable doing so and never be afraid to reach out for help. Even if it might not feel like it, there are so many people in your community who are rooting for you and want you to succeed. So, despite all the challenges I have faced in my life due to my gender, I remain optimistic. I have hope that when those young Girl Scouts move on to middle school and walk into the same 6th grade Earth science classroom that I sat in all those years ago and are asked to draw a scientist, they'll sketch someone who looks a little more like themselves and the Einstein caricatures will be a relic of the past. Elea Besse "Where are you from?" Exhaustion engulfs me every time someone asks me that question. It's been building all my life, and the words "I'm tired" barely touch on how I'm feeling now. After I push this exhaustion far below where I can feel it, I usually say "I'm Chinese." Funny, you'd think that by the wording of that question people would be asking about a city, a state, a country. Receiving the answer they were looking for, some comment about how "that's so cool" or "Oh, you must be really smart then" usually follow. Other times people simply say, "Really? You don't look Chinese." Sometimes, when I'm feeling up for it, I say "I'm from St. Paul." This is only my response when I have the energy to hold onto that which is mine for a little longer, when I don't feel like letting my exhausted arms fall leaving part of myself bare. I am from St. Paul. That's not a lie. But that's also not what they're asking. Why has it become a weekly occurrence that people demand to know who and what I am? 9 6 I am not saying that we all have to be siblings and have one huge family-style dinner around an elongated Harkness table set up in the dining hall, even though that might be fun. I am simply reaching out to all of you to be kind to one another, and to accept each others opinions because you don't know where another person is coming from, and you can't "put yourself in their shoes", so to speak. > My favorite voice actor Matthew Mercer, said in a fireside Q&A livestream that "allowing yourself that [ability] to give people the benefit of the doubt and [... that] perspective makes it a lot easier to not take [things they say] to heart and step away. And that opens empathy for others." I originally wanted to make my senior speech a light-hearted but genuine speech about how I learned empathy through Dungeons and Dragons, And while I still think that that playing role playing games is the best thing in the world, it offers a unique perspective on the whole "putting yourself in another persons shoes" idea, because when you are roleplaying, you are playing a different person. This person has a completely different story than you do, which informs their actions and reactions. And so ultimately this speech is an invitation, an invitation to exchange stories and viewpoints on any number of topics. I have an incredibly different story than most of the students here. I grew up with two gay dads in an all male, incredibly liberal household. I believe that guns, in any form, should be kept out of schools. I believe that students who menstruate should be supplied, free of charge, with quality hygiene products in school bathrooms. I believe that no human is illegal. I believe that anyone who is found guilty of sexual assault should go to prison. I believe in the death penalty for persons found guilty of high treason. I believe that police officers who have killed an unarmed citizen should be relieved of their jobs and be dealt with in a court of law as if they were normal citizens. I believe that the Confederate battle flag holds the same power and symbolism of xenophobia as the swastika now has. I believe in that fundamental right, that we as American citizens, are endowed: to speak freely and oppose the government's decisions. I believe these things and I also understand that many of you might disagree with some or a lot of what I just said. But please know that I am sincere when I tell you that these statements are invitations, not provocations, to learn more about each other. I may not change your opinion, and you may not change mine. But we will both have gained priceless insights into how others think and perceive the world we live in. After all, school is a place where people come to learn, not only from teachers but from others, and that is my hope, and my request, for all of you. Jack Benson I have struggled with fear ever since I first learned that the world is not perfect. Anxiety made sure I knew all the bad things that could happen to an eight-year old: disease, injury and even death. As a child I had to learn to avoid my fears. Every single night I could not fall asleep unless I talked through each of my fears with my mom or dad. I look back now to see that some of the questions anxiety forced me to ask were silly. Will I get a heart attack? Will I get bitten by a snake? No, my parents would patiently reply. But some of these questions have never gone away. Will I get sick? Will I live till I'm at least 80? Yes, they always replied. And finally, over and over, I asked: Will I be fine? But my parents affirmations weren't enough. In elementary school, I coped with my fear of disease by washing my hands with such a violent frequency that they became raw. The thought of my heart randomly ceasing to pulse forced me to lay in bed at night, holding two fingers to my neck feeling the slow rhythm of my life pass through my veins. I was obsessive, compulsive and nothing could subdue my fear. My anxiety was my enemy, a faceless, nameless shape that I couldn't escape. I spoke directly to it thinking I could reason with it. When it got dark, I pleaded with it to leave me alone. I felt so isolated. Going outside was difficult. Every person I saw laughing, smiling even just living normally was a reminder that there was something wrong with me. I listened to podcasts so I wouldn't have to hear my thoughts. I watched TV so I could avoid reality. I demanded closure, "Why are you doing this to me?" No one answered. As I grew up I stopped seeing my fear as a monster I could talk to. Anxiety was still there, but reality had snapped the strings between my imagination and my fears. Now anxiety appeared as "grown up" fears: public speaking, failure, getting older. Fear can be good and natural. It's the voice in your head trying to maintain your survival. As early humans, fear kept us away from the very real dangers that pervaded prehistoric life. But now our predators are math tests, social rejection, and speaking in front of large crowds. Knowing that we live in the most peaceful, disease free, time in history does not provide me any solace. It makes the inevitable fear seem unwarranted and excessive. It's funny how the technology designed with the sole purpose of making our lives easier has managed to provoke my anxiety. Through google, I could be pushed to believe that a minor headache was an aneurysm, that my cough was lung cancer, and that I was so tired all the time not because my anxiety was keeping me up at night, but because I had a weak heart. The instantaneous nature of information has allowed me to rocket uncontrollably into the vast questioning abyss. Reading the headline of the next horrific event pushes me toward twisted questions, I ask myself how I could feel safe going to school knowing what has happened in our country. The easiest thing to do is to shut yourself off and take comfort in the probability that it is very unlikely to happen to you. You'll get over it. It's all in your head. Just don't think about. These are the solutions people throw at you in a good-natured attempt to erase the bubbling anxiety. But I just want to be honest, avoiding the problem, becoming numb, shutting yourself out, it does not work. And here is the hardest part: finding what does work. How do I deal with my fears? How do you help others deal with theirs? I am not a therapist, a religious leader, or a philosopher. Even if I were, the solution for one person's fear may only exacerbate someone else's. Fear strikes everyone differently and at different degrees. I know fear has kept me from doing things I wanted to do. I know fear has added a lot of seemingly unnecessary misery to my life. At a debate tournament the nervous energy built up so much pressure in my stomach that it forced me to pace anxiously around the grey cafeteria. I felt the urge to throw up over the thought of speaking in front of four people. Four. Where one person was a friend, one was a parent, and two were people that I would not see for the rest of my life. I still can't understand where that fear came from. But these experiences have shown me how fear can make the world seem horribly illogical and chaotic. It starves our brains for order, and for the hope that everything will be fine. I looked for wisdom through movies, books, and even religion. I learned that there are a lot of answers but very few good ones. Everyone experiences fear, but I can only tell you what I have faced and show that you are not alone in your worry, anxiety, fear, or however you describe it. We often hear advice in speeches come in these classic platitudes: phrases that have had their emotion drained from them after overuse and overexposure. Be yourself, treat others how you want to be treated, face your fears. The problem is that you already know all of these things. You have heard them said hundreds of times. But just because these words have lost their power, it does not mean they have lost their meaning. Why have I shared all of this with you? To get it off my chest? Partly. I do not know what hurt your hearts carry. I don't know if this speech will help. And I definitely don't know how to solve my anxiety, his eating disorder, or her depression. All I know is what I have experienced. So I guess what I can preach to you is to be kind and courteous to those around you because you do not know the struggles they have gone through. Do not peer pressure. Do not goad, provoke, force someone to act. Do not make fun of them 7 4 He can't stand looking at his reflection, forcing him to reflect, so he moves to his bedroom and gets dressed for school. It's too warm today to have an excuse to wear a sweater, so he decides to stay with a t-shirt. He puts it on and feels it cling to the skin around his arms and chest, and glide across his stomach. A shirt that was mass produced to fit someone who didn't look like him furthers his frustration with himself. So, he grabs a sleeve and pulls, stretches and breaks the fibers that kept the shirt together. First around his arms, then his chest, then his waist, lastly making slight adjustments to make sure everything looks normal, untampered. He sighs. He knows he will do this again after the shirt shrinks in the wash. He is in high school, he reminds himself. He isn't there to look good, he is there to learn. He walks to his car holding his shirt out in front of him as he has done for the past decade. He wants to talk with his friends at school about his feelings, but each time he sees the way they walk without shame of their appearance he loses his strength to say anything, Instead, he is met with the occasional joke about his appearance that he shrugs off or pretends he didn't hear, and he retreats back within himself, within the thin piece of cloth that separates him from the rest of the world, and hurts. He can't evaluate his feelings on his own. He doesn't feel the way women feel because he knows the world doesn't judge him as harshly. Men weren't supposed to feel this way. He had never heard men say they felt the way he felt so he couldn't rationalize his insecurity: the only face he could put to his struggle was his own. He felt completely alone. He parks his car, enters the school and goes to his advisory, the same announcements that he always hears in the blue sheet catch his ear a different way. Announcements of support for all non-male identifying students and of meetings during tutorial offering places for people to feel safe and to share their emotions. He's so proud of and inspired by the women and others around him who are brave enough to share their weaknesses. He values and supports these announcements' place in the blue sheet. He envies it, too. Why didn't men share? Why couldn't men share? Why did he have to act as if he didn't care? Was that what it meant to be strong? Then why did he have to be strong? He mulls over the endless flow of questions in his head, of his masculinity, why he wanted to be masculine, why he expected himself to be masculine. He doesn't see men stand up for other men the way women do. He wants to. He doesn't see men be vulnerable the way women are. He needs to. He doesn't hear from other men that his struggles aren't unique, that he isn't alone. He begs to. What he got from this silence was the agency to transform into someone and something else. What was rarely mentioned became taboo to him, and he trembled at the thought of calling attention to his body. He trembles now as he does so. But he's fine with trembling. There is so much more that he wants to say and share as he stands here in front of you. As he will stand in front of you tomorrow, next week, month, year, for years, because he is not unique, he is not alone. He knows now that being strong means making peace with wanting to change while also making peace with yourself now, and not loving who you want to be, but loving who you are. He needed to hear that in ninth grade, in sophomore year, even more so in junior year, and now he still needs to hear it. So he writes this speech for himself: My name is Ethan Asis and I have struggled with my body image since I could read. I've experimented with diets: limiting the types of food I eat or just the amount of food for years, and I am still experimenting. I've exercised every day of the summer for the past two years and I'm frustrated that my body doesn't show the hard work and discipline that I started putting into it that I've carried into my school year. I'm frustrated and embarrassed, but I'm ok with that. I'm not happy with the way that I look right now, but I'm still happy with who I am, and that's what I try to remind myself every time I look in the mirror. I write this speech for myself because I am him, but I'm not only him. To him: Know that you're not alone. To everyone else: know that he isn't just me. Ben Atmore In the world we live in, there is anger. In the world we live in, there is hate. In the world we live in there are lies, and corruption and deceit, and mistrust and belligerence. We, as American citizens, are lucky that we live in a country where we are allowed to say these things; where we are allowed to show our disgust with those in power. However, there are those of less fortune. Those who live under the ruling of corrupt dictators who share no power and who govern without regard for their citizens. I am extremely lucky. Either that, or whatever higher power out there is looking out for me. These are the reasons for which I count my blessings because I am privileged, really privileged. I've known that for some time now, and earlier this year I realized that I am an immigrant. I know, this might sound like a fact that I should have realized earlier than eighteen years into my life, but I had always taken for granted the fact that I lived in America, and was therefore endowed with all of the rights which an American citizen is owed. I was adopted from Kremenchuk, Ukraine when I was eleven months old. I was born Yevgeniy Evanovich Sviernov. I was put up for adoption, whether it be for economic reasons, or family disputes I do not know. I do not know my mother's name, I only know my father's name because I was named after him. I am the fourth child of my birth parents. I was born in a country which was struggling out of a depression caused by its independence from the Soviet Union in 1991. My parents were most likely poor; below the poverty line. I do not resent my birth parents for giving me up, rather I thank them. Because when Jamie McConnell adopted me, I was brought to America. I was then adopted by my other dad, Willian Atmore. This was done because the Ukrainian government would never allow two gay men to adopt a child. I was brought to a place where I would know when I was getting my next meal, and was guaranteed heat in the winter and air conditioning in the summer. I consider myself extremely fortunate that I live in the United States of America, where the first edit which was made to our Constitution was the allowance of criticism. That freedom of speech, that freedom which is so fundamental to our society, allows schools like ours, based on discussion to exist. However, one must not take this discussion to a boiling point. It is this fear of straying too far, this fear of having too extreme an opinion, which led to the election of our current president. His antagonistic foreign policy has put us at odds, not just with other countries but within our own. What won him the presidency was his outright division of the country. By no means am I trying to do that with this speech. After all, who am I? I'm just some immigrant yelling at a bunch of other kids inside of a bubble. Yes. We go to a primarily white school. Yes, our school lunches are a million times better than public school lunches. Yes, indeed, one man gave our school fifteen million dollars to build a math and science center! People who don't even know us care so much about the education of the generations to come, and have the confidence that we will take full advantage of the facilities within. I am attempting to do what many other senior speeches have tried to do. I mean no disrespect to the persons whose speeches failed to do this, I simply wish to go at it a different way. You can talk all you want in Harkness discussions, or you can spend the entire class period thinking about a response to the new topic because your question was already posed. But while the Harkness model is praised for being a platform on which students can share their thoughts, it also breeds competition, which breeds discord because "He said something really smart and I don't want to ask a stupid question", or "She said something really powerful and I don't want to be viewed by my classmates as a bigot because I disagree with her." These ideas separate us, when the last thing we need is division. The Dalai Lama said in a tweet, I know right, the Dalai Lama has a twitter?, on the fourth of November: "If we were really to see one another as brothers and sisters, there would be no basis for division, cheating and exploitation among us. Therefore it's important to promote the idea of the oneness of humanity, that in being human we are all the same." 5
0 "No, I mean where are you really from?" That question, the words, said with a tone suggesting I either misunderstood them or that my first answer was a joke, sounds more like an interrogation now. An interrogation, whether or not that's what it's meant to be, that makes me want to crawl out of my skin and into a new, clean, white one. My identity belongs to me and me alone. I owe it to no one. It is mine to share or to keep tucked away in the folds of myself. It is mine to water, to nurture, to only reveal to whom I wish to see it. "Where are you really from?" makes me feel like I'm incorrectly American, like I have to justify my existence in this country because it is just so perplexing to see an American with black hair, tan skin, and almond eyes, to see any American that looks different from the white majority. It irks me because white people don't get this questions, at least not with the same intent. That question and its intention is one reserved solely for people of color. Those words, that question, are to racism as cat-calling is to rape culture. These microaggressions build and build like a lie spiraling out of control. They spin so fast that America becomes a hypocrite. It draws people to it, promising a new beginning, education, dreams fulfilled. America draws people to it with open arms, promising a sanctuary from harm. But people come with hope and glistening eyes, only to realize that America only gives certain people a chance to start something new, only offers certain people the best education, and only helps certain people fulfill their dreams. People come, expecting to be embraced by America's arms, expecting sanctuary from harm, but people in America still hurt. I hurt every time those words spill over someone's tongue. It starts as an ache in my chest, and then slowly creeps down to the pit of my stomach. It buries itself, and the pain eventually ceases to affect me until those very same words inevitably dig it up again. I hurt when I express my concern about those words, and I am told that people are just curious, that people just want to widen their horizons. But if that's the goal then why not express as much interest in getting to know them as people, not just as a member of their race? And what does it say about curiosity if it's only provoked by a person of color around the subject of where they're from? How many people in St. Paul with Irish last names are asked 'no, where are you really from?" The answer will tell you who, based on appearance, is assumed to be American, I feel betrayed when America says it cares about diversity, but then does the bare minimum to nothing for people of color. Our system keeps people of color at the bottom of the food chain working or trying to find work, only to support those at the top, to support white people. Caring about diversity means caring about people, but more often than not America only cares about the people when tragedy strikes, when someone's been shot. When America gives us a shot at a great education, we'll wonder if the opportunity only came our way because diversity percentages were dipping. I am angry more than I am hurt when posts about volunteering at Feed My Starving Children appear on my feed. Why is it that when people want to help others they choose a place that is convenient for them, somewhere they can chat with their friends, somewhere they aren't interacting with the people who have less privilege, the people they are supposedly helping but are really only providing a short-term solution for. Why is it that they choose somewhere clean and pristine, and aesthetically pleasing? It feels to me like this kind of help is not ultimately for those people, but for themselves. Don't get me wrong people are starving in faraway places, but what about the hallowed faces on the end of each street corner? I'm taken aback when people confuse the protest of oppression with being an anti white movement. When people with privilege misinterpret sharing that privilege with others to be oppression. People say they care about others, but when they realize that means they might have to give up some of their luxuries for others' necessities they turn and run in the other direction or just pretend not to hear. My cheeks sting red hot when America says it values diversity, but still elects politicians who treat minorities with blatant disrespect. People of color aren't represented in government or really anywhere that matters, and if we are, we're usually misrepresented. I hardly ever see people on TV that look like me, and I think that's part of the problem. We're taught to think the world looks a certain way. We're taught to see those who don't look like ourselves as different. We're taught to be defensive, to be right, not to listen. I realize that the discrimination and racism I face is mild compared to those in the black community. I just want us to be held to the same standard as our white counterparts. To be given the same opportunities to reach our goals, our dreams, to be seen as Americans if that's how we want to be seen, to see other people who look like us in places of power, to be heard when we pluck up the courage to speak out. So, this speech is about racism and othering, yes. But it is also about the courage to stand tall against something that makes you feel so small, that makes you sometimes want to cover your ears and scream. It's about facing your fears. I know that there is no way the world can change overnight, but I have to continue to fight to do my share because I have hope for a future in which people are no longer pushed to the margins, where there is room for difference. "Future," a word that puts my exhaustion on pause, a word that gives me cause to believe that I won't have to search for another person of color every time I step into a room. I have faith in a future in which we all have enough love in our hearts to treat each other with respect because we are all people. I hold this hope in my heart because I won't, I can't, settle for anything less. Joseph Bluhm Who am I? get a different I really like this question, because it's one of those that you can just ask yourself over and over again, and answer every time. Similar to my favorite question to ask repeatedly as a child: 'Why?'. Only if you ask 'why?' repeatedly, you don't get a different answer; you just get silence. The first time that you ask yourself who am I?, the answer is easy. 'Who am I?' - Joey Bluhm; Your answer is probably different. The next few times you ask, it gets tougher to answer. Each time you ask yourself, you might dig a little deeper. A little bit more of what is really you gets dug up. And it changes depending on when you ask it. I believe that a key part of the human experience is improvement, or at least the ability for us as people to change and evolve. We all have the capacity to change, and that continuing to change and improve is important. For me, that meant finding and being happy with who I was. I'm looking to go on a journey here today. Hopefully you'll indulge me; You kind of have to. This journey is going through my years, what I've discovered about myself, and finally how my answer to 'Who am I?' changed, and what that meant to me. As, after all, in my old age as a senior in high school, I feel obligated to share my lessons with you all. And by 'feel obligated' I mean that I have to do this in order to graduate. My story starts with my first exposure to the world outside of childhood innocence: Middle School. This really was my first foray into self-discovery. In 6th grade, I thought of myself as friendless and isolated. It's crazy for me to think back on that now. On how much I was in my own head. I never paid attention to how much other people cared about me, and as a result I thought that nobody did. This is still something I struggle with today, as my journey is, as all of our journeys are, never fully completed. 6th grade went on with my image of myself remaining as that of a short and stout little teapot. Going on to 7th, the motif of the year was that I had gained weight. They talk about growing out and up, but it seemed I was doing a lot more out than up at the time. As you could guess, my self-esteem was inversely proportional to my BMI. I had in my head an idea popular among rom-coms and poorly written teen dramas; that your main plot line and romantic undertone both resolve themselves in the same two minute span. Turns out that's not how it works in real life.
1 20 20 the day, strawberry fruit snacks, I'll never forget those strawberry fruit snacks. She reaches for the orange juice, but wanting to impress her with the brute strength of my 60 pound fifth grader self, I stopped her, "Don't worry, I got it." I said to her in a smoldering, semi confident tone. Boom, killed it I thought to myself. For a moment I think things are looking up, but that would not be the case. I grab the tray, she grabs the fruit snacks and we start to head back. The nervousness starts to build up again, oh no. At the end of the hallway I see it. The stairs. This was make it or break it. If I successfully make it up these ten stairs it was smooth sailing from there. Mission complete. As we approach, the thought of tripping pops into my head. Oh no, not good. "Don't trip, don't trip, you absolutely cannot trip on these stairs" I think to myself. Now I don't often trip up stairs, I am usually pretty good at that. But as soon as I consciously tell myself to not trip, my chances of tripping skyrocket. I get this feeling in my stomach as I picture myself tumble down the stairs. Oh no, oh god no. I take my first step, success. I take my second, success. I make it nine steps up, so far so good. The closer I get to making it, the more worried I get. I take step. And for just a brief moment, everything goes slow motion. I catch the edge of my shoe on the stair. I brace myself. This ship's going down. my last I absolutely eat it. Orange juices and a variety of milks go flying. For a split second in all the chaos, the two percents parted ways with whole milks in the air and our eyes met as I made my slow descent to the cold hard stairs. I remember the look in her eyes as I went down. A look of pity and disappointment. We were both routing for me. I was so close. But I blew it, so, so, bad. I'm sure a lot of people can relate to this, but being so self conscious I have a real life problem with letting these type of things get to me. I can't help but think about my most embarrassing moments when I lay down in bed. It could be a perfectly good day, I'll get all tucked into bed with my favorite jammies and as soon as I flip my lights off, boom, my brain will hit me with a "hey remember that time you called Ms. Mcelligott mom? That was so stupid, you loser," But fifth grade is not where my story ends, oh no. One of my many discoveries about myself is whenever I intentionally try to impress someone or seem cool to someone, 100 percent of the time I will not seem cool to them. It's eighth grade, I once again find myself walking alongside a girl that I, once again, may or may not have had a crush on. So far my record for these situations is 0-1, so I'm was looking to pull off an upset. We are having a conversation and walking to the Davern entrance at the end of the day. Honestly, I was doing pretty well so far. I was managing to put together sentences by myself without a voice crack, my palms were only moderately sweaty, I hadn't tripped yet. And in my book that is a win. But I wanted more. I thought, this is my chance to hit her with something cool as I leave. Hit her with a smooth one liner as I leave. I see my mom's car in the drop off lane. This was it, this was my big moment. This was going to be my redemption. She says "Isn't that your moms car?" "Oh yeah" I reply. So far, so good. "Okay well, I'll see you later, Will!". And what I said in response has haunted me for years. The nerves had been building up and consciously telling myself to be cool was not a good recipe for actually being cool. Being cool comes naturally, I soon found out. My response to "I'll see you later?"? It went something along the lines of "Flip you on the catch side bye bye." Oof For a brief moment, everything goes slow motion. My face becomes red and as I open the glass doors to leave, for a split second, we made eye contact in the reflection of the window. The look in her eyes read only one simple word, 'bummer'. Now what makes this situation infinitely worse is that it wasn't even my mom's car. It was a whole different mom in the driver seat. So now I am outside thinking about what in god's name I just said to this poor girl while standing in the pouring rain like a psychopath while I waited for my mom to pull up. So I did what anyone else would've done, I crouched behind a hedge out of sight of the windows so she couldn't see me. Despite the fact that she almost 100% watched me panic and run to hide in the shrubbery. Fast forward to now, well yeah not a whole lot has changed. I always wished I could be one of those kids that doesn't get nervous or says and does anything they want without getting embarrassed. The type of people that don't care what other people think, and yeah that sounds great. But that's rare. That's something I've come to understand about myself. I used to think I was the only one that felt this way. In reality, everyone cares what other people think of them to some degree. It's human nature. One thing I've learned is that no one really cares that much about you. Those embarrassing moments that you think about when you fall asleep, the people on the other side of it have most likely forgotten it. All you have to do is forgive yourself, laugh at yourself and see how you've grown from it, and think rationally about the situations, no matter how irrational your mind gets. Ms. Mcelligott probably gets called mom by middle schoolers four times a week, she is used to it. At the time when I said it, it meant everything to me but what I failed to realize is that she had forgotten it within the next ten minutes, I hope. And yeah, maybe I still have nightmares about it, but now, reflecting back on those moments, if I hadn't gone through those experiences, no matter how traumatizing I thought they were at the time. I wouldn't have been able learn and grow from my embarrassment and self-consciousness. I wouldn't be even near the same person I am today. So for those in the crowd that can relate to what I have rambled on about today, who cares what they think, they probably already forgot anyway. Thank you. Nina Ciresi Nathalie. It all started with my great-great-great-grandma, five generations ago. Nathalie Vasseau was a four foot tall French-Canadian. She emigrated from France to Canada. She lived with her husband and they spoke only French, I've seen her picture, and that's all I know about her story. Mame. Nathalie Vasseau gave birth to my great-great-grandma, Mary Nathalia Shesgreen, Mame, around eighteen sixty-nine. We don't know why the spelling and pronunciation of her name was changed, but it has passed down to three more generations. Mame was a pioneer woman. She lived with her parents until she moved to Duluth, Minnesota with her husband David Shesgreen. They had two daughters. David moved to Shell Lake, Wisconsin, bringing his family along. Shortly after the move he died of consumption. Mame supported her girls by renting out her upstairs as a rooming house and cooking meals for her guests. After some time she made the decision to take her daughters to Montana while still keeping her house in Wisconsin. She was alone in the Montana wilderness at a time when it was uncommon for a woman to own land at all. Once they arrived in Montana, she staked a claim for land, built a house and provided for her family. In order to own land in the early 1900's you needed to live there for five years, so that's what Mame did. She kept a shotgun nearby to protect herself and her girls. Life was challenging in Montana so she eventually moved back to Shell Lake and stayed there until she died. Her land in Montana was kept in the family and passed down to one of her daughters. Shessy. On February 2nd, 1905 my great-grandma Nathalia Christine Shesgreen, Shessy, was born in Duluth Minnesota. After she graduated from high school she went to a Normal School in St. Paul. There she trained with other women to become a secretary. She had a long and successful job as a court reporter for the Minnesota Supreme Court before meeting and marrying her husband, Raymond Alexander Faribault. Together they had four kids. Shessy then became the secretary to the vice president of Northwest airlines (now Delta), a secretary at 3M, worked at a military arms plant in North Oaks and finally worked in a temporary secretarial pool. Shessy was always working and active throughout her entire life. She cared about everyone and even when she was in a nursing home she would constantly be checking in on others, talking with the people on her floor or feeding the ducks outside. She lived through prohibition, World War I and II, the Great Depression, 9/11, the invention of the internet, computers, phones and so much more in her hundred and eight years. My great-grandma was always learning, had an interest in everything, loved travelling and respected others' differences. I am very grateful that I had the opportunity to know her for twelve years. Nathalia. My grandma, Nathalia Catherine Faribault, was born on September 27th, nineteen forty-six in St. Paul. She was the 4th child in her family after three boys. Her mother, Shessy, was so happy to have a daughter and proud of our name. She did not give my grandma a nickname. Nathalia grew up in Mahtomedi, walked to St. Jude grade school with her dog Freedom, and graduated from Archbishop Murray High School in nineteen sixty-four. She attended the U of M for a year and a half before moving to Paris and staying with family friends. 21
8 All these years I have wanted a sibling but recently I've realized that my life would be completely different with a sibling, and I would not be willing to lose all the great memories I have with my family. There have been a lot of things that I have wished I had control over, especially being an only child. When you don't have control over something in your life, it becomes easy to complain and in turn, the situation becomes worse. But, instead of complaining, find the good that the situation brings you, and use it throughout the rest of your life. Being an only child can be a burden, like many things in life. But only if you make it one. It can only become something beneficial if you accept that it isn't something that can be changed and learn from what it brings you. Roan Chafee It's easy to lose hope these days. The news is filled with report after report of disasters, accidents, and violence, death counts overblown and sensationalized. Global warming continues its slow crawl, pushing us closer and closer to the point of no return. And among it all, the political discourse is a mess, accusations and half-truths flying every which way, people scrambling to blame anyone but themselves for the seemingly overwhelming problems of today's world. So yeah, it's easy to lose hope. And frankly, I couldn't blame any one of you for walking away. But I'm not giving another one of those death and doom speeches that are often given on this podium. There won't be any "This needs to change now or else we're all gonna die." Not that there's anything wrong with those speeches, they're just not uplifting. As many friends have noted, usually by saying "Roan, you need to stop being so positive this early in the morning", I'm an eternal optimist. And, to fulfill my duty of bringing you the latest in uplifting news, nothing in today's world is completely hopeless. Now, this isn't to say that we should sit on our hands and ignore everything, just hoping that it solves itself. Yes, problems do indeed exist, no matter how much some people may try to convince you otherwise. As long as humans exist, there will always be new anxieties, concerns, and worries. But the problems of the past weren't insurmountable, the problems of today aren't insurmountable, and the problems of the future won't be insurmountable either. Frankly, I couldn't be happier to be alive at this time: everything is positioned just right for our generation to be a part of some of the most important solutions humankind has ever come up with. Climate change may be stopped in our generation. Cures for cancer are looking closer and closer. We could be making Mars colonies in the near future. These are the kinds of things you don't see on the daily news. Misery sells newspapers, but there's nothing I love more than digging for these kinds of events, trawling news sites, obscure journals, and even personal experience. Why? Simple: they show that solutions to these problems are being worked on. I'm not naïve enough to believe that I'm the savior of the world, come to solve all of it's problems, but there's nothing I'd like more than to be a part of the greatest solutions to some of the greatest problems we've ever faced as a species. To tell you a little bit about how I was part of the solution, I'd like to tell you about volunteering with the Dean Phillips campaign. To those of you who I haven't talked to endlessly about him, Phillips is running for the House from the 3rd District of Minnesota, which contains Bloomington, Eden Prairie, Edina, Maple Grove and other surrounding neighborhoods. (Side note: if you're in that district, vote for him.) He's running as a Democrat on a platform that includes not taking money from anyone except individual contributions, a definitive plan to work on bipartisanship, and reforming the ACA. His platform lined up neatly with some of what I wanted to get done in Washington, so I volunteered to do some canvassing to help out. The first time I volunteered, I got paired with a self-named "recovering Republican" we'll call John, to learn the ropes of canvassing, John had been a door to door salesman for 20 years, and that made him very good at canvassing. After running down our list of houses, getting closer to the end, we ran into the more Republican section of the neighborhood. This was when the door slamming started. Most of the houses in this section asked us if we were canvassing for a Republican or a Democrat, and when we said Democrat, they shut the door. It kinda sucked to be shown again and again that people weren't willing to listen. But John just got more determined with every shut door, and eventually it worked. We got to a house with a Republican-leaning family that had two veterans, one in the Air Force and one in the Navy. Turns out John was a veteran too, and after talking a bit about their service, John gave them the pitch about Dean, and they seemed pretty interested. It was that tenacity and willingness to push through failure that inspired me to do more for the campaign, This canvassing session then lead into my first solo mission. I probably should've figured there'd be problems with canvassing as soon as the host for the event said that she had been sent letters threatening to report her to the local Homeowners Association over the DFL sign in her window from one of her neighbors. Yeah, you'd really think that would cue me in, but no. Anyway, I set off with youthful enthusiasm, burning determination, and just a little pep in my step. However, those hopes and optimism were dashed when I realized that this neighborhood was not going to be easy to canvass in. It quickly became the same story as the Republican section in my last canvassing session. I'd ring a doorbell, say that I was canvassing for "Dean Phillips, and before I could finish the word I'd have the door slammed in my face faster than I could say "Democr-". In spite of the constant door slams, I kept a smile on my face, sending off each closed door with a "Have a good day, sir/ ma'am!" It became a bit of a routine, sorta zen, almost. Ring doorbell, Democrat, slam, have a good day. Ring doorbell, Democrat, slam, have a good day. Ring doorbell, Democrat, slam, have a good day. It continued like this for much of my time canvassing until I arrived at the very last house on my list. These people were either heads or otherwise important members of the Homeowner's Association of the neighborhood, I wasn't really sure which. They seemed to have a very deep seated mistrust and hatred for anything more liberal than extremely Republican. And on top of all of that, they were older folks and thought they could try to pull rank on me because of their age, saying something like "Young man, you should know that you can't campaign in this neighborhood, or you could get in trouble. You wouldn't want to get in trouble, now would you?". Now, I wish I could tell you that I ended up changing their minds, that they immediately pledged to vote for Dean Phillips in the next election. But that's not what happened. What did happen was that they threatened to sue me for canvassing for a Democrat. How dare I try to reach a compromise between our political views! Why, the audacity of this young upstart! To make a long story short, I said that their house was my last and beat a hasty retreat back to my host, where the Phillips organizers told me that they had no right to sue. I still regret turning away from that house, because I knew that maybe if I just stayed a little longer, I might have changed their mind, helped them at least consider what the other side had to say. Knowing this crowd, every single one of you has got an idea in your head of what kind of problem you want to be a solution to. So take steps today, tomorrow, and the day after that to remind yourself that no matter how far away a solution may seem, there's something you can do to solve the problems you care most about. It can be depressing to have that door slammed in your face over and over. Maybe that first door slam doesn't get much done. But no one ever said change was going to be easy and fun to start. It's extremely important that someone starts that change, because without that first voice, saying "I want something to change!", nothing gets done. We all suffer in silence, because everyone thought it was impossible to change something with one step. No, this speech isn't going to change anything. The first doorbell, the second doorbell, maybe even the tenth doorbell won't change anything. But nothing changes without that first doorbell, that first step towards change. And that step starts right here, right now, in this very room, when you think to yourself, you know what? I can make things better, and I will. Thank you. William Christakos I have dreaded this day for the past four years. I am unbelievably nervous I can't even begin to explain to you guys. What makes me so nervous is my tendency to over think. I have a tendency to go into panic mode and become extremely self conscious about pretty mundane things. I first found this out in fifth grade. It was my big day. Today was the day that I went downstairs to the cafeteria to bring up the milk and orange juice to the whole class for snack. Where this gets interesting is that my randomly chosen snack retrieving partner was a girl. A girl that I may or may not have had a crush on at the time. Side note, I'm over her at this point just to clarify, it was a long time ago I've moved on. We walk down the hallway, down the stairs, and into the cafeteria. As if god was shining his light down, I see the orange juice cartons glowing under the fluorescent cafeteria lights. This was it. This was my time to shine. We approach the snacks for
9 This conception of self probably had a significant impact on my response to when I got asked out midway through 7th grade. The first thing I asked her was - "Why?" I couldn't find a positive attribute about myself at the time, so why would anyone else enjoy spending time with me? But I said 'yes,' although for the wrong reasons. I now realize that part of it was due to me being amazed that someone would find me interesting, and therefore I felt that I had to capitalize on that. That I had this belief that if I got someone to fill that role of girlfriend, that I'd find my value. That my value as a human being was tied to someone else's opinion and decision. When I put it that bluntly, it sounds absurd, but that's where I was. I hadn't yet discovered that I would be able to supply that feeling of value from myself. You've probably heard this before, but I'll repeat it because it's true and it's important; You matter. Even if it doesn't feel like it all the time. You are important, and valued. I can say for certain because each of us has had a different experience: we've all gone down different paths. It is impossible for your story to be the same as someone else's, and therefore, you have an intrinsic value in the knowledge and experience you can share. Skipping up a couple years, my 9th grade year was characterized by me feeling like I needed other people's vindication in order to be valued. In other words, not much changed. I was grasping for value: from friends, from teachers, or trying to find someone to fill the role of girlfriend. I put my value in what others thought of me. I would insult myself, and doubt the compliments other people gave me. I didn't do things because I wanted to do them, I did things other people wanted me to do. Then in my sophomore year, in wellness, I said to Ms. Short that I wanted to arrange a meeting. It was a spur of the moment thing, I had been feeling down, and I wanted to talk through it with somebody. She connected me with a therapist, who I then met with for the next year or two. It was a long process, and it took a conscious effort, but slowly I began to respect myself. I began to work towards acting independently. I began acting according to my own interests. I picked up some musical instruments. I did what I wanted to do, not what others wanted me to do. What was really crucial in me gaining that self confidence was being able to be proud of myself. It was never in my physical appearance, an area I still struggle with, but instead in my hobbies and the way I interacted with those around me. I took pride in my behavior, and confidence followed. I didn't do it alone: I had a web of people supporting me, made up of my friends, family, teachers, and countless others. I don't mean to say that you should go on this journey alone. I'm not sure that's even possible. What I am saying, is that it's your life. Let yourself choose the path you take, but bring some friends on the journey with you. I hope I can pass on to you the understanding that who you are is who you define yourself to be. What it took me awhile to realize, is that nothing you do is without value. Your life story is truly unique, and truly your own. This story can be a source of boundless wisdom. Every mistake you've made is a moment to grow. I'm drawn to a quote from the late senator John McCain, he said "It is your character, and your character alone, that will make your life happy or unhappy. That is all that really passes for destiny. And you choose it. No one else can give it to you or deny it to you. No rival can steal it from you. And no friend can give it to you. Others can encourage you to make the right choices or discourage you. But you choose." I believe being alive gives you a unique opportunity to be the author of your own story. Let yourself be happy, let yourself be proud. Nobody else can or will do it for you. So who am I? I am whomever I want myself to be. Now I have another question: Who are you? Annie Bottern With my eyes still adjusting to the morning sun, I rolled over my bed to check my phone. I had just woken up and instantly grabbed it to check Instagram. I clicked open Instagram to discover that I had been logged out. In between deep breathes, I typed in the letters to my username, praying that I would be able to remember my password. After some failed attempts, I was granted access back into my account. I began scrolling through my feed and soon after I checked my own profile. In addition to my one thousand and something followers, five new people wanted to follow me. I instantly allowed them and followed back. I began scrolling through my phone to find the next picture I would post. Soon, I found the photo I needed and it even featured all five boys. I posted it to my account and watched the likes stream in. I had found the perfect picture to post on my One Direction fan account. Although I did not know at the time, for the next few years, I would be spending every moment I could thinking about One Direction. I first listened to One Direction's music when I was in fifth grade and became obsessed with them soon thereafter. My obsession started small, by simply downloading their first album onto my iPod Touch, but it quickly turned into more. For two nights before bed, I stayed up late watching One Direction's music video for "What Makes You Beautiful" and tried to learn the choreography in the video. After thinking I knew all of the moves, I performed it for my parents before going to bed. Whenever I could, I would convince my parents to buy drama filled pre-teen magazines like J-14 and Tiger Beat, so that I could read stories about the members of One Direction, and more importantly, get posters of the members to hang up in my room. Slowly, my room began overflowing with posters of the band. Every inch of the walls were covered with pictures of the band, and once those walls were filled, other parts of my room were being taken over too. I bought One Direction bed sheets, pillows, stickers, t-shirts, bracelets, press-on nails, books, a radio, cards, and basically anything with their name or faces printed on it. If I was ever going to have a shrine for someone in my room, this was the time. After deciding that listening to their music was not enough, I began finding different ways of furthering my obsession. Almost every day, if not multiple times a day, I would watch "One Direction's Funniest Moments" on YouTube and "connect" to the members. I watched videos of them from their beginning stages as a band and any video that even mentioned their name. I subscribed to lots of other accounts that featured videos of "hauls" and "room tours" from other big time One Direction fans. I also dragged my dad to a showing of One Direction's movie "This Is Us" during the middle of a football Sunday. I would do anything I could to see more of "the boys", so when I found out there was going to be a pop up One Direction store at the Mall of America, I was ecstatic. My dad took me and two other friends to wait in line with a massive crowd of other pre-teenage girls ready to get One Direction merchandise. I remember reading about a rumor that the members would be coming, and not being able to sleep the night before the store opening. Sadly, they were not at the store, but I was lucky enough to get tickets to their concert the following summer, When summer came around, I was faced with a huge dilemma. I was at camp for my sister's last summer as a camper, and had the option to stay for another session. If I stayed, it would mean that I would miss the concert, but I would get to spend another month at camp. To me, my decision to stay at camp marked the end of my One Direction obsession. I would be going into seventh grade, and something about sleeping in a room filled with One Direction posters did not seem cool to me. Now I am barely fazed when hearing about the members of One Direction. The band split up after their fifth album, but are still performing as solo acts, and have even performed in Minnesota. Two of them have kids and have gotten engaged, but I do not pay attention to them as much as I used to. I am still reminded of my early middle school years every time I read news about them, and can still see the faint outline of their peeled off stickers on my dresser when the sunlight hits my room the right way. I am reminded of the time, money, and effort I spent on them, but also about how happy I used to get when they would release a new music video or song, and how there was once a time when their tour drama was the biggest burden in my life. Upon telling people about my previous obsession with One Direction, I am met with numerous questions. Why did you like them so much? What made them special? My answers are simple. I was young, and something about the way I saw them, sparked an interest in me. I was passionate about their music and how they acted and most of all, I was having fun. When showing my volleyball coaches pictures of my old room filled with One Direction posters, one of the coaches asked me, "What are you passionate about now?" I could not think of an answer, Thank you.
3 42 me named Evelyn said that next week she was going to get a new heart. In that moment I froze. My four-year-old mind could not comprehend the possibility that someone could get a new heart put inside of their body. After that day I quickly decided ballet was not for me and I told my mom that I wanted to quit. That was the day I became afraid of going to the doctor because every time I went I thought they were going to tell me that I had to get a new heart. My fears weren't only limited to going to the doctor's office, I was also afraid of trying new foods. For most of my childhood my diet consisted of cheese sandwiches, edamame beans, and frozen peas. I actually ate cheese sandwiches for 6 years of my life every day for lunch. That's 2,190 cheese sandwiches. I was very stubborn and I would never try any new foods no matter how hard my parents tried to get me to. In kindergarten at my old school, you had to eat something before you could get dessert. And of course there was never anything I liked to eat, because all I liked to eat were cheese sandwiches. Instead I had to make a peanut butter sandwich. The problem there is that I did not like peanut butter at the time, but it was my only option in order to get dessert. I would put a drop of peanut butter onto the bread and call it a peanut butter sandwich in order to show my teacher I was eating something for lunch. But basically for a whole year in kindergarten I ate bread for lunch. The number one worst thing about being a picky eater is going to other people's houses. In the comfort of your own home you can eat whatever you want and you can complain as much as you want to your parents about how you don't want to cat whatever they're cooking. But at other people's houses you can't do that or you can, but you probably won't be invited back. Whenever I went to a playdate I always became very stressed out about what they had to eat because I didn't want to be rude and not eat their food but I also didn't want to eat something I didn't like. Usually what ended up happening was that I would just move my food around my plate to make it look like I had eaten most it, then I would discreetly try to slide some of it into my napkin, then I would sneak away to the bathroom and throw the rest away. However, this did not always work and sometimes the awkward question of 'do you not like your food would come up?' My eyes would slowly look up in fear not knowing what to say because obviously no, I do not like your food. This was my approach for most of my life but I've come a long way in my picky eating, I even recently tried tomatoes which I've said I've hated my whole life and they're actually pretty good. Just like I had a hard time with trying new foods I also had a hard time with difficult conversations. My childhood friend Izzy and I did everything together, from putting on plays in front of our parents to dressing up as princesses. Until one day I noticed that my pink ipod nano mysteriously went missing. That ipod was very important to me. It had all my videos of me singing, dancing, and all my plays that I had put on with my stuffed animals. It also had all my Hannah Montana and High School Musical songs on it. I needed that ipod. And of course who also loved my ipod, Izzy. In that instance I knew exactly what had happened. Izzy stole my ipod. She was the last one in my room and she was always saying how she wanted her parents to get her an ipod too. Now I just had to come up with a plan of how to prove that she was the culprit and catch her red handed. My first thought of course was for my mom to ask Izzy's mom if her daughter had stolen my ipod. But my mom said that she wasn't going to do that because that would be too weird, so I needed to come up with a new plan. However I eventually grew tired of coming up with a plan and gave up all hope that I would ever find it and that my ipod would be gone forever. I was furious just thinking about the fact that Izzy was probably deleting all my videos I had worked so hard on creating and dancing to my favorite songs, Many years later, I was looking in my mom's closet and I saw one of her old purses that I used to play dress up with. You will never guess what I found. A cheese sandwich! Just kidding it was my ipod. I was shocked. Izzy apparently did not steal my ipod. I had lost it all on my own in my own house. It had been gone for so many years I honestly lost count. I never did confront Izzy but in this instance I realized it's good that I never did. Ever since I thought she stole my ipod we stopped being friends because I secretly had a grudge against her for what I thought had happened. But, of course, what I thought had happened was wrong. And it ended up costing me a friend. Why didn't I just ask Izzy as awkward as that might have been. I say 'might' because you really don't know until you do it. And that's the worst part. Wondering and having that uncertainty within your imagination, which can take you to some pretty bad places, like a doctor's office where they could tell you that you have a new, mysterious disease. But really the only way to get rid of the fears that come from not knowing is to... well, know. Because when it comes down to it you have two options: avoid a situation that isn't going away and let your brain make it out to be something way worse than it probably is, or confront it and figure out exactly what you're dealing with. Because even a cheese sandwich was weird before you took your first bite. Koji Gutzmann The United States average life expectancy for males is 78 years old, meaning that I am about a fourth of the way through my life. I can honestly say that these 18 years have flown by. I still remember counting down the years until I was able to drive like it was just yesterday. The whole "life short message" is a cliche topic, you hear it all the time. Everyone says life is short, and should live it to the fullest, taking risks while you can, but the reason it's cliche is because it applies to all of us. There isn't a single person in this auditorium that it doesn't pertain to. We are all getting older with each passing moment and faced with opportunities to take risks every day. It's all a matter of if we choose to take a chance and live life to its fullest. So here is my take on this cliche but important topic. you There are many types of risks. There are high-risks with low reward which usually don't end well, like stealing gum for example. If you manage to succeed, the reward isn't even that great considering you could have bought it for a dollar instead of being a petty thief. For these kinds of risks, you should consider whether life is short enough where you should take this chance and do something dumb. I know I have done stupid things like this, but it isn't always the wisest decision considering the after-effects. On the other hand, there are low-risks for high rewards. For these scenarios, it is a no-brainer to take the chance- an example of this is talking to a new person. The possible outcome of taking that leap is so much greater than the risk itself. Whenever these kinds of risks present themselves, they should almost always be taken advantage of. With each type of risk comes a decision process where you must weigh the opportunity and the outcome. Here are some examples of risks I have recently taken. in my To be clear, I do not know how to skate. At all. I've always been the kid on the ice with one of those chair walkers, still barely managing to stay on my feet. I would slowly push myself along as people skated circles around me. Often falling down. Never life did I think I would be attempting to play hockey. Well that all changed this year when a few pals and I decided to test our skills on the ice. And by that, I mean joining the prestigious JV hockey team. I was reluctant at first, but then I thought, "hey, it's my senior year, I might as well just mess around and have some fun." However, I had forgotten just how bad my skating ability truly was. I attended open ice skates where I gained some basic skating skills before the season started. Basic meaning I could skate forward and backward, sometimes even stopping on my own. The following week I attended captains practice where I wasn't much better. I can't even begin to count the number of times I fell when I wasn't moving, let alone the times I was skating. It was at these practices that I began to fully comprehend how bad I really am. My skating by itself wasn't pretty, but that combined with holding a stick. Oh no, it was a disaster. I was turned off at first and nervous to go back to practices with kids who have been skating for their whole life, scared to embarrass myself. But, I went to all of them. I hoped by putting in some hours that I would begin to improve, and slowly I started to get better. Not much better by any means, but better. For me, it was the little victories that kept me coming back. The first time I could hockey stop without being launched onto the ice, the first time I could crossover without my feet slipping out from under me, and the first time I almost scored. Then we had our first scrimmage against Tartan where I was ready to showcase my newly attained skills. My first shift on the ice, I could feel the brisk air flow against my face as I skated out to meet my opponents. Unfortunately, as soon as I started to gain some speed, I fell. I fell right on my tushie in front of everyone. I was embarrassed, but then I thought to myself: Who cares, it's just a bunch of Tartan kids. I was trying something new, and there's no way I am going to be good, so I accepted my fall, got up, and tried to play. I didn't play great, but it wasn't terrible. Now I can't say that I helped the team win or anything since we lost 9-0, but I can say I had a great time losing and not caring about falling on my butt. I took a risk playing this year a low-risk high reward kind of risk. I was laying public embarrassment on the line, but that's fine, the reward was far more significant than a little embarrassment I faced. But taking risks doesn't just apply to us alone. Sometimes you have to takes risks for others. 43 ! 38 Nolan Gifford If you're a middle aged man, you probably know of or heard about at least one peer who has killed himself in recent years. If you're a parent, you may have noticed your daughter's friends are more on the ball than your sons; they get better grades, they are much less likely to get into drugs, they spend less time playing video games, and they go to more prestigious colleges. If you're an employer you may have noticed that your female employees show up on time, while the young men often don't. If you've been paying attention to the news recently, you may have noticed that just about every mass shooting in history has been carried out by a man, Something ominous is happening to men in America. What is odd about this is how rarely it's publicly acknowledged in the media and in schools. Our leaders pledge to create more opportunities for women and girls whom they imply are failing, and that men benefit from the patriarchy and thus don't need help. They say that men are either fine or more than fine, but are they fine? Let me give you some heavy statistics that speak for themselves. Let's start at the basics: the average American man will die five years before the average American woman. Men are more than twice as likely than women to become alcoholics and/or drug abusers. In New Hampshire, the place hardest hit by the opioid crisis, 73% of all drug overdose cases were men. This statistic alone should raise a red flag to everyone: 77% of all suicides are committed by men, and the rate in which men take their own lives increased 43% from 1997 to 2014 These numbers are disproportionately Native and White men, Suicide is now the biggest killer of all men under the age of forty-five. America's incarceration rates are also a problem that continues to grow, but this is almost exclusively a male problem too, given that over 90% of all incarcerated inmates are men. Now we don't know where the root of these problems stem from, but we know these problems start young, and relative to girls, boys are failing in school. More girls graduate high school, and considerably more girls go to, and graduate from college. In schools everywhere, boys account overwhelmingly for the disciplinary cases. One study found that one in five high school boys has been diagnosed with some form of hyperactivity disorder, the vast majority of whom are medicated for it. That's compared with just one in eleven girls. The long term health effects of the medication are not completely understood. Women also now decisively outnumber men in graduate school. They earn the majority of doctorate degrees, and they are now the majority of enrollees in both law and medical school. Meanwhile, the consequences for men failing school are long term and profound. Between 1979 and 2010, men with high school degrees saw their hourly wages fall 20%. There are now seven million working age men who have dropped out of the labor force, half of them take pain medication daily, the highest rate in the world by far. Far fewer men get married than a few decades ago, and even fewer stay married. About 1 in 5 American children live only with their mothers. That's double the rate of 1970, meaning millions more boys growing up without fathers. Young men are more likely to live with a parent now than they are to live with a spouse or partner. Single women buy their own homes at more than twice the rate of single men. More women now have drivers licenses than men. Now let's be clear: women having these achievements is a good thing, but men falling behind in these categories is unacceptable. Even physically men are falling behind. A recent study found that at least half of young men failed the army's entry level physical fitness exam during basic training. Fully 70% of American men are considered overweight. Perhaps most terrifying is that men are seeming to become less male fundamentally. Sperm counts for example are down 60% since the 1970s, and scientists don't know why this is. This case is directly related to the decline of testosterone which is happening at the same rate. One study found that average levels of male testosterone dropped by 1% every year after 1987, and it's not relative to age. 40 In other words, the average 40 year old male in 2018 would have testosterone levels 30% lower than the average old year male in 1987. There is no upside to this trend. Low testosterone levels in men can lead to depression, lethargy, weight gain, and decreased cognitive ability. Nothing like this has ever happened to a population this big, and yet it's ignored, it's considered a fringe topic. Nor is it a priority in the scientific research establishment. There is not a single NHIS funded story on why testosterone levels in men are falling. So those are the numbers. American men are failing in body, mind, and in spirit. This is a crisis. We as a community are sheltered enough that this crisis may not affect us as much, but that doesn't mean we can just turn our backs to this problem. I fear what would happen if this problem continues to lack acknowledgment and the statistics I mentioned previously go unanswered and continue to manifest into something worse than they already are. I'm purposely leaving this topic open to
1 discussion, and I won't use this time to share my opinions, but if you'd like to know them, come find me afterwards. One thing is for sure, when men fail, all of us suffer as a consequence. Male underachievement should be everyone's concern. If this issue doesn't concern you, I have a simple question that I implore you to ask yourself, "why not?" Look around the room. These statistics are happening all around us, they might be plaguing a male who you are close with, or even the one sitting next to you. This problem needs to be acknowledged, it needs to be discussed, and a solution needs to be sought. It starts in our classrooms, and it starts in our conversations, and it starts here and now. Thank you. Isabel Gisser Hi. I'm Izzy, and I hate trying new things. I'm not kidding. In fact, if you're unusually observant of me and my study habits, you may have noticed that even my opening line wasn't new. It's recycled from a monthly paper I wrote for Journeys in Literature. And I'm one of those kids who started writing their senior speech as a ninth grader. To make me sound even more obnoxious, if that's possible, I've had the same topic idea since I was literally ten years old. If you couldn't tell by now, I'm not so good at the "coming up with new ideas on the spot" thing. I'm in no way a natural improviser, which is likely why I'm so averse to change. I rely on careful notes and extensive planning, and I trust my work habits. They rarely let me down. Not to say that I'm a flawless machine, Among my worst nightmares is being cold called in class when I'm spaced out. My brain turns to mushall I can think of is that dumb meme I saw last week, and then maybe I miraculously remember all the words to the Phineas and Ferb theme song, but I have no idea how to respond to the relevant question at hand. I need to be able to plan ahead. Spur of the moment decisions are not my best friends. And my inability to improvise and irrational hate of change goes far beyond school. I have quite the reputation in my family for disliking change and being very vocal about it. But not in a logical, thoughtful, civil discourse using my voice kind of way. Think very conspicuous, very dramatic, flat-out breakdown. All the screaming. All the tears. It's bad. A fan favorite change-induced breakdown happened back in "ye olden days" when I lived in Nebraska. Having just turned five and with kindergarten in the near future, I naturally thought I was the coolest person ever. Not to mention that I was about to start soccer at my new school, and I had the sickest pink shin guards of all time. Everything was just dandy until I actually got to the fields. It was at this point that I realized I had a) never played soccer before and b) didn't know anyone there. I didn't like that. At all. My fight or flight instincts kicked in and the world went into slow-mo. I froze. Every cell in my body was screaming for me not to go crabwalk with the other five year olds, but my mom was watching me expectantly and maybe it wouldn't be too bad? But then again maybe the five year olds would actually be pro soccer players and beat me up? After several seconds of high-stakes kindergarten internal conflict, I inevitably chose flight. The newness of it all was just too much. So I sat down on the curb in front of my mom's car and screamed bloody murder. Good one, Izzy. I'd love to say the dramatic breakdowns ended there, but I know my parents are currently having vivid flashbacks to dragging me out from under my bed screaming when I refused to play in tennis tournaments or wake up earlier than 7 when I was in middle school. However, I'm proud to say that the outward displays of absolute panic when I'm confronted with new things have officially disappeared. Now they're just internal. And I need to do something about that. I need to learn that I can't always follow a comfortable routine because first of all, following mindless patterns for your whole life just sounds super boring. And also, I hope to have some kind of impact on the world, and that's not going to happen if I only do what I'm 100% familiar with. 39 36 The funeral wakes me up at night. Jack's eulogy bit my tongue. I did not utter the same goodbye. I have not properly said goodbye to him. There is something strange about sprinkling my father's ashes in the backyard for I refuse to recall how he arrived in the jar. Crumbs stuck to my feet here. I washed the glitter off my sticky fingers. The kitchen understood family affairs. Food tasted odd. Mama wept next to the oven. When the dishwasher flooded and the floor's cracks softened from the water, I cried. The drips in the basement punched my face. I am a woman who for quite some time has felt overwhelmingly separated from the identities perceived as normal, as a child, as clear-cut. Somewhere along the lines of faith and childhood I misplaced the grand quilt of my womanly endeavor. I've become a zombie, an overthinker. The slight difficulties in my life overcast the emotional hurdles I surely have overcome. The miniature panic represents the coping I refused to endure. For Papa would not walk me down the aisle. The room across mine belongs to Jack, my brother angel. The death ate him. Darkness crawled into the lid of his eye. Sometimes, a spirit visited him in his bedroom. I never had the pleasure. I still have hope there will be a messiah sent from Papa. I imagine it coming in the form of song, like the ones he would play in his car. The dust on his old iPod taunts me. I do not unlock it. Jack, upon moving, understood its timeliness. My house was underused, more deserving of a fuller family, one whose ghosts don't linger. As for me, I would not inhale that truth. My family reckons the fragility I retain. The news cracked my skull. Begrudgingly, I exhaled to the vision of my home to be. The home wouldn't have streamers stuck in the ceiling. I will no longer discover hidden tokens from my past, no longer walk the same steps Papa had. I cannot grow under his shadow, I cannot feel my touch his shaved cheek. my hand Perhaps it is difficult to see the value in holding on to my past, but I do envision the glory. The glory, that is, is to bathe in childhood until I wither. People are all too adept at screwing their courage to the sticking place and waving farewell to the people they once were. I have already lost touch with the many people I used to be in my bedroom, in Mama's bathroom, in Jack's bedroom. However, I urge myself to detach. The bravado hurts. Papa's apparition rests in the soul of my womanhood. His death transcended my flourishing. My house honors his passing. For now, my bedroom ceiling lays underneath my parent's bedroom floor. I would forget the largest facet of strength, encouragement, and peace in my life if I omitted the mentioning of my other father. I was never very kind to him at the start. My foot preferred the anchor attached to the reveries of my past life. Mama believes I am loyal to Papa, but I am only loyal to my memories. Pouring time into my growth, this house will recall the days I learned to love a new father. This house reaffirms my change, the alteration of understanding fatherhood. you, So, thank and farewell, home, you are the ideal woman maker. And I am a woman now, for I am equipped to move on. I hope to attain the kind of brevity that arrives after years of swallowing the ocean, of kissing the sand, of finding confetti in between toes. And I finally understand that this home, while glorious, only foreshadows the many homes I will embody as I settle deeper into the worn and wet trenches of womanhood. Kenzie Giese Its 6 AM on a crisp winter morning. I wake up to the blaring sound of the classic apple marimba alarm. As soon as I roll over to turn it off, I realize that it's gameday! I jump out of bed and put on my United sweatpants, United sweatshirt, and grab my United tennis shoes. I then go to the bathroom to do my hair. I plug in my straightener and while it heats up I go say good morning to my mom who is making my gameday breakfast. It consists of sausage links, two pieces of toast, two eggs over easy, a cup of orange juice, and of course Ketchup! As soon as I finish my hair, I rush into the kitchen to devour my breakfast. My mom comes back to the kitchen and asks " did you even taste it?" I give her some snarky comment back, something along the lines of " mutters high pitch irritated snotty comment" then head to my room to grab my backpack. On the way out the door my mom gives me my morning coffee and gives me some crucial advice for my game "Have fun and look good doing it". t As I walk out to the mini coop I realize that I am twinning with it for about the fifth time this week. I get in and put on my game day playlist, which consists of a variety of music genres. Of course there is hip hop/rap, some pop, a couple of feels songs, but the most essential songs on the playlist are classical music or as I like to call it "Brain food". I finish my 30 minute commute and pull into the SPA parking lot buzzin off of caffeine. I happily stroll through the Huss Center hall to get to advisory. Throughout the school day I find it easier to go to my classes, even math class, because I am so amped up for the game, I think to myself" ok by going to each class I am just one step closer to being able to go to the rink!" When I am finally able to go to the rink, I like to pack my bag in a certain order and then sit in the stands to retape my stick. The timing for all of this varies depending on if it is a home or an away game. I'm finally able to feel satisfied, secure, and ready to play after going through my whole routine. I have now had this routine for the past three years and have done these things repetitively.. Out of habit, I have grown to know it so well to the point that I just expect each small recurring event to happen. Along with that, I just expect the people and the things that are involved in this routine to always be there. Now it was not until this hockey season that a small interruption to my routine lead to me having a huge realization. This season we got a new coaching staff. When the news came out that almost the entire coaching staff would not be returning, a lot of people were surprised. I was sad about the change that was made because even though there had been some ups and downs, I had made some pretty good relationships with my old coaches. Coming into this season, my last high school season, it was a rude awakening for most of the team and I. What I did not realize was really how much work our old coaches did behind the scenes, from having all of our jerseys hung in our stalls with our bags lined up in order on gameday, to having our skates sharpened and ready to go whenever we needed it. This year, we have had to step up and do these things ourselves. I know "oh jeez, you have to grab your own jerseys from the closet and sort out your own bags, your lives must be so hard." I recognize how silly and privileged that sounds but this situation really opened my eyes to how much we truly took our coaches for granted. Someone who was able to put my realization into words was my Grandpa. We have always had a special bond since I was born. Maybe it is because I am the first and #1 grandchild, but ever since I can remember he has been one of my best friends. One of my favorite things that we do is go on breakfast dates. It doesn't matter if I go visit him in Roseau or if he comes to the cities, we always find a place to go and we always order the same thing. We usually spend this time gossiping about good old Roseau drama, hockey drama, making bets about the outcome of certain games, chatting about hockey hub, or ya know sometimes we switch it up just talk about life outside of hockey. Something my grandpa has always told me is that "each year of school will go by faster and faster, so don't rush through things and always remember to live in the moment because before you know it, you will be in the real world with a real job and it sucks." I used to always shake that comment off and dismiss my grandpa with "ya, I know", but it wasn't until this year at one of our breakfast dates that it really hit me. No matter what the situation or the topic, I know he will always support me and have my back. But, that will not always be the case. It is really hard and sad for me to imagine my life without him, but it is reality. I know that I just have to cherish every moment with him, every post-game phone call, and every single breakfast date. My routine breakfast with my grandpa or how I get ready on gameday, like any routine, can give off a false sense of security. I know a lot of you don't play hockey or even care about hockey, and that is totally okay. The bigger picture here is that there is something that you are really passionate about, or someone who is really important to you, that maybe you didn't realize that you take for granted. With it being senior year there are so many "last times" that we get to do things. It's our first last day of high school, our last homecoming week, last sport seasons, last time performing in the Huss Center etc..... With all of this in mind it is easy to get sad or down on yourself because all of these opportunities, and spaces have been there for you for the past four years at least. And maybe you're not a senior but 12th grade will be here quicker than you may realize. Or maybe you're an adult well past high school, but you too will have a series of lasts. Last day at a job, or last day of a career, last day in a house you lived in for decades, or last day with a child living under your roof. So, it's important for everyone to look back and realize that no person or thing is permanent and time flies, so make sure to truly be present, live in the moment, notice the people and the things that are important to you and be grateful for them everyday. 37 22 After two years Nathalia moved back to Minnesota, was a flight attendant for Northwest airlines, met her husband Michael Ciresi, got married and had two sons. While raising kids, she helped start Great Clips. She then met my step-grandpa, Jack, playing tennis. They went out for about ten years, got married and moved to Colorado where they still live. She started, and still runs Style Therapist, is a member of Fashion Group International, volunteers at events and in the community, skis, hikes and hangs out with family and friends. My grandma is tremendously selfless, gives back to the community, enjoys to travel and loves to learn new cultures and perspectives. Nina. The fall before I was born my parents were visiting my grandma and mentioned naming me Nathalia, causing my grandma to burst into tears. That night my mom chose the nickname Nina for me and a few months later on May 5th 2001 I, Nathalia Faribault Ciresi, was born. When I was younger my parents would call me Nathalia and tried to get me to write my full name on homework but I feared people would mispronounce it, so to make thing easier I've always gone by Nina. I used to always correct the people who called me Nathalia and forced them to call me Nina, until eventually it stuck. I figured in a couple of years as I got older I would lose my nickname and go by Nathalia, but it is now seventeen years later and I still have my nickname, I introduce myself as Nina, fill out forms as Nina and go by Nina with all of my family and friends. My parents don't even call me Nathalia when they yell at me. The only time I hear my full name is when my grandma is in town or she is brought up in conversation. I think the main reason I go by Nina is because Nathalia is my grandma's name and it would be confusing if we both went by it since everyone would think my grandma was around. It wasn't until recently that I started questioning my nickname and thinking a lot about my full name. When I start college next year, I have decided that I will introduce myself as Nathalia. I would also like to pass this name down to my kids. The history of my name and family tradition are important to me. I was so set on being Nina and not changing my name because I wanted things to be simple, but what I didn't realize is how much I was shutting out. I share a name with all of these adventurous, fearless, good hearted, compassionate and caring women. Each one passed down not only a name, but their history, their story and their strength. I have only had the chance to fully see this in one person, my grandma. Ever since I was born she has played a key role in my life. She is the strongest woman I know, and I don't know what I would do without her. She is always present and interested in what's going on, listens to everything I have to say (even if she doesn't agree), gives positive advice and sends cute texts or calls at the perfect time. It might sound crazy, but I believe we are connected through our name since she had a similar connection with her mother, and so on. Even though I do not personally know the other Nathalias, I feel as though a part of them still live on within me. Everyone's name has a story and this is mine. Nathalia. Isabel Dieperink Syria, Cambodia, Bosnia, Rwanda, Guatemala, Darfur, Argentina, and the United States to name just a few. Some of these places may rarely be present in our thoughts, but they share a horrific commonality: Genocide. The word "genocide" often makes its way into the media or onto people's tongues without understanding or a formal definition. "Genocide" brings to mind the atrocities of the Holocaust, after which the world applauded itself for saying "never again." But genocide neither began nor ended with the Holocaust. Genocide's persistence lies partly in our misunderstanding of the concept. After the Holocaust, Raphael Lemkin, a Holocaust survivor, defined genocide as the "intent to destroy, in whole or in part, a national, ethnical, racial or religious group." The term "genocide" put a name to the evils that occurred during the Holocaust and in many other countries including our own. Lemkin understood that we cannot conquer an undefinable, unnamable concept. Yet, we continue to allow genocide to occur without taking action. For the past 5 summers, I have returned World Without Genocide's Summer Institute to learn how to take action. Students, speakers, and educators gather for a 3-day seminar to learn how to prevent genocide and other injustice. Ellen Kennedy, the leader of World Without Genocide, prepares panels of politicians, religious leaders, genocide survivors, and many more "upstanders" as she calls them. The Institute consists of a mock trial, films about genocide, communication with political leaders, and educated advocacy for issues important to the broader community. Every year, I leave with an aching heart. It's difficult to learn about such immense trauma and violence. Yet, it's necessary to become an informed advocate. My commitment to genocide prevention and education lies partially in my family's history. I am half-German and half-Dutch. I treasure my European heritage and enjoy visiting family and spending time in Germany and Holland. But there's also a dark side to their histories which inspires my action. Both countries partook in rampant colonization, which resulted in genocide and demeaned entire groups and societies. More recently, however, Germans orchestrated and perpetrated the Holocaust, one of the largest genocides in history. My awareness of Germany's history began when I was 11, during my first trip there. Before our visit's final days, my experience consisted of an overwhelming amount of meat and cake, kisses on the cheek from excited family members, and ornate, stone-walled castles. That changed when we visited Ludwigslust, a small town where my grandfather grew up. The sleepy town looked completely normal at first, adorned with brick houses, shops, and kind people. But when my family and I ventured a few miles outside, we encountered the ruins of a concentration camp. Not much remained except for a few bricks, the outlines of barracks, and rusty metal tools. The camp was preserved as a memorial, shrouded by forest, with pictures accompanying each building where victims were worked to death. One of the most striking pictures showed a crematorium, with blackened ash coating the sides of fiery tombs. My grandfather explained that this was a small camp, a fraction of the size of Auschwitz or Dachau. As we left, I felt my stomach churn. I couldn't fully comprehend how a camp where people died because Hitler deemed them "undesirable" could be so close to the place where my grandfather lived. A town carried on mundane life as people burned for their identity just a few miles away. I wondered how an entire town and the majority of a country could be complicit in genocide. As I grew older, I learned more about my family's history. One of my great-grandfathers was drafted as a German soldier during World War II. My other great-grandfather, motivated by the economic depression in Germany, joined the Nazi Party. I never met that great-grandfather, nor do I agree with his actions or ideas, but I remain tied to him by blood. That part of my family's history is shameful and uncomfortable to acknowledge, which makes it even more important to share. Due to my history, I feel determined to make some change to prevent and stop conflict and genocide. But how does genocide develop? To combat an international, human problem, we have to understand it. Genocides share causes and events that build toward mass murder. They do not occur in a vacuum. World Without Genocide details eight stages present in Genocide: Classification, Symbolization, Dehumanization, Organization, Polarization, Preparation, Extermination, and Denial. For time's sake, I'll focus on Dehumanization. During the Holocaust, the Nazi's labeled Jewish people "rats." During the Rwandan genocide, the Hutus named Tutsis "cockroaches." Right now, it's concerning how easily we deny people their humanity. Think about the connotations of the words in our vernacular and on our President's lips. "Illegal aliens," "diseased migrants," and "drug dealers and rapists" to describe Latinx asylum seekers at our border. When we relate people to "extraterrestrials" it makes it easier to tear gas them. It makes it easier to keep their children in camps which bear a striking resemblance to Japanese internment camps and Native American concentration camps. U.S. action against people at the border is not equivalent to the systematic murder of people during genocide, but the names we give people matter. Not just to immigrants, but to anyone who is made vulnerable by systems of oppression. Compassion and respect prevent mass atrocities from occurring. By considering another's humanity, you save your own. Americans often exist in a state of naivete, believing ourselves removed from genocide. We could not be closer. We have an extensive history of funding and ignoring genocide while prioritizing our benefit. We have been complicit in genocide in Cambodia, Guatemala, Argentina, Rwanda and more. Not only do we struggle to act morally abroad, but we seldom acknowledge genocide or aid it's victims domestically. We sit on Native American land, forcefully taken during a horrific genocide. We live among unsupported Native American communities who struggle because of unfulfilled treaties and racist domestic policy. Much of our infrastructure was built by slaves, who were tortured, killed and forced to work. Mass
1 23 Let me be clear about what winning is to me. Winning is about knowing who you are and what you can do to pursue what you want in life. Winning is about passion and desire; one needs those two things while pursuing their life goals, otherwise I genuinely believe they won't be able to achieve those goals. The passion that one feels for their goal is the driving force behind their feelings for being triumphant or victorious, while the desire for the success or victory keeps your purpose clear and in view. My idea of winning is a mindset that I carry with me every day to be my best self. I win so that I can protect my dreams and achieve my goals. Winning is about being able to defend yourself, and what you believe in when you're questioned or challenged. At the end of the day, it's about believing in yourself. Winning applies to all aspects of life; this goes beyond games or sports; it's about striving to achieve your goals and dreams and not being afraid to put everything on the line for what you want in life. The point I want to make is to follow your heart and believe in yourself as you are led to where you want to go. Winning is about being your best self and striving to surpass limits at anything you want to do. Staying content and complacent in life softens every individual and thus fleeting victory your that you may attain. Everyone in this auditorium has the potential to be a winner, and they should all strive to get to it. There is no one right way for believing in yourself; the bottom line is to be you, your authentic self, and be proud of it. The second thing that reminds me of who I am is my mother's cooking, and it inspires me every day because it is the physical representation of why I am who I am, and as long as I remember my favorite meals I mentally know I can achieve anything in this world. I use my mother's cooking to raise my spirits, improve my brain power, and form who I am. Her baked macaroni and cheese full of layers of cheese, bacon bits, and bread crumbs reminds me to keep digging because if you work hard you will receive an incredible pleasure once you achieve those goals. Her cabbage full of meat, potatoes, and cabbage remind me to embrace experiences that help me to continue on my path as I advance through my life. Her red beans and rice warm me to my core and remind me that if I am willing to do what must be done to achieve my goals, then I can accomplish them. I will be, yes, winning. Finally, the third thing that inspires me to be myself: Pizza Rolls. Yes, you heard that right. The delicious pizza-in-a-tiny-pocket. They act as a permanent confidence boost and stress reliever in my life. I would say that everything will be fine as long I can eat pizza rolls. my Because of pizza rolls, I can take my winning attitude with me everyday, apply it to my everyday life, and inspire me to be best self all day every day. Every single pizza roll I consume warms my stomach and ignites my sense of individuality because I grew up eating pizza rolls, one could say too often, but I say not possible. Maybe you're not convinced. That's fine. You do you and I'll do me. And me is eating pizza rolls. My suggestion to you all is to find things that will inspire you to be yourself every single day without changing who you are. I chose these three things to talk about because they remind me of who I am and help my individuality flourish because I believe that when I am reminded of who I am I can be my best self. Eating these things and thinking about how to win keep me grounded, so I can look back on all the days that have passed and every day coming in the future and be proud of my decisions and proud of myself. My point is that you should have things in your life that remind you of who you are because when you know who you are, you can live life proudly with your head held up high. Justin Hla For the last eighteen years, I have lived in a shadow where all I could see was a constant reminder. I am glossed over countless times for being my father's son. He's created a legacy that I doubt I will ever be able to live up to. He came from one of the poorest countries in South East Asia, Myanmar. I have gone back and seen the life he used to live. He had it rough. He had
1111 to fish every day to scrap food up with his two brothers to feed themselves on top of my grandfather, grandmother, and aunt otherwise he'd be left with little to no rice to eat. Somedays, if he was feeling up to it, he would climb coconut trees for a sweet treat. Alongside these daily problems, he took schooling seriously and eventually completed high school. However, his education didn't proceed much further due to his lack of money. My father has enormous visions. He sought out America in any way possible. He applied for the green card lottery and won, being the first on my father's side of the family to come to the States. From this point forward, my father hasn't stopped working. Starting off in a boat in Myanmar to going through the Indian Ocean towards Europe and eventually landing himself in Boston. He worked odd jobs for a couple of years until he became a sushi chef under my uncle's company. While he was working these eighteen-hour days at Hissho, my father was living in a car. One unfortunate day, his car got totaled in an accident causing him to live without a home at all. This was the lowest point of my father's career, but he never gave up. He continued working no matter the predicament he was in. He kept on grinding until he created his own sushi company, Sushi Avenue. It started as a small company supplying various supermarkets with the hottest commodity at the time, sushi. He filled an incredibly niche gap, which was up and coming and fulfilled his passion for Japanese cuisine. All while supporting his family back home by taking them to the States for checkups and healthcare, taking his brother and sister in to become U.S. citizens, and constant trips back for to give back better medicine and supplements. Today, he ships sushi products across the country with shipments coming from Alaska, China, Japan, and various fishing farms. On top of his success, he moved forward with his love for Japanese cuisine and created a small restaurant called Masu, which now has three locations: Apple Valley, the Mall of America, and Northeast Minneapolis. Furthermore, he is working in Myanmar to create another path with his Burmese friends. He was gone last year for almost 75% of the year for work, and his mother's, my grandmother's, death was just last summer. Even in grievance, he kept on moving forward. How can I ever live up to his passion and hard work ever since he left his family behind? I always saw this as a shadow that was cast over me. No matter how hard I worked, how much effort I put into school, I never thought I was enough, even if I spent hours on projects or papers. I was so dumbfounded by his story that I equated myself as lesser, always lesser. I put myself into an endless cycle of torment just like the cycle of socialization from the Pedagogy of the Oppressed. My father's constant reminders to work harder and strive to be the best is what I heard throughout my childhood. He gave me everything I needed to succeed. He put me into Kumon, a tutoring service to progress students at an accelerated rate for math and reading. Through Kumon, I learned to become self-sufficient, a key trait in my father's story. I thought of myself in a positive light like how my father wanted me to be, but my views changed drastically as I was introduced to smarter people. People who didn't have to work as hard as my father to create an equal level of work. It caused me to realize how insignificant I felt relating myself to my father and the broader community. I had to work harder to achieve the same visions my father created and completed, but instead, the opposite occurred. Procrastination was the manifestation of the shadow. I denied his success with a childish tactic. I would push homework off until 11 pm and finish around 1 am every day. I told myself that I worked better during twilight hours, but it harmed my work and my attention at school. I was pushing myself deeper into a pit with no way of getting out. In order to stop procrastinating and achieve my father's dreams for me, I decided to take a class that would require me to stop procrastinating and promote hard work. Last year, I took Writing Seminar to restructure my weak writing and help quell the procrastination. I had to complete a paper within three class days, and paper length increased with every paper until the final paper, which was seven to nine pages long. Due to all of my time being spent on writing, my homework schedule fixed itself for the better. My homework was completed before 9 pm on most nights. I felt like I was achieving the goals my father wanted for me. I know in his heart his goal for me was to be successful and to live a life better than the one he struggled through. Somedays I feel coddled by this idea, others I feel saddened by the work I don't think I could ever achieve. But today, I realize that all of his work was meant to be a stepping stool, not a debilitation. I can't forget his strifes and struggles, but I have to live with these aspirations he had and move forward with my life. He never gave up on me no matter the situation, even if I had to finish a project that I hadn't started that was due the next day. As Uncle Iroh once said, "You must never give in to despair. Allow yourself to slip down that road and you surrender to your lowest instincts. In the darkest times, hope is something you give yourself. That is the meaning of inner strength." My father's hope has become mine, and I hope you find yours too.
12 52 53 40 Where would we be without progressive thinkers, change-seekers, and a willingness to try something new? For one, we'd be in the dark. Both figuratively and literally. As in, we wouldn't know anything. And we'd also be cavemen and literally have no light. We'd also probably be overrun by the Black Plague, which would be unfortunate. And we wouldn't have access to streaming TV, the Snuggie, the Instagram Explore Page, or a massive quantity of other useful things. On a much more serious note, we'd still have mandated segregation in schools. Not all of us would be able to look forward to a future where we could vote, practice our religion, or love who we wanted to. Where would we be without those who look forward and actively seek out change? And where would we be going? We'd be going nowhere. Absolutely nowhere. We'd be trapped in the past, locked in limbo, in a state of just...nothing. And I don't want that. So, I need to figure out why I'm so uncomfortable with change and change that. I hate trying new things. Why? Because they scare me senseless. I think I thrive when I can plan ahead, find structure, and follow the rules. The element of the unknown that comes alongside trying new things inexplicably goes against my morals. But as much as I'd like to believe it's possible, I can't plan out my future with a set of neatly printed, color coded, bullet point notes. That's just not how the world works, and I have to accept that. If I want to go anywhere, I need to actively seek out change. I have gone to SPA since second grade. I'm a senior now. Age seven then, seventeen now; a decade of familiarity. And I've loved it. But the time for me to step very far out of my confining comfort zone is slowly and very surely drawing closer. Like, coming at me with the JAWS theme song playing in the background. Finishing this speech will put me one step closer to graduating. I'm leaving this school. I have to leave here and try something very new, And yeah. I'm absolutely terrified. So what am I going to do? For one, I'm not going to scream bloody murder or hide under my bed. I'm going to do my best to seek out change and embrace the newness that goes alongside it. I'm going to be scared out of my wits, but I've accepted that. Odds are, some pretty great things will come out of new experiences. I might travel across the country for college, leave behind friends and family, and learn a lot and be really, really uncomfortable. At first, that is. Discomfort and change are necessary steps in not just my life, but everyone's. We all need to be willing to jump out of our comfort zones, think of the future, and embrace change. You might not like it-it is a scary concept after all-but none of us are going anywhere if we don't try anything new. So... back to that hook that I wrote for Journeys in Literature. Thank you very much for serving your purpose. You were a great opening line, but you're now in desperate need of revision. So- Draft 2. Hi! I'm Izzy, and I'm scared of trying new things, but whatever. Here we go. Jasper Green Two boys rose, floating above a soccer field in mid-jump. Instinctively, as the ball neared them from above, they swung their arms and one boy's elbow collided with the back of the other's skull, who dropped down to taste the dirt. down I sat with Lauren, the athletic trainer, clamping a bag of ice to my head. It dripped down the back of my neck under the sweltering sun. As she moved through a list of questions, my ability to answer became compromised and I zoned out. My vision slipped into two and it grew soft, like a window during a storm. My head became sensitive to the loud cheering of the crowd behind me and the bright sun that shone from above. I looked down at my feet while the bag turned to water, feeling relaxed, like I was floating. Lauren was back, but there were two of her, both shining a pen-light in my eyes. I put my hand up to cover my eyes and turned away. Had she left? "Jasper, can you tell me one of your parents' phone numbers? I have to write it down on this sheet." I thought hard with my hand resting on my mouth, "Six..." unsure, I frowned, "five... one." I frowned harder, searching for the numbers, "two... four... five... zero. Wait. That might be my phone number." And then she said something like, "Jasper, if you can't remember your parent's phone number you should probably go to the hospital and get a scan." My mom drove me to the hospital and we sat while the more urgent incomers swept ahead of us in the cue. There was a man with alcohol poisoning sitting across from me in the arms of a woman with a bucket at his feet. Eventually, they got to me and did some hospital tests and I was rolled to get a scan of my head. I was told to be still, but the machine was frightening and I felt trapped so I wriggled around and they had to redo it. The nurse was nice, she said she'd only charge us for one. The doctor sent me home saying I was likely to recover somewhere in between three days and three months. My mom took me to Burger King to get a Whopper. I prefer McDonalds though. For the first week I slept most of the time in a dark and silent room. This is because the brain heals when you are sleeping. But, the problem with sleeping all day is that it messed up my schedule and I had to start taking melatonin. It's still hard for me to fall asleep without it. For a while, I wasn't allowed to use screens, but from how poor my vision was I didn't really feel the urge. In the early days, faces were so blurry that I found myself identifying people more by the sound of their voice than by their appearance. Because I couldn't do a whole lot, I started spending long periods of time with my dog Rusty. I drew in children's coloring books because the lines were nice and thick and I played with blocks and stuffed animals and the hours ticked away. also listened to all of the Harry Potter audiobooks. At school, I would wear sunglasses to help me with my light sensitivity, but I couldn't have paid attention during class if it were to save my life. I don't really know what the point of me going to school was because I couldn't read or listen, so I just sat there in a daze. Stairs proved especially difficult because I had balance issues and was often dizzy and nauseous. I held on tightly to the handrails and took it one step at a time as to not keel over. I walked slowly through the hallways, brushing my hand against them to feel more secure. I found that looking at my feet made it easier to avoid all of the moving things. I tried some therapy at Children's for my eyes and balance but my family learned that insurance was an issue because it didn't cover these sessions, so I stopped going to most of them, and did my best to do the exercises at home or with Lauren. In class, I still notice how hard I have to focus in order to listen, and my mind feels slower than it was before. I think the concussion affected my memory because I don't remember that much from before or during my recovery process. I often find myself with a vocabulary word on the tip of my tongue that I can't remember, but I really want to figure it out, so I describe it to my friends and they help me find it eventually. I have gotten used to my current life, and although I still feel a little foggy in the head, it has become my new normal. Through talking to other students who have had concussions, I've learned that feeling changed by a concussion is common and that returning back to the way you were before does not always happen. I don't go through life anymore taking my brain for granted. Even though life doesn't always turn out the way you want it to, at the very least I think we should all be thankful for the opportunity we have been given and to try live and each day to the fullest, without regrets. Tessah Green When I was younger I was terrified of going to the doctor. I would always hide from my parents hoping that they would never find me. But, I was always found because under the table is a pretty predictable hiding spot. I was then forced to go to the doctor against my will. Most kids were afraid of getting shots, but I didn't mind them. The fear I had every time I stepped into the doctor's office was that the doctor was going to tell me I was dying. The waiting room stressed me out the most because why is it that at the doctor's office you always have to wait so long? Time in the waiting room is endless, and my mind would start to race and think of all the possibilities of what could be wrong with me. This fear first started when I was in preschool taking a ballet class. One day during class our instructor made us all around and say our names and something special about ourselves. I don't remember what I said but the little blonde girl sitting next to go 41 Bailey Donovan Everyone has something that they want to keep from people. Something about them that is personal. Maybe your best friends have some suspicion about some of them, but you would never outright tell them. On the other hand, your family does know. Oh boy, do they know. They try and help you with it. They try and come up with ways that you can control your secret. They make sure to never tell anyone. They occasionally have even made some jokes about it. Try to keep it light; maybe make sure that you don't worry too much. My secret has been there my whole life. But it took me until 6th grade to realize that hiding it would make my life a little easier in the long run. You see, I have some anger issues. I have memories of me as a small child throwing fits and then running away from my parents because I knew that I had done something wrong. Once when I was in preschool I got so mad I threw a temper tantrum in front of all of my classmates and my teacher. She had to get all of the other children out of the room. Then my mom came in and had to tackle and fight me so that I would put on my jacket. Yes, I was throwing a tantrum because I didn't want to put on my jacket. And yes this did happen more than once. My mom even remembers the event. She looks back on it from time to time. Making jokes about my teacher watching my mom wrestle me into my jacket so that she could take me home. I guess whenever she told me that I wasn't a problem child she was lying to me. Now some of you might have been able to guess that I have trouble with my anger. I tend to be a really intense person and I have heard that some people are afraid of me. I get it, sometimes I'm afraid of myself. For the past five or six years, I have been working to try and get rid of that part of myself. It destroyed some of the best parts of my life. Most of my anger comes when I am in some sort of competition. And some people might think 'Bailey that's not anger issues, that just means that you are competitive. While yes I am competitive, there's a different side to it. I seem to get mad at the people that surround me when I, I mean my team, is losing. Sometimes I pout, sometimes I get really angry and start screaming and crying and throwing a temper tantrum. The last fit that I remember throwing was in fifth grade. Sorry, parents, for all of those times. Skiing is one of my most competitive sports. For three years before I really got into ski racing I was on Buck Hill's Developmental team or D-Team. I was on their Sunday team. My friend's dad was one of the coaches. He was taking us through the course for inspection before the race one day. I got really mad that I wasn't right behind him going down the hill, his daughter was right in front of me. I was so mad at the idea that I wasn't first I started having a small fit on the hill. It got bigger the further down the hill we went. So big that by the time I got to the bottom of the hill I hid underneath a ski rack and refused to come out. To this day I'm not quite sure why I hid underneath that rack, it might've been because I was so mad and so stubborn that I didn't want to listen to my parents telling me to come out or that I knew I did something wrong so I was afraid of coming out because I knew I was going to be in big trouble. Which as far as I can remember I eventually did come out and I did get in big trouble. I was not allowed to race that day so we went right home. To make matters worse my whole mom's side of the family had come to see me race that day, but all they got to see was one of my most famous temper tantrums. The way anger manifests itself within me seems a little unusual. Some people say that they start seeing red. I don't think that I've ever seen red, but what I do know is that it comes from me being uncomfortable. I can tell when I'm getting mad because something will make me feel awkward whether it be what clothes I'm wearing, the position that I am sitting in, or something that someone is doing around me. From there it will transfer into me being passive aggressive towards everyone or what my parents call me being crabby. From crabbiness, I will start getting just downright aggressive. Either attacking people physically or verbally. I usually only attack people physically when I'm playing a sport. Once it gets to straight aggression my anger seems to plateau out there. During that plateau, I usually start to realize that I made some questionable choices and start to either regret what I had done and stop being mad, and at least come down from my high of being mad, or say screw it and keep going because I know I had come too far to go back on what I had already done. The latter is usually worse. I had a really hard time coming up with a topic that meant enough to me that I would talk about it in front of the whole school. See, I don't enjoy public speaking and by enjoy I mean I hate it and would rather do anything else besides it. So the idea that I would have come up with some sort of message and talk about it for five minutes was sort of a daunting task. I went through at least four different topics before landing on this one. I would start writing and then stop, delete everything, pick a new topic, and repeat the process. But this topic means a lot more to me than any of the other ones that I thought of. I have been fighting with my anger issues for a long time. I seemed to get a hold on them somewhere in sophomore year, I also felt like something was missing from me. Some large part of me that had disappeared into the oblivion. Also, my ski but coaches were telling me that I was starting to become a person that never got mad, which is something that needs to be there for intensity in the middle of the ski course. It was like I had given up all of my emotions surrounding sports, not just the ones that I wanted to get rid of. I realized this going into my ski season of junior year. I decided that maybe emotions weren't so bad to have about sports after all because it made them a little more real. I starting slowly working back in a little bit of my fire, my intensity, that had been put out. But, I made sure to keep a close eye on it so that it wouldn't burn anything down. I am able to say today that I, mostly, have my anger under control and can use it when I feel necessary. In some aspects of life, you try and put your best foot forward, what you think will work best in that situation. In those same aspects of life, you might want to hide part of yourself to make sure you are a better fit. But maybe instead of hiding yourself, you should focus on self-improvement. Maybe the thing you are trying to hide is something like my anger issues, that if you let it out there's a chance of a fire, but also a chance that it could help you. You should remember that it's a part of who you are and you should never feel that it doesn't fit into your personality. We are all a work in progress. So be you, always, but also never stop trying to be your best self. And don't be afraid to make a little mess in your life because you should be allowed to express yourself. Thank you. Kayla Edmundson Relationships. What are they? When I was a child, I remember learning about white picket fences and fairytale endings across Disney movies and romcoms. They were all about romance and happiness with the occasional pint of ice cream for a bad break-up. Yet, when I think about relationships that's not what comes to mind. Though we often forget or rather ignore, there is an uncomfortable underbelly of many relationships, wherein abusive men brutalize and control women. I know this all too weil. Domestic violence is written in my family history. It has been carried through women, generations before, who survived the cruel hands of abusive men. Until, finally, my mother, broke the cycle and married my kind and loving father. Yet, while the abused women in my family are not alone, their stories are shunted to the margins of yearly PSAs without true consideration of their lives. So, today, I want to share their stories as women whose experiences are all too common and ignored. The women of my family have lived within a cycle where men abused them and they accepted it. Maltreatment, verbal disgust at their being accompanied by bruises and cuts which they believed were no worse than what they deserved: for not being enough, for not doing enough, for not giving enough, for living, for breathing as mothers, caretakers, and wives. My great- grandmother, grandmother, and mother thread a line of violence to me in a painful history of how I came to be. My great-grandmother was married for over forty years to a man whose anger and alcoholism went hand in hand, wed for four decades to someone who yelled and screamed at his wife and children. For whom, my great-grandmother drove to a bar late a night to pick up week after week and year after year. For whom she bore eight children who repeated her mistakes. She never voiced a word against her husband, and perhaps that was the point. She was trapped in a marriage and house where she was unable to protect her children or herself. So clearly did her children carry on such a painful legacy. Under her, grew up women terrified of their own shadows, filled to the brim with self-hatred and self-doubt. Women who would jump into marriages where they could experience the rage of a bitter and controlling husband for themselves and their children. By her, grew up men who hit their wives like it was nothing, screamed and tore down a woman's confidence like that was alright. Men, who could hit a woman in front of their own mother without a hint of shame or fear. After all, their father hit their mother. She survived her husband by twenty-five years but she never fully escaped the way it made her feel about herself and her children. She had lived on that farm for forty years without friend or ally far from any sort of community and only after he died, was she free to get her driver's license when she was fifty-six years old. Although she had greater freedom and joy in the years after his death, her children still ran from her as shame and fear permeated her memory of who she was and couldn't be. My grandmother ran as fast as she could from that home, hoping to do better than her mother did. She went to college, earned a degree, and maybe just maybe, she could have used her education to escape this cycle of abuse. 265 H 27 Claire Hallaway After a long day of sled racing, I sigh with relief when I come back to my perfectly crafted home. I sit on one of my 10 pink. couches, surrounded by my 8 brand new matching pink bean bags. Above me hang 4 different ski racks and 70 sets of lights. I look outside to see my perfectly manicured lawn. It has 2 shiny red grills, 6 blue and white striped lawn chairs and is complete with my outdoor koi fish pond. I have 3 more inside. I browse through my hundreds of outfits, picking a mermaid costume to wear for the day before I head over to feed each of my 20 puffles. I would have more, but I've already reached the maximum. I don't mean to flex on you guys, but I'm just really good at Club Penguin. I wasn't just born a natural Club Penguin gamer. It took a lot of dedication and scheming. Part of what fueled my drive was that my parents didn't exactly share my love for the game and I was an emerging adolescent asserting my sense of self. So I had to come up with my own plan in order to play for as much time as possible. Countless nights were spent sitting quietly on the edge of my bed, waiting until my parents were finally asleep. Once I could hear the various sounds of snoring I knew I was in the clear to sneak down the stairs and take the laptop for myself. As an elementary schooler, I was still petrified of the dark but even the shadows that lurked around the corners at 1:00 a.m. could not stop me. I had every single component of my late night gaming plan etched out carefully. After successfully making it down the stairs, I would carefully slide the laptop out of its cabinet and sling it under my arm. I would then run back up the stairs as fast as possible, while still being cautious of how much noise I was making. After so much practice, I had calculated precisely where to place each foot on my old wooden stairs to keep them from creaking. I knew if my parents caught onto my routine, I would see my Club Penguin world crumble right before my eyes. I got away with it time and time again, hours spent in my room racking up coins until eventually my eyes got droopy, and I would close the screen and return it back to the cabinet. No one but my brother, Henry, knew what I was up to, and there was no way of telling that I had even been awake, My parents still unwillingly handed over the computer to me each morning, allowing me "30 minutes of computer time only" and I would stifle a smile thinking of how many more minutes I had played for without their knowledge. you But eventually, it was Club Penguin that started scheming with me. It started the membership program, where would pay a monthly price to be able to buy certain items. This was a real game changer. It meant no more pink couches, no more mermaid costumes, and especially no more koi fish ponds. There was no way my parents were going to pay real money for me to buy more virtual clothing or furniture, so I was pushed to create a new plan. I sent an email to an address I found attached to the website online, writing to them about how my uncle was actually the one who created club penguin, but he got no credit for his work, so I should therefore be promoted as a member. But I had no luck, and I definitely don't even have an uncle, so I stayed at the bottom of the hierarchy. Because of this, the game quickly lost its attraction, and my life became consumed with sports practices and other activities instead. I began to drift away from the Club Penguin world, and so did the obsessive feeling of wanting to play every minute of the day. By 5th or 6th grade, you could say my screen addiction was gone. But it came back with a vengeance the Christmas of my 8th grade year, when I unwrapped my very first iPhone. At first, I was just entranced with owning such an object, but it soon turned into a whole new addiction. When I started to use my new phone more and more, I recognized a dangerous sense of familiarity. I felt it first when my Mom set a rule for our phones to be downstairs and shut off at 10 p.m., which immediately angered me as I turned my head away to secretly roll my eyes. But eventually, I obeyed, ripping myself from the screen and handing my phone over to my Mom's waiting hands. As she closed the door to my room behind her, I would sit in frustration over being pulled away from the thing that was pulling me in most. I needed it. So eventually, I decided to adapt the same plan from years ago. I tiptoed down the stairs again to steal my phone back for myself. When I snatched that screen up again, my middle school self was immersed in a completely different type of world this time. The world I was sucked into through my phone wasn't just a simple iceberg filled with penguins across the globe, their identities disguised. It was a world where everyone seemed to be in a constant competition to show how great their life was, Rising to the top was about way more than sled racing and coin collecting. Even my favorite mermaid costume and highly decorated igloo would not cut it for these standards. But nonetheless, I would sit in my bed at night, scrolling through my feed as the time vanished into thin air,
111 One of the worst parts for me to comprehend was the fact that it was a distraction that I wasn't benefitting from. I wouldn't be getting that time back and I didn't get anything out of it. Even though I could see this, it was still hard for me to throw down my phone. It can be hard to know exactly what creates such an obsession or why it's so hard to take a break, I learned that part of the problem with apps and websites is that quite frequently, there isn't a specific end goal. For club penguin, there was no way to actually win the game, you just collected coins. So I was always just playing to collect more coins than I had before. This made it even harder to find a point to stop, because I never felt satisfied, which is one clear sign of the game's success in being addictive. Even though my Club Penguin obsession may have pushed me to create some crazy plans, it also seemed simpler in many ways. I think part of this is that it felt much easier to actually have set restrictions on the amount of playing time I had. There were clear times when I could and could not play the game. When I would go to school or leave my house to go anywhere, I didn't even really have a choice. I wasn't about to lug around a laptop wherever I went, and this would expose my secret plan to my parents anyway. But this was a good thing because it also forced me to stay in the moment and be fully present when I was away from the computer. It was much easier to have a clear separation between the times I was immersed in a different world and when I was focused to make memories with those in front of me. As much as I might hate to admit it, my mom really was in the right place to tell me to just get off the computer and enjoy the other amazing things surrounding me. It was startling how intense my resistance was but also how quickly that resistance faded. It emphasized to me how something doesn't have to be very meaningful to be addictive, but also that as intense as these feelings were, they were also fleeting. And I think you should be mindful of that, however much screen time you have. Because while my Mom's restrictions were helpful in setting limits, ultimately it's up to each one of us to figure out whether what we get out of screen time matches how much time we put into it. Henry Hallaway Last August I took a trip up to the boundary waters with a classmate for a 17 day canoe trip as the summer was beginning to end. We were joined by two other boys and a camp counselor that was a little more than three years older than me. Going into the trip I was a little nervous, I had been in canoes before but I had never spent hours out on the water in search for ? campsite. This thought had been in my mind as soon as I had signed up months before, but I kind of forgot about it in the moments I was doing something else. The boredom of the five hour bus ride really intensified my uncertainty about how I would do in the middle of nowhere. These thoughts seemed to leave me when we arrived at the camp, The busyness of getting my bags and finding my cabin were the only thing on my mind then. We stayed in camp for three days preparing our trip. This actually helped me to once again forget about my worries because I was more focused on what I was doing in the moment like portioning food for the trip, or helping to decide which lakes we wanted to go through rather than thinking too much about possible future problems. I was having a good time. I felt like I was just in a normal summer camp until we headed over to the waterfront one afternoon. It was time to learn the basics about canoes and paddling canoes. This was one thing that although necessary, I wasn't looking forward to. First we had to had to learn how to lift and put down the canoes. It looked pretty basic from what I had seen the others do, you just needed a friend or two to help you pick up the canoe and flip it so that the "soft" looking pads rested on your shoulders. I was the last to try carrying it after seeing the others hold it on their shoulders for a few seconds making it look like it was no problem before I would help them set it down. It wasn't that hard to flip up, so it shouldn't be too hard to hold on my shoulders, right? Well those pads felt like two rocks sitting under your backpack straps on a day where you have every text book in your bag. I had to make it look like no problem though because it looked like a breeze for everyone else. We put our canoe away and headed to dinner. I knew at dinner that there was no way I could carry that canoe between lakes but I had no clue what I was going to do in order to avoid the dreaded task. The following day another dreaded task arrived: bringing a canoe out in the water and getting used to steering it. This was the most nervous I had felt yet, I knew that I was going to have absolutely zero control over that canoe and that I would be following wherever the wind took me. I hopped in the front of the canoe and the counselor told me that because I was in the front I would be only using power strokes to help propel the canoe. That was no problem with me, just an easy straight 47 44 This past summer I went to the quarries in St. Cloud with some friends where we were all swimming and messing around, I had gotten off work to go to the quarries which was a double bonus since that meant I didn't have to be the lifeguard on kids day. Kids day was basically 40 kids ages 5-10, many of whom can't swim, taking over the pool for a day. So I was looking forward to a day where I didn't have to do anything involving kids. So I thought. Once had jumped off the cliffs a few times, we all relaxed in the chilly water. Suddenly there was a commotion. everyone People were yelling for help, but we didn't know what was going on. I realized that someone was in trouble. I swam over to the spot which was about a pool length away. When I got there I was confused. No one was there. But then I saw some bubbles rise to the surface. The kid was underwater. I dove down a few feet but was unable to see anything in the murky water. I resurfaced for a quick breath then dove down again, where I found him, motionless. I grabbed onto him and quickly swam to the surface where I towed him to the nearby rocks. After a few moments, he regained consciousness, and I was able to talk to him, making sure he didn't slip back under. Eventually, another person showed up with a floaty. We lifted him on top of it and swam across the quarries where we were met by an ambulance that took him away to the hospital. Honestly, it was a weird experience. I was looking for a kid who I didn't know anything about just because I acted in the moment. I didn't expect any of this to happen on my day off. I was just expecting a carefree day. Carefree or not, each day presents us with opportunities to take risks, both big and small. Whether it's trying a new food or talking to the person you have a crush on, one thing is for certain: no one knows what the outcome will be. However, unless you act, you will never find out what could have been. In this case, it was a low-risk high reward. Swimming down allowed me to save someone's life, an outcome that could have been drastically different if I didn't act, Everything considered, I'd say these examples are pretty solid. Both experiences provided a high reward at a little cost. There are tons of different types of risk, good, bad, low reward, etc. For each risk, there is that decision that takes place, but sometimes it's best to just take the leap and hope for the best, otherwise, you may overthink and convince yourself to not try something new. Trying new things and taking chances can be scary though. A failed experience can leave someone feeling empty and reluctant for the next time. I'm sure many of you in the audience have felt this. However, the short-term embarrassment or whatever it may be is irrelevant. It's better to try something now instead of regretting it in the future, I know I've been there. I'm not going to stop getting older. Eventually my fourth of life will turn into four fourths, and I don't want to feel empty knowing I missed an opportunity that I could have acted on. I encourage all of you no matter where you fall on this percentage, to do yourself a favor and take a risk when it has meaningful rewards because the regret of not acting significantly outweighs your fear in the moment. Thank you. Micah Gwin There are over 330 million people living in the US and around 7 billion people living on Earth. Wherever you are from and whatever your circumstances, everyone is bound to have problems in life. The question is: why is it important to care about someone else's problems and not just our own? What does it mean to truly have compassion for someone else and understand their perspective? Now, before everyone falls asleep and thinks to themselves "here he goes with the cliche topics again", I would ask everyone to think about why this topic is so popular? Maybe it's because people still don't do it, or even think about it that much. Do you? Realistically, this speech will not eliminate cruelty from the world or get anywhere close, but I hope that it can at least make people think more actively about how they treat others in daily life. An experience that changed my perspective on compassion and what it means to me personally began as a seemingly normal day on the German Exchange trip. The rain drizzled down on a cold afternoon in Hamburg. My exchange group walked into a large brick building with "Dialogue im Dunkel" written on the side of it. This means dialogue in the dark, and it is an experience that simulates what it is like to go through daily life blind. I had no idea what to expect besides this, and as I went through the entrance and was handed my walking stick. I was apprehensive. We walked into a tunnel that seemed to have no ending. The further in my group went, the more the light level dropped until it was pitch black. The tunnel opened up into what seemed like a large room. Our tour guide who was actually blind said this room would feel like a park would to him. There was turf on the floor that felt like grass and the sound of running water came from under a bridge. Everything sounded so real that I thought I was going to miss the bridge and walk into the river. At this point, I was actually scared that I was going to get left behind, as the only way I could navigate was with my walking stick and my ears. I pushed on and my group went to the next room, a simulation of a busy intersection filled with cars. We waited for the stoplight to make a noise and then slowly made it across. This was one of the most difficult parts because the city atmosphere made hearing almost impossible. The group went through many other rooms such as going on a boat, being inside a house and then at last we came to the final room. It was a restaurant where we had to walk up to the bar and order a Coke in German, while paying with Euros and being in complete darkness. Basically my worst nightmare. I stuttered out what I wanted and pulled a random coin out of my wallet. I guess it turned out to be enough money because the cashier didn't get mad at me, or maybe he thought I was an American tourist and let me off the hook. I got my drink and managed to find the rest of the group at a booth. I sat down on the bench for a little bit and then wondered why everyone talking sounded like they were much lower to the ground than me. Apparently I was sitting on the table and couldn't tell in the darkness. As we exited the exhibit, I didn't think too deeply into this experience and what it did for me in my daily life. It was only later when I realized that day was more then just another fun or scary memory. It helped me think more about what hurdles some people have to go through in their daily lives that the majority do not understand. I am very guilty of this too, before going through the exhibit I had no idea how terrifying it is to navigate the world without being able to see. I was also able to put my struggles in perspective, for example thinking "how can I whine about homework or worry about college when some people have to live their whole life with significant challenges." It is okay to stress about things but especially as college approaches I see a lot of people that take it too far and hurt their quality of life by worrying too much. I also think that even more important about the exhibit was the attention that it brought to the blind community. The interactive approach where people can "put themselves in others shoes" seems to work wonders for more awareness and understanding of what it is like to go through life with these conditions. I think that other communities should also have an interactive approach when spreading their message because as I learned, the best way to understand another's life is to experience it yourself. This message does not only have to be for major issues in the world. Understanding another's perspective is something that can be done for the smallest things in life. Pausing to think about how another person feels can really improve both people's mental state, even if it is a day to day issue. It seems like something so obvious but there are a lot of people that still choose not to take this approach or do not even think about it. Even if you think that understanding another person's challenges just happens subconsciously, I urge everyone to try and actively do it the next time they talk to someone and see if it impacts the other person and, at the same time, changes your perspective. It really helped me out and I believe it can help the community as a whole. On a more personal note, this concept has a lot of importance to me because of my brother. When he was younger he had a lot of medical issues, even though he is doing well now there still were some residual effects that he will have to deal with forever. One of these residual issues is that he deals with short term memory loss. Tasks that would seem relatively easy to most people such as remembering directions or memorizing vocab are extremely difficult for him. I am proud of the way that he works through these problems, but it still hurts when others are cruel to him because they do not understand what goes through every day. If they just tried to understand his perspective, they would realize that not everyone has the same capabilities, some things that seem easy for one group are very hard for others. he I would also urge everyone to not treat this as an issue that only applies to you. It is great that you personally are compassionate towards others but what happens when you see someone else not doing it? This is where it is crucial to take action and speak out. Sometimes I wonder, what makes an individual do something cruel to someone else? Is it because they have problems of their own and are taking them out on others? Is it to climb the social ladder in society? Regardless, it is never ok to be cruel like this or to stand by and let it occur. Even just a couple words of compassion can completely change how someone's day is going. This was something that I saw firsthand with my brother. He was definitely hurt by the people that were unkind to him but he was fiercely loyal to those that were his friends. By having compassion and thinking about viewing the world through the lens of another, you might just be able to gain some new companions along the way. Overall, I am extremely grateful for the "Dialogue im Dunkel" experience, it broadened my perspectives and made me understand how to become a kinder and more understanding person. Thank you. 41555 225 24 incarceration, police brutality and unfair wages still plague African Americans while resistance movements like Black Lives Matter often go unheard. The Pittsburgh synagogue shooting demonstrates that anti-semitism is alive and draws on the Holocaust's legacy, Minnesota is home to one of the largest Somali-American communities in the United States and an incredible Somali-American refugee representing our 5th district. The genocide in Somalia still continues, while we continue to reduce the number of Somalis granted entry to the US. The U.S. has accepted an embarrassingly low number of refugees who are often displaced by genocides like the one in Somalia. By the end of the 2018 fiscal year, we accepted only 22,000 of the 25 million refugees around the world, the lowest number in 40 years. Recent data indicate that since January of 2018, we have accepted only 1,114 refugees from Myanmar, 11 from Syria, and none from Yemen. Refugees often stay in camps, meant to be temporary, for lifetimes without adequate food or water. If that doesn't feel like injustice then I'm not sure what does. A teacher recently asked one of my classes: how are you complicit? Complicity during genocide and injustice only aids perpetrators. So, an even more important question is, how do you advocate? When I advocate, I remember what Eilen says every year at the Institute; "knowledge alone does not equal power. But knowledge plus action equals power." Advocacy does not always mean drastic action, but it begins as a small, meaningful change to improve lives. Implementing change is a choice, To create change, attend World Without Genocide's summer institute to find resources for action against current genocide, donate to the Panzi Hospital that cares for rape victims if you have the means, learn about politicians who represent you and compost to preserve resources. I think of other members of my family when I advocate for change. My great-grandmother, who refused to fly the Nazi flag and kept herself informed despite being married to a member of the Nazi party. My Dutch great-grandfather, who biked across Holland at night, evading Nazi arrest, to find a chicken for his hungry children. Neither faced threats comparable to targeted groups, but they remind me of the human spirit's resiliency and tendency to resist. I see that same spirit in our generation. Thank you. Ethan Dincer Dear little boy, I wish I didn't have to warn you, precaution you, of your turbulent future, but I am writing this because I have to. I'm sorry that you had to know when you were so young. Since you were eight, sitting in the customs office at the Chicago airport, missing flight after flight as they questioned your dad's background, immigration status, and reason for residence in the United States. They pestered you both with reasons for being in the middle east and what connections you had there. You would sit there unaware of the system that enveloped you from that young age. But this was reality, I'm sorry that you knew the fallacies behind the word "random" when you were so young, and how, like clockwork, at every gate you would be given a 12-point drug swab under the guise of a Secondary Security Screening. I'm sorry that those 4 S's stamped on your boarding pass by the government were the only markers of your identity. In school, you brushed off the mispronunciations of your names even when you had the power to correct them. When people butchered your last name, you would desensitize yourself and laugh along with them, as if your name was a marker of exoticness. When, out of curiosity, they asked you about your middle name, you would find excuses not to share, as the non- European name would result in awe of how truly foreign you were. Was it deflection and suppression of your identity? You still don't know. To this day you continue the practice, letting them trample over your name and identity like a field. But these are only ordinary incidents, barely crossing your mind until you understood the depth much later. In middle school, you would resonate pride in your culture and heritage, yet get shot down for caring too much about the Middle East and not nearly enough about America. When the social studies unit finally reached outside of the United States, you were joyous from excitement to learn more about the world. But yet again, you were let down and asked to be the representative from the Middle East, the self-taught scholar on everything foreign and exotic. All heads would turn to you to describe how life was in the Near East, a mystic land with divergent ideologies, cultural systems, and most importantly, religions. Later on in your middle school life, you were mocked incessantly for being Turkish, and your classmates would mimic sounds of a turkey at you. You learned to laugh along, praise their ingenuity for equating your ancestry, customs, and culture with a wild bird roasted and eaten every November. Although you thought these jokes came from a good place, they were never funny to you. At the time you learned that it was best for you to hide behind the laughter, keep your thoughts down and your mouth shut. Only much later in your life would you realize that these statements were not light hearted jokes, but rather swings at dismantling your intricate identity. But little boy, I wished you understood how sacred you were, how you truly mattered. In high school, these mundane acts became your living reality. It started in ninth grade, when your friends expressed jealousy for your ability to tan over the summer without getting sunburnt. Gawked at because you held that precious olive-toned skin the media advertised yet no white person could achieve without a fake tan. You would have arguments thrown at you over the color of your hair, everyone saying it was jet black, but on the inside you knew that they were trying to further you into a box. They tried to label you. First American, then Turkish. There was no in-between. No intersection. Nothing. You were still too young to understand the potency behind this erasure, Then came tenth grade. During the summer you had to cancel your trip back home as the military coup plunged Turkey back into the postcolonial ethos of a third world country crippled by terrorism and corruption. Hundreds died due to continual bombings and thousands were injured. While the media broadcasted the "instability" to the world, you sat and watched in horror as a government purge threatened your family's livelihood, your relatives locked at home in fear of their passports being confiscated. Within a few days, the media had moved on. But you had not. During this time none of your friends had reached out, had expressed any desire to check on you. But you were used to it. It was the reality of living in America while your culture laid outside of its borders. When school started, you were burdened with yet more explanations. "Why did the military revolt? Who started the fighting? It was bound to happen with their rough history." You didn't know how to respond. Maybe it was true, maybe not. You had little way to withstand and had to resort to the polite smile and deflection, yet again. Then came the worst of it. I'm sorry in advance for the pain you experienced in those hours every week. When classmates told you to "go back to your country" you had no response. When they said "you're a terrorist" you didn't know whether to stand up to them, to defend your ground, or to simply back down. You knew no one had your back. It was America, alright. You let their statements consume you, infiltrating every corner of your delicate identity, as if their attacks controlled your humanity. They continued inflicting racist turmoil upon you, stopped only by final exams and summer break. Only after were dehumanized would you be aware of the system around you. Then did you realize that the world you lived in was set up to favor those with white skin and a complete family history from Northwestern Europe. you Then came your awareness. You began to understand the prevailing system around you. When you were lumped into the category of "white" for the ACT you would realize that America had no regard for you. That cultural erasure and denial of your identity would be a mainstream, standardized procedure here. You struggled to grasp being placed in a racial group that you were actively trying to dismantle for their persistence of supremacy and privilege. Before you hadn't realized your tokenization in the classroom, but now you witnessed the reality of being used as a diversity tool. The only one of your type in class, the one turned to the most with prodding questions relating to your identity. But this isn't the end of your journey. Prepare for a high school student body that is utterly indifferent to the issues you face. When they say "racism isn't an issue anymore", "I don't see color", "there's no racism at SPA", "it doesn't affect me so why should I care", "racism against white people is a real thing" and "aren't you white anyway?" you must know that this is not normal, I hope you never normalize these occurrences, and that internalized oppression never engulfs you. But little boy, you remain proud. The confidence you've gained from seeing people like you transcends boundaries and boxes that have been constructed around you. Your identity is true and pure, and no one can say otherwise. It is your statement, your mark that will reconcile your scarred past. It is deserving of recognition. And little boy, I hope you continue to remember that. 25 34 being a psychologist in 10th and halfway through 11th grade. While all of these appealed to me as an abstract idea, I was never interested enough in them to really get involved with them like I was with music. In addition to loving to play music, I've always enjoyed helping other people play music. Whether it was showing someone a fingering for a note, helping to figure out a rhythm, or showing how to play a difficult passage, assisting other people has always made me happy. This principle has held true outside of music as well. In ninth grade, I would love studying and helping friends with homework over Skype. I liked to help classmates out in math, or in any subject that I could. In hindsight, my love for teaching was there for years. I just needed a way to fully activate it. out my The prospect of teaching music appeals to me on several levels, from working with and interacting with students on a daily basis to being able to work with a large group or with someone individually. As I started to settle on teaching music as a career, what stood out to me most was that I would still be able to perform while I wasn't teaching or planning for a class. Through this, I could combine both of my passions into one. Starting in the latter half of my junior year, I was afforded the opportunity to give my future career a try. I had been talking with Doctor Mayson about my desire to teach music as a career, and he offered me the opportunity to help him work with the middle school jazz band. I was slightly apprehensive at first, seeing as I had no prior teaching experience and as far as I knew had never met any of the members of the band before, but I decided that the chance was simply too significant to pass up. Obviously, my first day on the "job" was slightly awkward. I walked into the band room at the time Doc had told me to be there, and as I entered, he introduced me. The kids sitting on the risers stared at me like I had two heads. Doc then gave me the score to one of the pieces that they were working on (a jazz band arrangement of the Wes Montgomery tune "Angel"), then he stepped aside and sat down. Now, this was not what I had expected from the experience. I had assumed that he would be leading the group, and I would occasionally give a couple comments, but it was looking more like it would end up being the other way around. I counted the band off, and they began to play. As I listened, I realized that I didn't really need any prior teaching experience to give musical advice, which was essentially what I was going to be doing. After around a minute of playing, I cut the band off with a wave of my hand and I gave a few suggestions. The trombones could have played a little quieter, the saxophones should accent their phrases more, the trumpets were dragging behind the beat just a hair. As they played through the section again, I heard the improvement in the individual playing and the sound of the band as a whole. It brought me an unexpected amount of joy as I saw that they took my suggestions seriously and did their best to apply them. As I returned to the band room day after day and week after week, I grew more confident and felt more comfortable with what I was doing. The process of teaching was tiring, but the changes that I saw in the band over the months that I worked with them were inspiring. From this whole experience, I learned a lot, but two things in particular stood out to me. First, I realized that being in a situation where I felt over my head ended up being immensely beneficial because it forced me to think on my feet and to apply my existing knowledge to something new. I could have been guided through the process and not participated as much-and my apprehensive self even wanted that at first-but that would not have helped me realize how much I truly enjoy directing a band by myself like a professional would. I also would not have grown as much had I been guided throughout the entire process because I wouldn't have had to think for myself. I've found that this kind of mindset can be beneficial when approaching other daunting tasks, whether it be a tricky assignment or an important audition. While these experiences can feel overwhelming while I am in the midst of them, I know that if I put my all into it, I will always come out a better person, more prepared to take on what life decides to throw at me next. I encourage you all to approach challenges with this kind of thinking as well, because it will allow you to view the positive side of a difficult position. Second, deciding what you want to do with your life isn't something that you'll decide overnight, over a week, a month, or even a year. Finding your passions takes long enough, but figuring out what to do with them, and whether you can make a career out of them, can be a whole other, and much longer process. So don't be worried if you don't know what you want to do with a career yet. Go about living your life, do what you love to do. You might just find that your future career sneaks up on you when you're not even looking. And, of course, things might also change over time. While I currently feel that music education is right for me, that could always change, and I may end up taking my life in a whole different direction. It's all about being open to--and expecting-change. Someone might ask you "what college are you going to," or "what are you gonna be majoring in," or "what careers are you thinking of," or some question along those lines. You can simply tell them "I don't know," and that's fine. Because it's ridiculous for people to expect that someone is going to have everything all figured out so early on in life. So long as you follow your heart and pursue your passions, everything will fall into place because all of you in this audience have the potential to do something amazing. Mimi Geller Her green eyes glazed over, as she hung up the wet words that tainted my life. These words haven't dried. "We are moving," Mama admitted. My fear came to fruition. Beginning to swallow the information, I choked on my realization. Houses represent boxes filled with the vibrancy that originates in family. My difficulty with moving is that it intensifies the ambiguities of my sentimentality. Not a box, for imprints loiter in each square foot. My house, it's magnificent, tangling my hair, defining my womanhood. Here's why: The chandelier I built reverberated noise when I refused to sleep in my bedroom. The ceiling laid underneath my parents' bedroom floor. At nine years old, my dad died above me. His shaven head rested on his cancerous pillow. I kissed on his cheek before retreating downstairs to cry. Crying prompted my recognition towards my complicated strength. I cried often. The association of crying and femininity cautioned the emotion. My sheets at night hosted tears. People expected and expect me to cry at the slightest mention of sadness. Perhaps this is because I sleep under a deathbed. Streams of salt water glue my eyelashes together when I forget that I am only young. My sadness hears its bullies and cowers. But, crawling out from the lushness of hiding, I've come to embrace my tears. I am valid when I cry. I am valid when the tears dry. While categorized as uniquely feminine, from the waves of people resisting the notion that a facade never prevails, historians omitting the intricacies of womanhood, my cries reflect years of becoming, of blossoming, of accepting death. The expectation of feeling emotional stings. I'm afraid to cry, to submit. The corner of my bed dug into my thigh when I pressed my palms together and rested my elbows into pink bed sheets. I slanted my head upwards towards the room where my father shed his last tear. I ask G-d, my grandmother, for Papa to return. The twisting of my religion and desperation for my father confuses me. I was raised Jewish, attended Sunday school, learned Hebrew. I became distant after he died. Youth clouded my conception of a heaven, of an Eden. The funeral took place in a temple, my place of worship. My religion pertains to my affirmation of death. Trinkles of sink water echoed in pipes as she washed her hands. Mama's bathroom glistened with lost innocence. Bathtub scratches remembered the bubble fights. Mama braided my hair, cut my nails, smoothed the cherry scented lotion on my back. Her strength perfumed my face as I looked in the mirror. I did not like my body, the way it contrasted my perception of beauty. The black dress gripped my skin as we headed to the funeral. 35 32 But what we can do is focus competition inward, on self-improvement. Control the competition to motivate our own goals, rather than letting it control us, becoming our own goals. Competition in moderation can motivate, but it needs to be balanced with an overarching mindset of personal growth. The personal rewards of succeeding in competition are temporary and not completely in your control. The rewards of self-improvement are long-lasting and realistic, Here at SPA we have the benefit of a community of motivated students who push each other to do their best. This is very valuable so long as we are motivated by our own growth instead of falling back into competition. The reality is that it's extremely hard to avoid comparison in a society that's built on it, far beyond the scope of SPA. With such constant reinforcement, it only makes sense that people with any natural competitive drive would be pushed further to compete. Instead, take advantage of this drive and direct it inwards. In competition you have a decision: you can use it to incentivize yourself, or you can use it to rank yourself against other people. One of these options will reward you much more than the other. Thank you. Michael Forsgren How far is a boy willing to go to prove that he's a man? Let me tell you, it's further than most other challenges any young man will face on his way towards adulthood. A boy is willing to take his whole life and change it for others because he knows that he might not seem masculine or strong enough. I know this because I've let myself be the perfect example to this seemingly unchangeable problem rooted deep in the minds of many young males. Well, what does that involve? Let me tell you. First, there is the level of emotional strength a boy must be able to hold onto. The second the tears start swelling in eyes, especially from mental rather than physical pain, those dead giveaways of weakness places one male below the others. It shows that maybe he's a little softer around the edges or he has the ability to feel everything that's put on his plate, but he'll never be able to control himself like a real man. No, this kid lets out his feelings when he wants to, he let the whole world see who he was and how he felt about it all. That's a big no, no. Why would you ever want to let people know you're sad? Why would you allow for someone to prey upon your insecurities and weakness like that? The fact of the matter is there is no predator waiting to use every emotional slip up and every moment of non-masculinity. No, but we do now live in a world where boys are raised with that suspicion, that expectation to be a boulder in the midst of any storm. We've all seen it before, seniors, we all saw a whole presentation on authentic gender this past retreat. This, as many should be able to guess now, isn't a healthy way at all of going about life. Letting cuts, bruises, and mental scars just win over the brain before letting any personal exploration on what any of it means occur. Before most even get the chance they deny any notion of misguidance from their original path, letting the what-could-have-beens win every time. This sometimes occurs if a boy starts questioning his sexuality. Doubt can overcome any form of exploration into this area for many boys. The simple thought of two men is enough to scare away a lot of guys, but feeling love and longing for one of your own is terrifying for many. It's a vulnerable state, revealing to yourself and even others when those feelings occur. A piece of the jigsaw puzzle has been placed, a part of your identity secured. How could you just go and tell all of your friends? Who would stay away because of the way you felt? The honest answer is that kid will never know who will support him or shame him. The most important thing that kid needs to know is that no matter how many go, there will always be the ones who support you with all their love. Still, though, one can feel on top of the world with some and alone in a hole in the ground with others. When a boy starts letting his peers be the ones who shape his life, who tell him what he can and can't be, it only leads to more issues. Because that's the thing, no matter how someone is told to grow up and how the people act around them, it won't change the things like sexuality. It will only push it further down inside that kid, forcing his mental will to struggle with his identity. With such tensions growing within a single human psyche, it paves the way for problems like anxiety and depression. Covering up one's sexuality to the world is a burden in itself, but the amount of self-doubt and confidence issues that can come with it is enormous. That's why it's essential, no matter it be one or anybody, any boy that is questioning himself needs to know being yourself is what should come first. Other people can come anytime later, but accepting yourself personally for who you are is the most important thing. So yes, I am bi. I was already dealing with some deepening depressions symptoms throughout my freshman year, so when I realized the summer after that year what I was, it pushed me down further. Through my sophomore to my senior year my depression only got worse. Holding it in, I attempted multiple ways to get it out and fix my mental battles. In the end I hurt a lot of people, treated them worse than they'd even think of treating me. I never knew to tell a person everything that was going on. I was absolutely petrified at the thought of someone even suspecting I was gay at all, I knew there wasn't ? problem but it always felt wrong. Even my family, I would keep it so far hidden that no one suspected a thing. The question always remained: why? Why couldn't I say it? Why couldn't I just let people know? That's when I realized that I was utterly determined to fit into the stigma that surrounded me. Expectation and stigma corrupt teenagers from natural individuality. It just gets in the way of kids being the kids they want to be. Responding to what others wanted rather than what I truly wanted was one of the first and worst problems I handed myself at the start of high school. Please, just be the person that you want to be and let that person be the one the world sees. People will always be there with you, and the people that can't accept you for who you are simply won't sometimes. It's painful; it has the ability to ruin self-confidence, and it can lead to further mental damage. But, never stop fighting. They want to see you at your lowest, depression wants' to see you at your lowest. But those you love, though, and the real ones out there, they always want to see you at your highest. Trust in them, trust in yourself, and love yourself. I would just like to say thank you quickly to a few people. To Foreman's Circle, I love all of you and know you all have so much ahead. Thank you for helping me every second I've needed it. ?? my brothers, Ikey, Sam, Gabe, and Nick, you all were probably the worst role models one could ask for at first look. But what many didn't see past the punches to the head or rather hurtful names was that you guys gave me something to believe in as a kid. You all have your own extremely different skills and I appreciate every seconds worth of the beatings if it means I keep you guys around. Pa, I'm never going to be able to put into words the admiration of your strength of will and emotions as well as your constant support and love, even at the worst times. Ma, you taught me love, you taught me acceptance and equality, and finally, you taught me that even in the loneliest corners of my life, you'll always find me and bring me out. I love you both, thank you for being the most beautifully crazy, weird, loving, and amazing parents in the world. So, here we are. Everyone in this auditorium, understand that you are the best person. When you stop realizing that, others in your life will lose the real you. Whether you're straight, gay, whatever, don't hurt the others who love you by hiding the real you. They'll love you, they won't let you down, and most importantly, the world will be able to see the real beautiful you. Thank you. Charles Gannon From when I started kindergarten to less than a year ago, I did not think that I would want to spend the rest of my life in school. Somehow, now, that seems to have changed. It was around the last few months of my junior year that I realized that I had a strong desire to be a music teacher. Music has been a significant part of my life for a while; since I started high school really. I started playing saxophone in sixth grade for the concert band, and that was pretty much the extent to which I involved myself in music. Over time, however, music gradually became more and more important to me and I began to devote more and more time to it. I started practicing more, I started taking my lessons more seriously, and I also started listening to a lot more music. As I moved from middle school to high school, I started playing more challenging music and sought instruction from higher level teachers. Eventually, as my skills improved, I started entering (and eventually succeeding in) music competitions. When the time came to begin searching for colleges, I knew that I wanted to attend a school with a strong music program, but I still wasn't sure exactly what I wanted to do with my passion, I had considered music performance in the past, but frankly, that kind of life doesn't appeal to me. I'm not comfortable with the prospect of not having a steady paycheck and living from gig to gig in a sense. As I continued to consider career options that would allow me to take advantage of my passion, the idea struck me. I could become a music teacher. Growing up, I had never really decided on what I wanted to do for a career. I've had many ideas throughout my life, from wanting to be a firefighter in kindergarten to being a stock trader in third grade, to being a journalist in middle school, to 33
6 I looked up to confirm who had pushed me, but was quickly trampled by other competitors. I laid lifelessly on the blacktop, trying to hold back the waterworks, but they inevitably came. My dreams of winning this year's Easter egg hunt quickly vanished. My hands and knee had never been in this much pain, which is honestly pretty impressive considering how many open bloody calluses I would get from the bars at gymnastics. Seeing me lying on the blacktop, Natalie, my after-school teacher, came rushing over to me. She and I were very close, best friends in fact. She knew that I was dramatic, but seeing the pain in my tear-filled eyes, she knew something was really wrong. She asked me what happened and I told her that the 5th grader, Ben, had purposely pushed me down to knock me out of the competition. Natalie reached into her fanny pack for band-aids as I detailed the traumatic event. She asked me where it hurt so, I displayed my hands in front of her. My jaw dropped. My whole palm had blacktop bits stuck in my flesh and blood was seeping out where it could. I then glanced down to the other location of pain: my right knee. She followed my gaze and grabbed her walkie talkie. She told Al to come outside right away. Now, let me tell you about Al. I loved him. He was tons of fun. When all the other teachers were serious, he always joked around with us. Being that he was the cute senior in high school, my friends and I tried desperately to get his attention. Everyone loved Al. So when Al came over, I was embarrassed, but happy that he was there so I could see him. He swept me up and carried me inside to the bathroom where he set me down on top of the sink. I watched the blood mixed water wash down the drain as him and Natalie cleaned my hands. I ground my teeth to the sting of the water on my open gashes. They told me that my was next. I shook my head and mustered a "no" in between my sniffles and tears. knee Al lifted me off the sink and set me down on the ground. Then, he gave me a huge hug, something that always brightens my day. It was just what I needed. Then, him and Natalie put two jumbo-sized band-aids on my knee and that was that. So why did I decide to tell you this story? This was so many years ago, why is it important to me now? Oddly, this scar means a lot to me. It represents a little piece of my childhood that I would have forgotten otherwise. When I pull out some of the leftover big band-aids from that mishap or see the scar, I always remember that day and the next few months so clearly. When I remember that day, I mainly think of Al, and when I think of Al, I think of all my elementary school friends, and when I think of them, memories of all the fun things we did together come rushing back. I count on this scar and my other ones, to link the chain of events from my childhood together, so I can remember them. Besides from having a visible reminder, like a scar, why do we remember the things we do? All of us have childhood stories and memories we hold close to our heart, but why is it we remember some and not others? Is it nostalgia? Is it the people who were involved? Is it how you matured from it? It's really hard to wrap your head around why you remember the things you do, but I've come to the conclusion that we remember an event because it is something that we are not anymore. That memory was either a good or bad event and we remember it and compare it to where we are now. Nostalgia for the simpler times and the 'good old days' is a big part of it too. I think about my childhood, or what I can remember of it, a lot more as a 17-year- old because back then there was nothing to worry about. And now, there is too much to think about. Our lives are changing, the expectations of us are increasing exponentially, and a lot of us just want to go back to the time when the only thing we thought about was what was for lunch. The best piece of advice someone has ever given me was to live in the moment because everything could change in a second. Too often, we romanticize the past, not because it was better than the present, but we want to think that it was. The present is in our control, it's what we make of it, and that is daunting. Too often, we reminisce about the 'good old days' instead of the challenge of living in the moment and creating new memories. I'm not telling you to not think about your past, I'm telling you to not romanticize it. Instead, think about the past and how you can learn from it, to know how to approach the present and future because making new memories is just as important as remembering the old ones. This scar has taught me that it's not always about how equipped or fit you are for the circumstance, there is always going to be something, or someone, to derail you. It's taught me to have ambition and drive, but to be cautious at the same time, because anything can happen. Most of all, it's taught me to not get beaten down by the Bens in life and not to rely on the Al's and Natalie's to lift you up, because ultimately, it's up to you. Benjamin Carlsson Being an only child can suck. And I mean suck. My entire life, I have flown solo, a lone wolf, much like Alan from the Hangover. As much as I love my parents and could not be more grateful for everything they do for me, sometimes I wish I could have been gifted a sibling. When being an only child comes up in conversation, some people will quickly say something along the lines of, "you don't seem like it" or "hey, well you turned out fine." When I receive these responses, I'm taken aback at first, shocked that someone could possibly think these things about my fellow only children, but from an outsider's perspective, it is fairly easy to see why only children are considered such strange creatures. I mean, when you're the only kid at every family gathering, you tend to pick up a little more on social cues from baby boomers than the average teenager. On the subject of family gatherings, I was usually tasked with providing myself with fun as a result of my cousins closest in age to me living in Chicago and New York. The fact that I didn't simply explode from lack of stimuli at these gatherings when I was younger is thanks in whole to my parents, who were able to crack the code of an upset toddler with plenty of stuff to do. When I wanted to partake in activities that require more than one person, like sports, my parents were happy to help me, and through sports my parents have been able to teach me to take responsibility for my mistakes and accolades, and to advocate for myself because more often than not, you will be the only person who is able to help you in a situation. However, one thing I always envied about my sibling clad friends is their ability to tag-team their parents during arguments, although the move is pretty easily thwarted. It would be much more effective than the two v. one scrum that I often find myself in. In addition to their numeric advantage, I am also predisposed to lose arguments with my parents. My dad is a lawyer, which is likely all I have to say to be understood by my lawyer-parented peers. For those of you without dad-attorneys, let me just say that yes, arguing for a living does indeed make you stiflingly adept at the haggling side of parenting. My mom on the other hand is a teacher and thus very skilled at dismantling the arguments of young people. Time and time again I have found the simple practice of bargaining with my parents to be futile, and I constantly wonder if I would have any more of a chance in these predicaments if I had a like minded individual fighting by my side. While I rarely partake in arguments with my parents, on the rare occasion that I do and thus lose, I always look back and realize that what I was arguing about was actually pretty stupid. Another thing I used to envy about my friends with siblings is the expectations that their parents set for them versus those my parents set for me. I always used to find the expectations my parents set for me to be unreasonable when I compared them to those of my friends. I thought that their parents were much more relaxed than mine. However, as I grew older, I began to rethink my perception of the goals my parents set for me. Instead of seeing those goals as overbearing, I understood that these expectations are and were essential to my success in what I do. By having my parents' expectations for me in the back of my head whenever I take a test, receive a grade sheet, or play in a game, their expectations for me have become my own, allowing me to have discipline in what I do and the confidence and knowledge to know that with hard work, good things will come. Another perk in my case of being an only child is that I am great with animals, mainly dogs. Let me explain. I wasn't always this way. In my early years I was terrified of dogs, not willing to so much as walk on the same side of the street as a little puppy. Then, in the late fall of my second grade year, I was gifted Hobbes, a skinny little labradoodle, and everything changed. My love for dogs skyrocketed and Hobbes became my best friend. With Hobbes, I had someone to hang out with all the time, I had someone who always wanted to play with me, and I had someone who I could always count on to be waiting for me everyday when I got home. When people ask me who the first person I told when I got into college was, I can safely say my dog. As a result of spending so much time with Hobbes, I got as close to a sibling as possible, and am thankfully no longer afraid of dogs. Like I said at the beginning of this speech, being an only child can suck. But, from all those times when I've wanted someone to talk to or just to be around, I have gained values that I will take with me throughout my life. Whether that is discipline with my schoolwork or the ability to help myself when I am the only one who can help me. As I'm going off to college next year, I have been thinking more about my childhood and my experience as an only child, and I've found myself weighing the good against the bad and I've noticed that the good always outweighs the bad.
7 86 America has done a really good job at forcing immigrants and first nations peoples to give up their cultures, and by default, their language. The homogeneity of American society is striking, with the reliance on the same type of English being a core element. The obstacles are clear: lack of interest, funding, and teachers all combine to pull down the potential for language and humanities instruction in the United States, but this isn't a permanent challenge. The only thing that's necessary to begin change is to give a good reason. So, here are my reasons. Let's begin with the personal aspect: how does learning a world language benefit you, as an individual? World language expands our critical judgement, giving us the skills to mold the tough clay of society into a form that we can understand. Learning a world language trains our minds to filter the necessary elements of a situation and process them critically so we can perfectly express our intent in both the target language and our own. In a matter of seconds, you have to determine whether or not to use the formal you, which adjective ending is appropriate, and if your sentence structure is correct. And it's not only concerning words or symbols- it is how they are said; the tone, the inflection, and the pronunciation all being subconsciously sped through the synapses of our brain before our tongues spit out the mass of letters and symbols that we were aiming for. True communication forces us to be present- to understand that life is not black and white, but that there are shades of grey; shades that can't just be placed into a box. The humanities make the grey area in everyday life become a rich rainbow spectrum of perspective. World language also serves as a gateway to understanding our own language- English. Yes, you know that the word "whom" exists, but do you know when to use it? By learning the patterns of a new language, the skills learned can be retroactively applied to English to gain a better understanding of our own tongue. And if you doubt this, try to teach English to a non- native speaker and explain prepositions and pronunciation. To be honest, I never truly understood the passive voice in English until it was taught to me in German. Through reflection, description, and elaboration, language can provide enormous self-benefit. But you're not the only one who can benefit by speaking a world language. Even more than benefitting you, world languages can benefit us as a whole, the greater good. World languages serve as a gateway, a portal to boldly leap through and experience the rich smorgasbord of global cultures. Speaking a common language is an indispensable step towards global unity. It gives us the ability to meet on common ground, transcend prejudices based on appearance, and focus on a core need that all humans share: the need to communicate. We have created so many ways to communicate, from Sign Language to morse code to emoji; all these methods bringing us closer together through expression. Though the people of the world can be divided by the languages they speak, they can be united by the need to communicate. However, because language is an obvious indicator of identity, it can be tied to a nation or ethnic group, strengthening fraternal tendencies and emphasizing unity through cultural isolation. Soon, it becomes a battle of "us" versus "them." This lack of linguistic diversity is an invitation to sow the seeds of international division. These seeds blossom into nationalism, dividing the world into factions based on culture, language, and identity. Nationalism threatens to blow out the flame of multilingualism, pitting us against one another based on our differences. It is one thing to love your country, but it is another thing to use your national identity as a weapon against others. I am scared when I see nationalist governments clawing to power, villainizing the international community, with echoes of 1914 and 1939 dripping through the reports. It is so much easier to "otherize" and hate when you don't understand other cultures. Nationalism is formed through ignorance and fallacies. Speaking a world language has helped me to realize that yes, the nationalists are wrong. Accepting our differences can unite us more than it can divide us. Learning about what divided us in the past has the potential. to unite us through our common need for communication. We can try to understand the concept that everyone around the world feels the same emotions that we do, but we can't recognize it until we speak in a language that everyone can understand. I once stumbled upon a Nelson Mandela quote that read, "If you talk to a man in a language he understands, that goes to his head. If you talk to him in his language, that goes to his heart." In a divided world like today, should countries not work to win each other's hearts rather than trying to convince each other's minds? Now, I recognize that sometimes, it just seems easier not to engage with the world. To stay in our anglophone, American cocoon and speak the language that we're most comfortable with. However, it is up to everyone to bridge the language gap. To realize that we still live in a country where some people believe that if you're in America, you speak English. But America is a country full of a chorus of languages, of a people with more than one identity and culture. In reflecting on how my multilingual life has changed, I realize that I haven't just learned a language; I've learned life lessons, I've learned about new peoples, and I've learned about myself. I've uncovered the joy that my teachers carry in teaching their language, showing me l'élégance de la langue française, die Schönheit der deutschen Sprache. I've gotten to know Jan, Maxime, and Daniel, my exchange students who brought me strolling through the cobblestone streets of Hamburg and Toulouse, bridging the Atlantic and our cultural differences. Most of all, I've learned that languages are living entities, shifting based on how they are spoken, testifying to a people and a generation, not at all meant to be trapped on whiteboards and quizlets. Language is about pushing the boundaries, whether they be national, cultural, ideological, or political. The essence of language is to find strength through uncertainty, and unity through difference. Peter Moore There is too much stimulation in the 21st century. We live in a world so full of an impossibly large number of sights and sounds that it's overwhelming. From screens to school to driving, to a multitude of other inputs, the world is too full of stimulation for our human brains to handle well. This stimulation is almost entirely artificial. It could be looking at an image on a screen, the chaos of urban life, or working on a homework assignment. Millenia ago, as the human species was evolving in a world very different from the world we live in today, humans feared the stresses of starving to death or being eaten by a lion. Today, we no longer face these stresses, but our minds still have room for them to exist. What has happened is that artificial stimulation has replaced these natural stressors. Essentially, the fast onset of the stimulation of the information age in the last thirty years or so has far outpaced our ability to evolve and adapt to it. It is clear to me that we aren't built to handle the sheer volume of stimulation present in our lives today. The stimulation of the stress of a math test, watching TV, or social media interaction and pressure is registered by your body as something far more extreme than it actually is. The simplest solution to this issue is having moments every day where you experience peace and tranquility, moments in which it is possible to let go of everything around you and simply be. I find, especially in school, that the lack of these moments is the single most significant contributor to anxiety and stress. Every day I've had at SPA for the past six years since I entered middle school, I've heard "I'm so stressed about this chemistry test," or "man, I'm never going to finish this paper for writing seminar", or "there's just so much going on in my life right now, I'm not sure if I'll be able to handle it." I know that many of us suffer from anxiety and significant stress, so it's important for everyone, from students to teachers to parents in this audience, to find moments where you can remove stimulation from your life to let your brain operate under the conditions it evolved for. It's not always easy to be alone with your thoughts while you meditate, or go outside for a peaceful walk by yourself. But it is important that you do. As for me, I've been able to turn my mind off and give my body the time without stimulation that it so desperately needs. To illustrate this, let me provide you with an anecdote. This past August, I traveled to the Track Cycling Junior World Championships in Aigle, Switzerland, a city two hours east of Geneva. Track cycling is a sport in which cyclists ride around a steeply banked two hundred and fifty meter wooden track at speeds of up to forty miles an hour, on bikes with one speed and no brakes. Needless to say, that takes a lot of concentration. I was in the middle of the final race at the World Championships, a race one hundred and sixty laps in length. While navigating the intense traffic of thirty other riders and dodging crashes left and right, my mind was completely blank. Some people call this "being in the zone." While receiving massive amounts of input, the intense concentration that was required of me turned into thirty minutes during which I left the stimulation of the rest of the world behind. It is ironic that receiving massive amounts of stimulation enables me to relax, but moments of respite from the world around you can look and feel very different for everybody. 87 48 forward stroke to keep the canoe moving forward. I loved it in the front, I had a great view of everything and I just had to overcome the fatigue and just keep going forward. After about thirty minutes we arrived at a small island with the counselor and two others arriving in another canoe just behind us. We got out, used the bathroom and had a snack. Our brief rest then ended and the counselor told me that I would be switching spots with the kid in the back. That meant that I would be steering this time, I was finally confronted by what I wanted to avoid for so long. I told the counselor that I didn't think that I would do too well in back but he showed that he had faith for me after seeing my power in the front. I hopped in the back hoping that my skills from the front would be able to translate to the back but I was very wrong. There was one thing that I was right about and that was that the wind carried me where it wanted. I had no control over the canoe and my partner was left paddling as hard as he could with no results other than the canoe spinning around and almost bumping into the rocks near shore. My own doubts were proven right and even though we made it back I didn't have much confidence in steering the canoe. The next day we were set to begin our journey, we ate breakfast and loaded into the van. The day before was stuck in my mind and I wasn't looking forward to getting in the water one bit. The wind was blowing hard and I feared that it would push me where it wanted to once again, but I was wrong because I was put in the front. I continued to avoid being in the back for the first few days but eventually I had to overcome my struggles and learn how to trek the waters. This took time, I had to struggle in the back at first before I felt comfortable steering the canoe myself. I hated it at first because my canoe was always behind, but as I kept at it I noticed that it kept getting easier and I hated it a little less. After realizing that my progress kept me wanting to get even better, I found myself spending most of the day steering and it became less of a task. I just hopped in the back and enjoyed the view, while following a simple rhythm of a few strokes on the left and then a few on the right. Once I found my rhythm to steering the canoe I enjoyed it much more. This might not have been just because I enjoyed steering, but I enjoyed that I had overcome what I thought would ruin the trip for me. Looking back on my trip I realized that I stressed way too much over this simple action because it wasn't something I was going to be good at from the start. I feared that I would be terrible controlling the canoe, so I avoided even trying to get better. I think everyone does this to an extent. I certainly know that steering a canoe is not the first thing that I tried to avoid because it was difficult. Maybe it was a paper that was really difficult to start writing so I put it off as long as possible. Or maybe it was falling on the ice, over and over and over and until I was gliding. And then shortly after that when I was flying across the rink I could hardly remember falling dozens of times. And when I finished that paper that I tried to avoid starting, the feeling of accomplishment--and maybe a little relief--put into perspective why I had to start in the first place. Because if you don't start, then you're just stuck in frustration and you never get to that feeling of accomplishment and relief. And if you don't start, or if you quit, then you never get to experience the feeling of flying over frozen ice. So maybe it's normal to initially avoid things that are uncomfortable. But if that thing isn't going away--like your research paper--then the only thing that removes the discomfort is working through it. And if it's discomfort standing in the way of something you want, then remember that falling and struggling, while awful in the moment, were a small price to pay for a lifetime of making it across the water, frozen or otherwise. Gabriella Harmoning my I haven't always felt the most at home here at SPA and I have struggled with that thought for years. This is the school my mom graduated from and where I am supposed to feel like I was being prepared to change the world with fellow geniuses, but that's not how I have felt day in and day out. In my brain, for the last thirteen years of my life I can only remember feeling nervous when it was my turn to present to the class after seeing everyone else's presentations on how they plan to fix some major world disaster. I'd be left feeling insignificant. I felt as though I was not thinking the way that many of my peers thought. But in reality, we were all feeling as though we had no idea what was going on in the world. It wasn't until this past summer when I realized that I am intelligent and I am capable of helping to truly make the world a better place and I would not have realized this if not for the amazing women I've had in my life. I have had the pleasure of growing up in a pretty much female-dominated family my whole life. Most of them are here right now, its but one testament to how much support I get every day, but that's just the beginning. My numerous grandmas have shown me the way to stand up for what I believe in because if I don't then no one will. They have taught me to stand firm in my beliefs whether they agree with them or not. I don't have enough time to tell you about every single one of my grandmas but I can tell you personally that they are all awe-inspiring people who deserve the world. Some of them live seven houses away from me and some of them live on the other side of the country but they all still mean everything to me. If they weren't such fierce women then who knows if I would even be here today telling you about how glorious they are. They have opened their house to me when I have been too stressed out to even exist in my home and they have always called me just to catch up even though I see some of them almost every day. I also have the coolest aunts. They are open to talking any time of the evening despite having small children. My aunts have taught me acceptance and love like no other. Two of my aunts aren't even biologically related to me, yet they have always helped to raise me to be the person I am today. They never expected to be aunts so soon after getting out of high school but here they are still supporting me and my mom. They have lived such adventurous and caring lives that it's impossible to even put into words how cool they are. All of them have taught me a different life lesson that I would have never thought about if it weren't for them. There is no question that they are some tough cookies for what life has dealt them. And then there are my sisters. They have taught me to have great patience because, well, if I didn't have patience with them it was going to be a very loud house. Although I may be the oldest of the sisters I still look up to every single one of them because they all have something unique about them. Zelda is the biggest fighter out there whether it is a genuine physical fight with me or when I'm frustrated with one of our parents, she is always there to fight for me. We've been through a whole lot together and I could never pay her back enough for the times she has pulled me back. Now, Kenzie is the biggest daredevil there is. My stepmom Starr can sometimes get a little nervous like any reasonable parent would when we are water rafting down the Yellowstone River for the first time ever and her nine-year-old child wants to get hit with the harsh waves as much as possible. Kenzie is always right there eager to get hit with the hardest wave. She teaches me every day to try new things. Charlotte is the youngest but she has a whole lot of character. Every day she reminds me that she doesn't love me, but I guess I do need someone to keep my ego under control. Charlotte has taught me to have an imagination again. I had been stuck living in reality until she was born I have now remembered the world I used to dream about when I was her age. I can only strive to have the creativity and endless love that she has right now. Us sisters may not get along all the time but we definitely pull it together when we need to. Alright, so here's where my mom is probably tired of hearing about every other female role model in my life because she has been waiting for this moment since I was born and the time has finally come for her. Anyone who has had even the smallest conversation with me knows that my mom is my complete hero. I try and slip her into every conversation because I will never get over how strong of a woman she is. My mom has stepped up to the plate time and time again whether it's last minute filling out a financial aid form twenty-four hours before the application is due or dropping everything, including her vital classes, to make sure that her kids are okay. To be straight with everyone, she is my hero forever and always. She created a business to support her kids and because she wanted her children and other people's children to get an incredible language education to prepare us for the world. My life has been filled with guests in and out of my house constantly because if someone is struggling with finding their place in life, she brings them to our home to help them get back on their feet which in my opinion is rather amazing. My mother and I can argue a lot but I think that's just what happens when you are so similar that photo recognition software thinks the same person. Seriously. you are My mother has given me a community to always fall back on in times of need. There is no doubt that when I need someone there will always be a community to lean on. My mom is my best friend, my hero, my twin, and best of all she is all mine. This speech isn't just for my family and friends, this speech is for everyone because we all have female role models in our life. I'm not trying to make this controversial but rather trying to remind everyone to appreciate the women in our life. The women in my life have sincerely made me a better, more compassionate and loving person. Something that my mom has really taught me as a young adult its that not everyone who is family needs to be blood-related to you and not everyone who is blood- 49 29 220 28 But she was young and she married a man too much like her father and stayed for forty years just like her mother. He could sometimes get violent, but more often than not he would yell and yell until my grandmother felt small and he had control. But then she fought. Two kids. Then a stay at home mom. She wanted a change, she demanded it. She sent him to anger management and he returned a changed man. But he had already ripped apart her self-esteem into a woman sinking further into a shell of worthlessness. He still cut her down and she still didn't see herself as anything more. She lived with a degree she wouldn't use because she couldn't believe in herself. She was smart but stuck. She raised a boy and a girl who saw a person trapped within herself who could sometimes gleam with hope and affection to someone much more than who she was. My grandmother was imperfect. She carried her mother's habits of acceptance and silence. But she pushed a little further and made their relationship a little bit better. It wasn't always enough, but she tried. For my mother's sake. Despite her own issues, she tried to help her daughter. When her husband started to creep at my own mother's sense of who she was and who she could be, my grandmother stopped him from going too far. She helped my mother achieve her dreams to leave a small town with small men with too little respect for a woman's life, to college far from home and ideas of what a woman should be. My mother escaped the cycle. She gained a career, married a man who values kindness over brutality, and she started a life where abuse could be left behind. But it wasn't always so. As a young woman, she expected no better than the women before her. She met a man in college who devalued her and tore her down. He talked fast and treated her like trash. And, it wasn't until a professor saw my mother talk about her relationship that she pointed it out. "That's not normal, that's abuse." My mother didn't believe her but she started to think that wasn't the way she should be treated. Relationships shouldn't make a person feel less valuable than their partner. So, she ended it. She broke the cycle and escaped toward a better future. These women define, give context to where I will be. How I know, will try, won't lose myself to a man who wants to control me through violent actions or words. They define where I came from and where I will be far from the cycle of abuse Yet, their stories are far from unique. And as much as I hope that none of the women in this audience have experienced or will experience abuse, I know that it is all too common. Now I want you to consider the relationships you are in and the ones around you. Is someone not being treated properly? Is there abuse? If you have, are, or do experience domestic violence, I want you to know that it is never your fault. Abusers are the only to blame. I want to say that no one deserves to be treated with cruelty and everyone deserves kindness and respect from their partner. If you are in an abusive relationship, please seek help if you can. If you see abuse in other relationships, please say something. All it takes is one person calling out abuse or mistreatment to stop a lifetime of misery. Parsa Farbakhsh When I was 4 years old, I heard of an interesting, philosophical question. It was, "if life is fair, why do roses have thorns?" I was confused and befuddled because I never really understood why roses have thorns. My confusion and sense of wondering overwhelmed me the next day when I met a turtle. I reached out to this turtle to pet it. Next, I tried to feed it but, in the process, the little monster actually bit me! I cried for days. How could something so beautiful simultaneously be so hurtful? As grew older, I realized that just like the turtle, life has the potential to harm you. But that is not the full story. The reality is that life is beautiful and, so far, my life has not happened to me. It has happened for me. I My name is Parsa Farbakhsh. I am a Persian American who has had to navigate the American culture while remaining true to my roots of Persian culture. It has been difficult at times. In the broadest sense, the American culture values seem to focus on individualism and value independence. Meanwhile, in Persian culture, we value community and the power of communal effort to accomplish tasks. Some of the most important aspects of the community is to be respectful, caring, and appreciative of our elders. For example, my grandparents are old and frail but they still reside at home with their children. Each person in the family, regardless of age, tries to take turns to provide support, care, and to show respect and appreciation for what they have done for us. As a child, I was overwhelmed at times because I felt like a victim of two cultures unable to communicate with one another. Ironically, what I learned from the experience was that I was actually equipped to manage the situation. After all, life has happened for me. Not to me. Coming from a culturally diverse background has not only enabled me to have global perspectives, but it has also taught me the importance of community. Instead of individualism, the Persian culture emphasizes collaboration in order to make valuable contributions to society. Thus, my relatives pushed me to be the best I can be in all aspects of my life: school, sports, and community work. As a result, I was involved in many sports, but most importantly, I felt pride in helping elderly people in a Persian adult day center during my trips to California. Moreover, the privilege to visit many countries has influenced me to appreciate many cultures and be proud of my bi-culturalism. Being bilingual in Farsi and English since childhood, I have been able to understand and distinguish both cultures in a better way. The challenge is to integrate both worlds and keep my integrity for both. In this way, my life has positioned me to be open and not be judgmental of other people. I am positive that this experience will help me to contribute to my country, which is so diverse and unique in the world. Furthermore, witnessing my parents and their struggles in life as immigrants was inspiring to me. They have overcome many barriers to achieve their dreams and contribute to our society. They taught me to be resilient, strong, and confident. I learned from them how to bounce back even stronger and to learn how to cope. Education and hard work was the root of their success. As my grandfather says, graduating from high school is only like completing one chapter of my life. I look forward to my next chapter by majoring in Entrepreneurial Management at the University of Minnesota. My hope is not only to become a successful businessperson but also to create hopes, success, and wealth for others. Believe it or not, Buzz Lightyear was my childhood hero and I still draw inspiration from him. Just like Buzz, I am on my way to infinity and beyond. One day, my friend said to me that Buzz is goofy because he actually cannot fly but thinks he can. That's when I replied that no matter what the reality may be, Buzz believes he can fly and that is the whole point. In the same way, by thinking of ideas, I can create my own reality through positive imagination. My life is my canvas, I am the painter of this canvas and my brush is the set of unique life experiences that I have endured. One day my dad and I were walking through the park when I suddenly stopped. I found an incredibly beautiful flower. That's when my dad reminded me that most people usually don't even notice this flower. They walk straight past it, neglecting its beauty. Some take a selfie with the flower but they don't live in the moment with the flower. Meanwhile others take the selfie and sit beside it for a moment. It is only a few people who not only identify the flower and stay with it, but choose to take it with them. They realize that if they are not the ones to take it home, someone else will. I realized that day the power of that metaphor. Life is full of opportunities. While opportunities come and go, each is unique and will never be the same. My goal is to take advantage of every opportunity that comes my way. I have made the conscious decision to be one of the few that notices the beauty in each opportunity and takes it home. After all, if not me then who else? Preston Fares Routine creates simplicity the same way it creates complication. When you lose someone, a typical response is sadness. I did not feel that initially when I lost my aunt last winter. The waves of emotion I felt almost three years ago when I first learned that my aunt was diagnosed with late stage lymphoma was nothing but fear. A fear that our days together may be numbered and we were on the clock to make it last. Breaking routines that were nothing less than religious was terrifying, and I felt as though losing them would create an irreparable hole in my heart. As she entered remission and relapsed multiple times over the next two years, I held my breath for a miracle. With the addition of leukemia to the lymphoma that she was already battling, my hope was fading. The cancer was not contagious but the anguish was hard not to catch. The end came without warning. Just weeks before as a family, my aunt included, we visited Florida together for the last time. Regret was the next step that I took as our lives parted. A hard feeling to shake, regret blinds happiness, and I hoped this feeling would be only temporary. I was mistaken, as the same fear that I felt with her initial diagnosis clung to me and I could : ¦ 50 related to you needs to be part of your family. So as all of you carry on with your day I hope you take a moment to think about the people in your life and thank them for all that they do for you. Thank you. Zoe Hermer-Cisek Over the summer a close friend of mine recommended a comedian to me. I looked her up on Netflix, randomly selected a sketch of hers, and sat down to watch. She talked about being a woman in her twenties, boyfriends, and the season fall. At first the jokes got a small smile or a chuckle out of me, but I didn't find them particularly funny. As the set went on, the smiles got fewer and fewer, and I started getting more and more uncomfortable. I started questioning: Why don't I find this funny? The audience is laughing, why am I not? These jokes seem like they should be funny, where's the disconnect here? As she started talking about groups of women ordering food, I realized it: her jokes were aimed at a male audience. She screwed up her face, puckered her lips, and affected a high, whining voice, making herself into a caricature. She talked about that one woman in the friend group who always suggests tapas, how there's only ever a bite per person, and she's a real person who just wants a burger, how can these crazy women survive on nothing but swallowed chapstick and a single bruschetta, am I right, gentleman? I thought more and more about this idea we have that the identity of the person telling a joke or making an argument automatically decides if it's "valid" or not, and I decided I don't agree. Here is a female bodied woman making jokes about other women and it still comes off as misogynistic. Is the answer here to just not make jokes involving underprivileged groups? I'd answer no, comedy is a truly valuable medium to bring people together in a positive way. The larger issue here is that lack of discourse is dangerous. Not only can it lead to stagnant ideas, but for groups that face real threats, be it from the patriarchy, xenophobia, racism, or class bias, it can be deadly. Comedy can be a lighthearted way to bring up big issues. But the way in which the comedy is being done, and why it's being done, sometimes even more than who's doing it, can dictate the nature of it. The element that often decides if a joke involving an underprivileged group is ok or not is whether it's aimed at an audience who holds power over them. A man can perform a joke about women in such a way so that an audience of women laughs and has a good time. He'll have a harder time writing it because he doesn't have a personal understanding of the way women move through the world, but it can be done. He'd have to make sure he was informed before writing the set, and ask women in his life what they think of it. A woman can perform a joke about women that makes mostly men in the audience laugh, and uses women as the butt of the joke. She may be acting on internalized misogyny, or simply not want to make a male audience feel threatened by her. Either way, regardless of her own identity, she's still making a misogynistic joke. Conversely, while jokes made by people of disadvantaged groups are still harmful when they use their own identity as the butt of a joke, being part of a group with power doesn't automatically preclude discussing issues that affect groups they are not part of. For an example outside of stand-up comedy let's look at the blog "It's Pronounced Metrosexual", which is run by a comedian who is straight and cisgender. His work revolves mostly around the LGBT community, and it has a lot of easily accessible (both literally and figuratively) information about queer identities. Some of you may be familiar with The Genderbread Person, that's one of his. I've seen backlash online stating no cis-straight person can talk about LGBT issues, and certainly can't be right about them if they dare. While there are other concerns, most of the criticism lies solely on the basis of his identity. I disagree, for a few key reasons. First and most important, he informed himself. He did his homework, and when he was given constructive criticism and new information, he changed accordingly. The Genderbread Person is now on version 3.3. Secondly, he has good intentions. He genuinely wants to raise awareness and be a good ally. Although he probably is making a profit from merchandise he's created, all of his educational materials are completely uncopyrighted, including his book A Guide to Gender. Thirdly, he recognizes his limitations. He openly identifies himself as outside the community he advocates for, and takes his cues from advocates inside the LGBT community. These are all things people of privilege need to remember before they talk about issues that don't disadvantage them. We as a community, and greater society, need to have discussions, so everyone can inform themselves, without some people being immediately shut down because of their identity. This does not excuse hate speech, use of slurs, or someone of privilege telling someone without it about what the underprivileged group deals with. The most common issue I've seen personally is well meaning allies talking over people inside the community they're trying to advocate for. However, allies are invaluable to equality movements because they can get more immediate respect from the communities that they themselves are part of A male person will have fewer barriers in educating other males about sexism than a female might have in trying to educate those same groups. These qualifiers all sound too complicated, and it is a complicated issue to balance, but it takes practice and honest, respectful feedback. Last April I was part of the page program in the Minnesota Legislature. During my week, nine juniors from around the state participated, and we all had wildly different life experiences and outlooks. Throughout the week we talked about controversial issues constantly, and all learned a lot about our differing political opinions without the goal of changing each other's minds. It worked because we all came from a place of curiosity and respect. If one of us didn't know much about a topic, then that person listened rather than talked until they had done research, and we all talked from our own experiences instead of making broad statements. There were a few times where someone was offended by part of a discussion, but they explained why they felt that way, and we all learned from that experience too. We at SPA have a problem with honest discussions around issues of privilege, mainly because the majority of the school is white and relatively wealthy, and all of us have the privilege of a better education than the vast majority of the country. During Harkness discussions we often worry more about how we sound to others, or what grade we're getting, rather than about gaining a better understanding of opposing opinions and different experiences. Sometimes we give our own opinions or experiences as if they were universal, rather than recognizing that we each have limitations on our knowledge. Limitations can't be fixed by reading about issues faced by other groups, but it does help. Even when people are informed and have good intentions, everyone will still make mistakes sometimes, but it's a good starting point. Shutting down around discussions that include issues of privilege and lack thereof is understandable, but ultimately inexcusable. I think that we need to work towards more open conversations, with the goal of gaining a better understanding of other's experiences, rather than simply avoiding conversations about identity for fear of making a mistake, and these conversations shouldn't always bar people if they're part ? group with power. of Thank you. Tristan Hitchens-Brookins When I learned that I had to write a senior speech, there were three things that crossed my mind as the years progressed. First, I thought about why I even had to give a senior speech to my friends and a bunch of people I hardly know. Secondly, I thought about whether there were any conditions for not writing and giving a speech, and after I asked a teacher whether I could get out of it and forgot the answer, I understood that it was something that I could not avoid. I finally thought about what I could write it on, and various things popped into my head over the years. Eventually, about a month ago, I just decided to think about what I like, and things I didn't like. I figured that writing about those things would make the speech a little easier to give. And hopefully, while you may not share my specific interests, you'll understand and identify with my point. And I'll just come out and say it right now: Staying true to one's self is difficult because of how life affects people every day but staying true to yourself is a little bit easier when you have reminders of who you are. The people we interact with, the people we see, and the thing we do all change us little by little, and that can be a good thing, but it's important to remember who we are. So here are a few things, from the abstract to the snack, that helps me stay focused. I'll start with winning. "To win" is described by the first definition on google as "be successful or victorious in(a contest of conflict); I like that definition a lot, but I would expand upon it. To describe winning and why it's important, I must describe losing. I don't like to lose, I hate to lose. People may say that you have to lose to become better and improve, but if you continue to flourish without giving up on yourself and your dreams, then no one should be criticizing you. Even if there is still a lot to learn that does not mean you have to lose or fail to learn it. 51 72 Even though I could glance fleetingly at a window and see myself an image of Chinese and Jewish, white and yellow together I found it hard to look into my soul without staring longer. A case of seeing not quite being enough to believe, I stared long and hard, and wrenched to the surface every insecurity, every inadequacy. What I found disturbed me, and it became painfully difficult not just to think of myself as both halves but as either of them at all. I was not Chinese enough: didn't have enough family to gather, bring under one roof to share food, stories, time, and presence; not enough celebration, lunar new year an afterthought unless Ah-Yeh was in town with his red envelopes and newspaper clippings. And not Jewish enough for a bar mitzvah, for Hebrew school, for faith. Then there was arching over it all- - language. Beautiful, flowing, singing, Missing -but alluring, I would strain my ears in restaurants to make out the rise and fall of a single person's speech, hear their laughter, and let muted jealousy engulf me. I would listen to my father, hunching over the phone and talking with Ah-Yeh as they communicated in a language of love, a jumble of syllables mostly Cantonese but punctuated by familiar, carefully enunciated words in English. Sometimes, rarely, I would try to decode it, but never lingered on the thought. Without language I didn't feel real, like I didn't really belong in either of the places that I was, am, and forever will be stuck between. I tried to seal that insecurity deep within me, in a dark corner of my heart where I thought I would forget it. I tried to hold it there, as though it wouldn't spring loose every time I walked past a window on a sunny day, dared to look, and saw it reflected. Eventually those moments countless, austere meditations on self would cease to frustrate. Instead, they led me to a new battle, not between halves but between attitudes, I decided I would conquer my fear, beating it not with retreat but pride. Because, I realized, when I'd searched for lies in the story of myself, scrutinized the moments where I'd withered in insufficiency, I'd hardly grazed the surface. Because my story contains more than regret, rage, or desire. It's full of love. Love for the bakery in San Francisco's Chinatown, slow service hastened by a rhetorical question barked in Cantonese, a warm glow of belonging beginning to blossom in my chest. Love for the awkward seder at a neighbor's house, half understanding the stories but still knowing, still remembering why I was there. Love for Sunday dim sum, sought out and found no matter where we were. Love for the Jewish community center's summer camp, making fast friends and learning to sing - badly, but excitedly -in Hebrew. Love for the ones I met and the ones I didn't: mum, dad, Ah-Yeh, Ah-Ma, Grandma, Zayde. Love not just for one side but both. ? I was and am a permanent reminder of that love. Never truly more of one half, in spite of a code switch or accusation, dangerous sparks of internal conflict. That love then at fourteen years old gave me courage to face my identity and embrace it. I launched my revolution at ground zero: my appearance. Suddenly unhappy with my buzzcut, I searched YouTube feverishly for ways to tame my hair. Hours later, knowing more but no closer to a decision, I found myself learning new slang. "Banana," the video said, "someone who's yellow on the outside, but white on the inside." Three years later, I'm speaking on this stage about breaking that dichotomy, finding peace in myself where conflict once reigned supreme. That's a process that's never finished, but to reconcile my halfness, I stand here to say, to and for myself: I am half Chinese, I am half Jewish, I am whole, and I am proud. Muriel Lang What do you think about me? What do you know about me? Do you like me? Do you dislike me? Have you heard stories about me or things I've done? If you have an opinion of me, how did you come to that conclusion? To say confidently that I actually know every face in this auditorium would be difficult, but for the most part, in a community as small as SPA's, we're all at least acquaintances, whether we like it or not. In What do you know about your classmates? Did you learn those things firsthand, or through social media or word of mouth? my experience, too often we adopt the opinions of people that we trust before giving ourselves the chance to make our own. We're all familiar with the tip of the iceberg analogy and know that we shouldn't judge a book by its cover, but people don't realize that passing judgment is natural. The problem is that we've grown used to letting our opinions be formed by others before we have the opportunity to pass our own judgments. Everyone has public traits, but also multitudes of private ones that go unnoticed by their peers. How do you view your classmates, the people to the right and left of you? Do you know or care about them beyond who they are at school? Would you even care to find out? year. As nice as it would be for strangers to know your full profile before even meeting, your insecurities as well as the areas in which you excel, that's not how it is. We see someone once, and the next time we see them we think of the same thing we felt that first encounter, or, alternatively, we think of an embarrassing moment of theirs that happened way back in freshman Sometimes we can trust our initial impression of a person, but too often that's not enough. There is more to someone than the cute outfits they wear, how sociable they are in class, and the captions they craft for their Instagram posts. Through moving past my own insecurities, I got better at reading others'. For example, I know how to put myself in someone else's shoes. When I wonder why they act sour or mean, I assume there's something else bugging them that they're keeping to themselves because I know that's true for myself. In order to not only recognize the obvious but to seek out the hidden beauty of another person's individuality, you have to be able to do so for yourself. For me, experiencing failure, or at least what I told myself was failure, in a sport that I love is what led me to give myself the benefit of the doubt that I wish we gave each-other. It has helped me sympathize with people I don't particularly like and allowed me to accept that we all have more to offer than what meets the eye. The purpose of this speech is not to glorify my growth as a player on varsity soccer here at SPA. It's about recognizing that maybe you know less about people than you'd like to think, and that, learning more about them, directly from them, will make you more connected and sympathetic to not only them but to yourself. When I was a sophomore, I tried out for and made the girls varsity soccer team. On the final afternoon of tryouts, I was offered the 19th spot on the varsity roster, and although I knew I was the final addition to the team, the last pick, I accepted it without thinking twice. Of course, I had the option to roster JV and play every minute of every game, but I knew I'd prefer less playing time and more of the culture that came along with the varsity team. Over my sophomore and junior seasons, I spent a lot of time on the bench. If you're a benchwarmer or ever were one, you know who you are; you know the feeling of embarrassment, confusion, insecurity and doubt that can overpower your experience on a team. The toll it would take on my self-esteem was something for which I was unprepared. However, out of this experience I became used to reassuring myself that I had other traits more important than being a benchwarmer on the team: patience, drive, generosity. Because I had to build my ego back up somehow, I would remind myself that not only was I an asset to the team off the field, but that I was even more multifaceted in my life outside the team. When you assume that someone means less because all you ever see them doing is warming the bench at home games, you're selling that person short. Many of our most desirable and unique traits reveal themselves through the recognition of our shortcomings and dissatisfaction. Do onlookers at the game assume that my potential is less because I don't have a spot in the starting 11? Maybe. But that's because they don't experience me as a student, as a daughter, or as a friend. Through my failure to excel on the soccer team I have understood that I am more than my identity as a soccer player. An insecurity of mine gave way to better self-understanding. But, the question remains: how are we to present that other side of ourselves to people who don't know it, and how can we make them, and ourselves, willing to listen? For starters, maybe we have to redevelop our conversational skills. The fast-paced, ever-evolving world of wireless technology we have at our disposal only encourages us to learn less about one another face to face and more through superficial connections. Caring about someone is a two-way street. Showing that you're eager to learn about their less-public traits and quirks and aptitudes will encourage them to take the same chance on you. I could have used this speech as an opportunity to present myself as the person most of you know, funny, light-hearted, pretty relaxed, but instead I'm revealing a side of me that's more insecure, in the hopes that you might feel comfortable doing the same for me. In Greek philosophy, "the Golden Mean" is the balance supporting all aspects of society and life. It is the "desired middle between two extremes, one of excess and the other of deficiency." Greek philosophy teaches that there is a "close association in mathematics between beauty and truth [...]," explaining that beauty is made up of symmetry, proportion, and harmony", and that both beauty and love are everywhere. Symmetry doesn't mean perfection, symmetry is the balance of strengths and setbacks. Love is expressed through intention and action, and by exhibiting the traits of a caring person, you'll be more approachable. Too often we base our opinions of a person off of what we see on their face and hear in their words... we envy someone for their knowledge, GPA, wealth, body, clear skin, social skills- their successes. Remember that there is an exponential amount of insight on a person to be found in how they work through their shortcomings and help themselves grow. I found my Golden Mean. Find it within yourself and then seek it out in others. Thank You! 73 64 Joseph Kase What images come to mind when you hear the phrase, Asian male? Effeminate anime character? Wise Sensai? Or an awkward nerd who is really good at math? In my speech this morning I hope to challenge this slideshow of images you are seeing, I hope to inspire you to look at Asian American men with a broader lens. In the 2017 US census, Asians made up 5.6% of the total American population. We number 21.4 million in total and 1.8 million are Korean Americans like myself. In Minnesota, our numbers even outrank the national average. Between 2010 and 2017 the fastest growing racial group in Minnesota was the Asian population, which grew by 22%, adding nearly 48,000 people. Now think about your families and close friends. I am sure there are Asian Americans your close circles. Now look to your left and your right here in Huss. Think about how many of your classmates identify as in Asian American. Racial and gender identification starts with your own definition of self, I identify as a half Asian half white male. I don't pretend to speak for the Asian female experience. Thus this speech will focus on my experiences alone. I was born Joseph Park Kase here in St. Paul, MN. My dad is German American. My mom was born in Seoul, South Korea in 1970. She came to Minnesota in 1971 at a time when there were very other few Asians. She was adopted to an Anglo family. White folks of German and Irish heritage who moved from South Dakota to St. Paul to become public school teachers. My Grandma Pat's brother Bob Prunty and sister in law Cathie Prunty were beloved teachers here at the lower school. I went to a very diverse middle and elementary school where there was a large population of Asian students. Here at SPA Asians are probably the largest group of minorities, but we are still a tiny amount compared to some other schools. you I tell all of this to give you the context of who I am and where I come from, but hear me out when I tell that none you of those things change what most people see when they meet me for the first time. I'm just a 6'2 Asian looking guy. What do people think of when they first meet me, do their minds go to the many stereotypes of Asian men in the media? Even supposedly good stereotypes like the idea of the model minority hurt because they create an unattainable standard for most Asians and unfairly measures other minorities against this stereotype. The dehumanizing stereotypes of Asians being weak and awkward contribute to an even more significant problem. Toxic masculinity. When a group is considered to act outside of American society's ideals of masculinity it leads people in that group to lash out in unhealthy ways to overcompensate and live out bad stereotypes. When Asian men are called out for being smart, geeky, feminine, kung fu boy, any of the one-dimensional tags you can give to us you are taking away our individuality and our humanity. I become invisible. I become less than who I really am. We can see this in a number of myths, four of which I'd like to discuss with you. Myth #1- The myth of the beautiful effeminate Asian American man. Think of the forever pubescent Korean boy bands like BTS with their perfectly styled hair and matching clothes. They seem much more approachable to the American media than let's say a hardcore Hmong rapper sporting lots of tats and piercings. Think of the loveable big-eyed anime male characters in Miyazaki films. This stereotype feeds into the harsh reality that emasculation leads to dehumanization. They seem so harmless and cuddly. Yet, when you make us into little, cute forever boys, we have nowhere to evolve. What do we become? This leads me to Myth #2 - Asian Men aren't "real" American Men. How do we define "real" American men? If "real" men are those who have lead roles on TV and "get the girl" in movies, then Asian-American men certainly aren't "real" men. We are the clown sidekicks who serve as comic relief. Think of Ken Jeong in The Hangover movies or most Asian characters in sitcoms or comedies. We are relegated to cardboard cutouts. Stereotypes used as punchlines rather than fully fleshed out characters. This matters because representation matters, so when the only representation people see of Asians is a stereotype who do we have to look up to? Myth #3 - All Asian American Men are Math and Science Geniuses. Thus we are getting into all of the best colleges and taking away the bests jobs. These are both just NOT true but they are destructive. They foment resentment against Asian Americans and can make Asian Americans who do not live up stereotype feel inadequate. And while they can feel less than for not excelling in STEM fields, they are often overlooked in athletic contexts. This leads me to Myth #4 - Asian American Men Can't Play Sports (Unless its Kung Fu or Karate). Two words: Jeremy Lin. When you think of Asian athletes, it's probably him or Yao Ming who come to mind. I can't tell you how many times I have been called both while playing various sports in my life. When you can only name two Asian athletes compared to the hundreds of white or African American athletes, it just illustrates that the consensus is Asians can't excel athletically. But here's a short list of Asian American athletes if you need some more names: Michael Chang (tennis), Tiger Woods (golf), Troy Polamalu (football), BJ Penn (UFC fighting), Ron Darling (baseball), Apolo Ohno (Olympics speed skating), and Nathan Adrian (Olympics swimming). Asian men are intellectually and athletically divergent. These last two assumptions fail to recognize individual skills and instead, stress the idea that racial makeup predetermines one's abilities. These myths all contribute to thousands of young Asian American men struggling to belong and live life without battling insensitive stereotypes. There are likely around 30 of them in this audience today. And this one up here at the podium is asking you to see us as individuals. I don't want to listen to racist judgments of how I should look, act or what areas I can excel in. I'm also asking you to become an Asian American ally. An ally is a person who is not a member of a mistreated or marginalized group themselves but gives support to that group. You alone can decide how to use your voice to support Asians or other marginalized communities. Call out racism or stereotypes. Sec people for their whole selves. My final advice to you all is don't be defensive or dismissive when talking about uncomfortable subjects like race. Keep this dialogue going. In closing, I want to thank you all for allowing me to share my story with you today. To be my whole self. This is the legacy I hope to leave behind for any other Asian American boys who attend SPA. Be seen. Be heard. Be kind. BE YOU! Thank you. Gabriel Konar-Steenberg This summer, I was browsing articles in Wikipedia's "List of Common Misconceptions," reading about how the Bible doesn't actually specify that the forbidden fruit is an apple, when I saw a link to something called an "etrog," I clicked on the link and found that the etrog, which some Jewish scholars believe to be the true forbidden fruit, is a member of the citrus family and is also known as a yellow citron. Clicking on "Citron," I found that it is the primitive genetic root of many other other types of citrus. The lemon (click!) is a hybrid of the citron and the bitter orange, which (click!) is used as an appetite suppressant due to its "synephrine" (click!) content. But the Meyer lemon (click!) is a hybrid of the citron and some other cross between the mandarin and the pomelo, so it's entirely different from the regular lemon. And limes-back up to "Lemon" and click! with their acidic juice vesicles (click!) are just completely non-monophyletic (click!, though I knew that one from class). I don't actually have a specific interest in the Garden of Eden or in the ridiculously complicated citrus family tree. Not to compare apples and oranges, but I prefer to eat the popular misconception of the forbidden fruit over its more historically grounded citrus competitor. But that didn't stop me from spending much of that summer day at the beach on my phone, traversing my own ridiculously complicated tree of Wikipedia articles, all descending, much like citrus taxonomy, from "Etrog." And this was far from my first trip up the tree, or, rather, down the rabbit hole. It began years ago, with real encyclopedias one memorable incident involved elementary school me looking for "Capillary Action" and stumbling across "Capital Punishment" - but Wikipedia and its conveniently placed hyperlinks make the process a lot easier. Recent virtual expeditions have started at "Mail and Wire Fraud" and ended up at "Bill of Attainder"; started at "United States Coast Guard" and gotten to "Stephen Jin-Woo Kim"; and traveled from "Rabies" to "Lumbar Puncture" via "United States Biological Weapons Program." Though I cast myself as a STEM guy, I'm curious about literally everything. This is why, despite how imperfectly worded, gender-imbalanced, and rife with '[citation needed]'s it can be, Wikipedia is one of my favorite things in the world. 65 80 said. A similar logic applies to asking questions. The notion to "think before you speak" holds validity; however when we freeze for fear of judgment, ridicule, or of being too controversial, the discussion loses its life, its tachlis. As I exited the Mosque, I could hear the voice of my ninth grade World History teacher, Mr. Bollinger Danielson. He once told me to imagine that everything I knew about the world could be condensed into the circle created by a spotlight on a pitch-black stage. Past the circle in the darkness were all the unknowns. Between the light of the known and the darkness of the unknown, question marks lined the perimeter of the circle. By posing questions, I could unlock new understanding and expand the spotlight. But as the spotlight spread, so, too, would my perimeter of questions. At SPA... I'm given two messages... and this is what those messages mean to me: When we dare to engage with the stranger, for the sake of learning, for the sake of human connection, we grow our collective spotlight; the essential growth lying in the willingness to ask tough questions. Mia Litman What has made you who you are? Who has made you who you are? A married couple walked into the Mayo Clinic hopeful to hear any positive news that would benefit their future. Over the past year, they had overcome not one, but two miscarriages. Unsure as to why they continually faced such devastation, the couple met with a doctor. But unfortunately, he had no helpful answers for them. He tried multiple tests and eventually the wife got pregnant again, yet had another miscarriage soon after. The doctor performed even more elaborate tests, ultimately showing that the wife was born with a balanced translocation, meaning that two chromosomes broke apart and rejoined with each other in the wrong places. It would be near impossible for one of her fertilized eggs to be carried to term. Refusing to lose hope, the doctor continued testing on her and tried fertilizing her eggs in the preliminary phases of "preimplantation genetic diagnosis". But, the only place to do this procedure was at the St. Barnabus Hospital in New Jersey. Willing to try anything to have a child of their own, they traveled to New Jersey, arrived at the hospital, and waited. Thirteen eggs were removed and fertilized, but all proved to be defective. The couple was devastated, but they knew they couldn't give up. And they didn't. As soon as they arrived back in Minnesota, the couple traveled straight to the Mayo Clinic, determined to explore their options including the use of an egg donor, adoption, or a surrogate. The wife knew what she wanted to do. There was nothing that she had wanted more than to carry her own child and to have that connection with them, so the couple decided on using an egg donor, one specifically who had dark hair and dark eyes. The nurses even said that she was the perfect match. They soon began the process. The egg donor was stimulated with medication and eventually, there were twelve eggs ready to be fertilized. The Embryologist picked the top three eggs and they were put into the wife. All three worked where there was one sack for each, but the third never got a heartbeat. The pregnancy was more difficult than the process of getting pregnant. Eighteen weeks on bed rest at the Mayo Clinic where her lungs were filled with liquid, constant bleedings, going in and out of labor, not having the strength to get up and being upside down to avoid any pressure on the cervix. It was difficult, and it was painful, but she wasn't going to give up. She wanted her children healthy even if she suffered. Thirty-three weeks of the pregnancy later, on September 12, 2000, a set of twins was born healthy. They were named Mia and Shane, In my English elective "Reading and Writing Memoir," Ms. Olguin had us do a journal exercise where we wrote to a small audience that could relate to us, using an identity, trait or something that not many people could relate to. I decided to write to people that have an egg donor, specifically about how I sometimes feel that I am missing half of my identity. This was something that I have struggled with for the past year or so, not knowing what the egg donor looks like or knowing my history. I find myself wondering: 'Do I look like her? Do I act like her? Am I prone to any genetic diseases that I am currently unaware of?" blood My mom has sent numerous letters to the Mayo Clinic in the hope that I will be able to just get a picture of the donor, to have some sort of closure in my life. And please don't get me wrong, I am incredibly grateful and fortunate for my parents. While I do sometimes wonder who my biological mom could be, I know that who I am today is shaped largely from my amazing mom and dad. So why does it bother me? Why, when I was given the opportunity to address any small audience that I associate myself with, did I choose this community? I could have easily written to an audience of children with divorced parents, to twins, or to the Jewish community. These audiences are more influential into who I am today. So, why do I even care about knowing who the donor was if I already know who my mom is? egg The short answer is that I don't really know. I don't know why it bothers me. I can't put into words what it feels like to want to know about someone who has never been a part of my life. But, I do know that I wonder if I have any mannerisms that are genetically derived. I wonder if the brown tinge in my eyes is from the egg donor. And I wonder if there is anything in my personality that can be attributed to her. Just knowing if there was anything about her that exists within me would give me some semblance of closure that I never knew I wanted. So, I guess it just bothers me not knowing. Or, more specifically, I know that part of my genetic makeup comes from her, I just don't know which parts. But I think it's normal to be curious. If someone gave you something-a gift or a present you'd want to know who it was, right? Now imagine that something is literally something that you live with everyday. And to top it off, not only do you not know who gave you something, you don't know exactly what they gave you. my But as curious as I am, what I do know is far more significant. I am who I am today because of my actual mom and dad. From my dad, I have gained the values of caring for others and always being supportive no matter what. I gained my love of sports, and value of family above all else. And from my mom, I gained the value of hard work and dedication. There is nothing my mom cannot accomplish when she puts her mind to it. I am also loving and unwavering because of who she is. Most of all, however, I am determined, resolute, and strong because of that same couple who first walked into the Mayo Clinic more than two decades ago, I am, through all that they have given me, Kari and Gregg's daughter. Shane Litman Happiness. It's something we all struggle to find in some form or another as we all experience ups and downs. Things like judgement or fear of judgement, are all things that have likely hindered the ability for many of us to find happiness. For some, it may even seem like finding happiness is impossible, but truthfully, it never is. It is always within reach, no matter how far it might seem, but that doesn't mean it's easy to get there. Recently, my younger cousin had been struggling with happiness. For years, we all had fun together and were nothing but happy, but the past couple of years had been different. She was less happy, less smiley, less of the bubbly, sassy person we had grown to love. It appeared as if there was something she was shielding from us that had been eating her up inside. When it got to its worst, there were times when I went to my cousins' house to hang out and bond with family, but she would rarely join in the fun anymore, and instead stowed away in her room. She had started to eat a lot less than usual as she found herself lost in a dark tunnel of sadness and depression. She was seemingly blocked off by something she figured out about herself that she didn't know if she'd be able to accept, let alone anyone else. She was scared. She just wanted to be normal, but she could no longer see that happening. It felt to her like there was really no purpose in her life anymore. Painstaking months went by and she eventually was able to accept herself. She was able to turn her depression and self- loathing into self-love, and once she was able to love herself, she started to be able to see the light at the end of the tunnel again. After that she was able to tell some of her closest friends and family about her secret and she was able to progress from there. A month or two later, I went to a Twins game with my dad and uncle, and around the 4th inning, my uncle told us the secret that Jackie had found the strength to share about herself: she was transitioning. She started dressing differently, wearing dresses, heels, and makeup, and expressing herself more in the way that she had wanted to for so long. Most importantly, she was finally happy again and able to share her beautiful, authentic, personality with her loved ones. Now that she found the courage to tell her loved ones the secret that she had previously so painfully tried to lock away deep down inside herself, she felt freed to be her true self and thus found the happiness that had been so elusive. 81 30 not seem to lose it. I could not help but remember all the opportunities that I had missed when time felt limitless and a skipped dinner was for homework, and a missed call was a task for another time. As time crept on my fear of change grew and my memories were becoming less about remembering the good times and more about wishing for a chance to make up the missed ones. Traditions are hard to break and realizing their importance seemed to come much too late. My family and I joined my aunt for dinner every Sunday night without fault, and the routine seemed endless until the routine of skipping them was just as consistent. It was only when I missed a late Christmas dinner to finish a project with friends when my worst fears were realized. I never would have thought that my last chance to sit down around the table and recap our weeks and plan for the future was that night. As I worked on my homework, across the city my aunt was being carried to the car to the hospital for the last time and as no word from my parents came I thought no more of it. My mind was flooded with every single chance I could have done anything differently. The regret I felt for not making the five minute trip to the hospital when I had the chance, to get my last piece of advice, or to share a last laugh, was heart wrenching. When I thought about all the times I could have gone and seen her I fought back tears. I felt selfish, and lazy. I could not get past the idea that there was more, that I could have done more. Obviously I did not blame myself for her illness, but how I could have made a difference the last few months clouded my mind. I should have called, I should have sent her the photos from my trip, I should have offered to help around the house, I should have and could have done all of these things and these thoughts were endless. As I looked back I began weighing decisions I had made that I could have been doing something. Should I have missed that dinner, was it really necessary to go to work that day, did I actually care about that class? What I realized as time passed was that no one thing was going to make me feel better or rationalize my past. For me it was seeing my cousin, sleeping over with friends, and avoiding certain places. But these did less healing and instead pushed out memories, and avoided the real issues. I would get on the highway and get off if I had to go towards her house, I avoided Disney like the plague, and our favorite restaurants made me sick. I could no longer enjoy the things that we loved. For the months after, nothing was the same. Stability in my life was a distant dream and excitement for the little things were lost in mourning. The guilt of never saying goodbye was nothing but pain. And as I reminisced, cried, and repeated, my routines that I cherished with my aunt were being filled with a horrible, seemingly endless cycle. This cycle was broken when I realized that my aunt would never wish her death to mean sadness. With her infectious laugh and the love she radiated, her memory should never be riddled with heartbreak, but instead celebrated with bliss. When you love someone, the typical response to their passing can obscure their life. The vacations, holidays, and Sunday nights together that I felt I had taken advantage of ate away at the love I had for our traditions. No matter how close you cherish the time you had with someone, losing them will bring sadness. Losing my aunt felt as though I lost all the stability in my life. I had been so focused on avoidance that I did not stop to practice all of the lessons she had taught me. Family was the biggest part of her life. She loved her siblings, parents, nephews, children, grandchildren, and dogs more than anything. Even when her energy was drained empty by rounds of chemo, she stretched that last bit of energy to host family dinners every Sunday. She had a love for the smaller things in life as well. She loved her job, going to work, and being busy. She loved movies, and always made sure if she found one she liked to watch it with me. She loved her Honda CRV, and the color blue. She loved taking the long way home. Not only did she model positivity in my life, she also showed me that it is ok to be upset. You do not always have to be ok. But while it's important to recognize that things will not always be OK, she also taught me that even when things are bad, you can always find something to laugh about, Grief is normal and necessary but in the process I had forgotten what was important to me. I was so busy fighting myself, asking why life was so unfair to me. Instead I needed to see all of the things that I had been given. I was given a best friend, a role model, and an escape for 17 years, and I can never take that for granted. Do I wish she could have seen me graduate high school, send me off to college, and watch me grow into the person she
11 always believed I could be. Of course I do. And I still will. I will do all of those things. I will work so hard to make her proud. What I realized was that the time I spent with her, all of the traditions and values I learned, the mindless fun and adventures are all things that I can now cherish and carry with me and practice for the rest of my life. Isaac Fink It was a pleasant summer afternoon at the Carondelet fields. The parking lot was packed, and parents were setting up lawn chairs around the edges of the field. The ref blew a whistle, and a mob of five year olds crowded towards a soccer ball, fighting as much against teammates as opponents to get control of the ball. Parents shouted encouragement from the sidelines, and during breaks in the game, gave their kids enthusiastic pep talks. One parent got completely swept up in the excitement, loudly praising his kid (especially in light of his underperforming teammates) and trash-talking the opposing team's goalie who was also just five years old. ? This was the first experience I remember with competition. It was our first big game in the Highland-Groveland Soccer League. However dysfunctional, we ended up being a successful team and did win most of our games, which was very rewarding to my five year-old self. Our pride and self-confidence were bolstered by praise from parents and coaches. As children, we naturally wanted to win, to be the star of the game, and praise affirmed that mentality. For better or for worse, this natural competitive drive is reinforced and directed by society from an early age. It certainly was for me it was very rewarding to win, to score a goal, or to move up in the league. These temporary rewards kept bringing me back to the cycle of competition. Naturally, this trend couldn't last forever. A less successful experience with competition was when in fifth grade (at a solid 4 foot 5 inches) I joined the basketball team. With a team of seven players - -- too few to switch out every round- we all got plenty of opportunities to play, but ended the season with a respectable record ... of 0 to 8. We were forced to recognize shortly into our very first game that we were way out of our league and could probably expect to lose most if not all of our games. Nevertheless, we showed up for every game and did our best and lost again and again. Even under these circumstances, it was still satisfying to make a basket for the team, as each of us managed to do several times before our season ended. Despite our pathetic record, we found we were able to still enjoy our practices and games. Winning would have been great, but since it was apparently not going to happen, we focused on pushing ourselves to the limits of our skills, which we were developing during practices. So we were still motivated, and by the end of the season we had all improved significantly. However cliche this story may be, it was very true. Of course, sports are not the only context where competition dominates. The culture of competition finds its way into the academic world as well. Upon entering the academic system, students are judged on how they compare to the average, or, how much better or worse they are than their peers. Standardized tests are often scored on a percentile, ranking you based on how many students did worse than you. Starting from ninth grade, students begin forming a permanent record which will measure them against other students across the United States and beyond. To succeed in life, children are taught that being good means being better than others. There is definitely some benefit to a bit of competition if it encourages you to work harder and achieve more. It can be a valuable resource to drive you to apply yourself, and act as inspiration for you to achieve your own goals. But if you use it as a ranking system, and orient your life around being better than others, it becomes unhealthy and counter-productive. Those who haven't achieved "winner" may feel discouraged and have diminished self-worth. If the goal is to be on top, then the chances of success are narrow, and failure is often met again and again regardless of whether improvement is made. If the only measure for success is another person, then all achievements and progress made individually are erased. Focusing on merely being the best does not yield ambition but stifles it. Despite this, it is extremely tempting to fall back into using competition as a definition of success - it's simply easier. Other people are a convenient metric to determine how well we are doing in specific areas, despite being on their own trajectory. It's also very satisfying to win in competition. However, this satisfaction is only temporary and is not sustainable; there will always be someone better. So how can we succeed in a society structured around competition without getting caught up in it? We can't disregard these systems that encourage competition - it wouldn't necessarily be a good idea to just skip standardized testing, for example. 31 565 A great quest of my life has been to find Rhiannon. Stevie said that, "she rings like a bell through the night and wouldn't you love to love her? Takes to the sky like a bird in flight and who will be her lover? All your life you've never seen a woman taken by the wind. Would you stay if she promised you heaven? Would you ever win?" Could you ever win? Stevie left me without a perfect ending, but it was meant to be that way. See there is beauty in understanding, but even more in the lack thereof. I used to hate leaving a song feeling defeated, but now there is only defeat in the understanding. Understanding limits someone from finding the truth for themselves within their own stories. How they're affected by that truth, how their life can be changed by that truth. This love is not about understanding, it's not putting the pieces together to fit perfectly. It's allowing them to fall into the rightful place like truth. This love is truth, This love can be angry. Angry with me, maybe with you, but angry all the same. It's the only thing that allows me to be angry. My screams match that of the grunge and my fists pump to the fight. We connect through this loves anger. We connect through the strongest of bonds. Relation. This anger isolates me, however, I never feel alone. I always have whoever's with me, helping me persevere. This love means everything to me because I can feel unapologetically. I can hate, judge, love, inspire, and never feel like a burden. I can feel everything and nothing and I never have to explain myself. The feelings I hold, the feelings I wish I held. This is what music has given me. This Every word, every sound, mimicking my thoughts, and the thoughts I never knew I had. It knows me better than anyone. love holds me like no one can, mends my heart, heals my wounds, my broken bones. This love has healed you too. I know it has, with every beat, every step, every chord, it heals. And we choose to listen. And we keep listening. She has no name and he no face. This love is like a never ending grace. It has no need to help or want, and yet with it's tune it taunts. It taunts us like a toy to a child. We play until we grow older and then we want a new toy, one that works better, one that is more fitting to who we are now. We yearn for it, catching the drops of milk and honey from the lips of the songstress. Beauty can be found in the love that this love shares. It spreads like a disease, infecting the weak and the strong alike. All of us wanting what's being advertised. We all want love, and affection and the feeling of inclusion and being wanted. Why shouldn't we turn to this love to fill that void. It suffices for us all. It supplements the feelings we want but don't have. What artist or genre do you typically turn to in hard times? How do their words define you? How do they unwind you? My love seems to find even the darkest sad parts of me. Parts I didn't know existed. Music has allowed me to find myself through connecting with other people. Someone smart once said, "from all the loves, the one I need most is music." This love goes unnoticed by some. Some don't appreciate it the way I do, the way I think it's meant to. Some listen to the meaningless, the soloist with the money that can digitize their voice into something new and bright and shiny. Some listen but search for understanding, and will never truly find it. Others, like me, don't want the understanding, we want it to not make sense, to drive us nuts in wonder, in thought, in feeling. We want it to overcome us, until it's written in our DNA and becomes of us, a part we don't understand, but that's okay. a part Some just hear this love as background noise, some don't enjoy it at all. To those people I'm sorry you feel that way, because this love has no obligations, just your worship when you need it. I have always felt this connection. This burning love, full of passion, darkness, and empathy. This love is unwavering and it is a constant in my life. In yours I would hope too. This love trebles in strength. I can't thank the artists that brought me this love enough. To them I am forever in debt with gratitude. The Shins wrote something beautiful and imperfect and I would like to share it with you all. "Remember walking a mile to your house. Aglow in the dark. I made a fumbling play for your heart and the act struck a spark. You wore a charm on a chain that I stole especial for you. Loves such a delicate thing that we do, with nothing prove. Which I never knew" Thank you for the music. Jeffrey Huang One of the biggest things I remember from my childhood is how much I hated putting myself into any remotely uncomfortable situations. I recall my parents having to drag me out of the house to go to soccer games and piano recitals, and I absolutely despised days where I would have to give a presentation in class. The discomfort came from the fact that I believed that I would fail one way or another in these situations. I remember repeating to myself "I'm gonna fail. I'm gonna fail. I'm gonna fail." This fear of failure has always plagued my life - whether it be failing to perform on the soccer field, on an exam, or even just striking up a short conversation with someone. Many times, I find myself being so afraid of failing at something that I decide not to try it at all. For example, during the soccer season, I was perfectly content with sitting on the bench for the entirety of games because I was afraid that if I did somehow end up on the field, that I would mess up horribly one way or another. And in school whenever I walk past someone in the hall, I usually just give them a head nod, instead of saying something completely normal like "Hey" or "Good Morning." You know, because what if I stumble on my words or ... what if it starts a conversation and I have no idea what to say? You see, there's not really a way to mess up a head nod. I mean, I guess you could kinda jerk your head around and look like you're possessed. But that's kinda hard. I guess this fear of failure could be classified as perfectionism. I'm scared to push myself into any remotely difficult situations because I'm afraid that I won't perform the tasks perfectly. But then again, to call me a perfectionist would be a very misconstrued description of me. While I wouldn't say I'm at the levels of procrastination that some of my friends are at, I'm definitely up there. And while this usually doesn't have many negative consequences in my daily schoolwork, it's pretty bad for things like competitions or college apps, you know, really important things that require many hours of preparation. Waiting until the last few days to write the college essays that would decide where I'd be for the next four years was uh, ...yeah that was pretty dumb. So I mean a simple and obvious fix to my fear of failure, would just be to put in the hard work and preparation beforehand, so that I'm fully prepared to succeed when the big day comes. But you know that kinda requires just a little too much work and, even then, no matter how hard we prepare, we can't always be perfect. So, we must learn to be comfortable with failure. Here's how I've tried to ease my fear of failure: The first thing for me is to analyze all the potential outcomes of a situation- Part of my fear of failure comes from the fact that I don't like to go into situations where there are unknowns. See I don't think of myself as a good on-the-spot thinker, which is probably why I suck at Harkness discussions. So, I try to consider all of the possible outcomes of the situation to make myself feel just a little more comfortable. The second thing is to think more positively. Positive thinking helps to build self-confidence and keeps us in the right mindset. One of the biggest problems I had was that I would always tell myself that "I was gonna fail." I made myself believe that I would fail and with that mindset, I usually did end up making mistakes. Finally, the best thing for me is to look at the worse-case scenario and kinda put everything into perspective - In some cases, the worst case scenario may be genuinely disastrous, and it may be perfectly rational to fear failure. (You know like if you're a doctor and, uh, failing to do the procedure correctly means your patient will die...yeah sorry to ruin your dreams Mom but I can't be a doctor). But in most situations, the worst case really isn't that bad. I mean what's the worst that could happen if I messed up on the soccer field? Ok it'd probably be that I would whiff the soccer ball, which would cause me to fall on my face into a puddle of mud, which would lead to the game-losing goal, which would end our season, which would mean that the rest of my team would hate me, and the shame would stay with me for the rest of my life, causing me to never play sports again. See, like I said, it's really not that bad. But whatever situation we're faced with, we have to realize that it's basically impossible to go through life without experiencing some form of failure. People who have never failed, probably live so cautiously that they don't end up doing anything with their lives and, to be honest, are probably just really, boring people. But, the great thing about failure is that it's entirely up to us to decide how to look at it. We can choose to see failure as the end of the world, and proof of just how inadequate we are. Or, we can look at failure as something to learn lessons from. The lessons are how we grow as people, and how we make sure to not make the same mistake twice. Failure stops us only if we let it. 57 78 Granted the medicine helped, but the changes I implemented into my lifestyle helped me face my fears and move past my anxiety, therefore making me a happier and more balanced person. Through this, I have grown, and as I look on to my future, again anxious about what it holds, I have confidence that I will be able to tackle any obstacles that happen to stand in my way. To end, I want to thank some of the most important people in my life that have helped me overcome the challenges I have faced in my life thus far. Thank you, Mom and Dad for your sacrifices both financially and emotionally. You have helped me transform into a balanced person, and without you two as my role models, I don't know where I would be in life. You two are truly the most special people on the planet. I love you. To my Aunt Lisa, for all the lessons you have taught me, and for showing me that no matter how you appear on the outside, your work ethic and ability to push through what tries to hold you back will always prevail. To my best friend Adam, thank you for being my go to guy over the past 4 years. I know that you're going to go on to do great things in your life. Your strong soul and intelligent mind will help you change every life you touch. To my grandpa Ron, for nurturing my love for cars, and showing me that there are tools to help you, but the act of problem solving really comes from within. Finally, to cap off, thank you to everyone who has helped me with my mental health, by sharing their own experiences with me, namely my aunt Hilary, and my cousin Charlie. You two are both great role models, and together you have helped me be an open minded person who is always there to help others with their individual experiences. People like you truly help erase the stigma around mental health awareness. Ethan Less At SPA, I'm given two seemingly contradicting messages: 4) There's no such thing as a dumb question, 5) I shouldn't put the burden of my ignorance on the oppressed. At my family dinner table, this conflict doesn't exist. From the obscure to the profound, our dinner conversations are indicative of an uninhibited range of questions and thought. For example: Brandon: What are the ways in which we think anti-semitism exists today? Justin: What do you think is a better immigration system, Mom? Me: Dad, I've been wondering, how do you know if you have Chlamydia? (don't worry, he's a gynecologist... and also I was ten.) Like the New York strip steaks grilling outside, these were medium rare, juicy, intellectual, personal questions sizzling on the wooden dinner table. But, we grappled with them with such a caring and trusting intent, that it felt safe to ask, to speak, and to be in that fire... My family discussions can often be described using the Yiddish word: tachlis. Now, I hope Yiddish lives on for many reasons. It's the language of my ancestors. It's currently dying and that's sad. But, if I had to give you one reason why, one word actually, it's onomatopoea. You know when you have a little crumb on your face and your mom tells you "you got a little schmutz there." Then she licks her thumb and wipes it off of your face. Ehhh? Yiddish. Tachlis works like schmutz. It doesn't have an easy English translation, yet it feels right. Tachlis is the nitty gritty. The heart of the story. The purpose. It's tachlis. If things could possess tachlis, Less family dinner conversations do just that. But what about a conversation with a stranger? Can I ask them the same raw, intimate questions? And what about my intent? Is it to fight, to win? Or to share? To learn? These questions remind me of story I want to share with you. And for the sake of tachlis, let's go to the heart of the story. The weight on my chest lifted as the thought streamed out of my mouth. But, the feeling was short lived. My words became daggers; cutting through the air, hanging like an echo in the shocked silence of my peers. I could have asked any question, but out came: How does jihadist terrorism affect you as a Muslim living in Israel? My chest began to pound as I realized the potential harm of my words. In that moment, I sat in a pool of discomfort, no longer at my family dinner table... On that exceptionally hot summer day during my Israel seminar, my group of more than one hundred Jewish-American teens explored a Catholic Church, a Bahai Temple, and a Mosque near the Sea of Galilee. I'd never been inside a Mosque before. And as a Jew from Minnesota, I definitely didn't understand the minutiae of relationships between Muslims and Jews in Israel. Yet within the demeanor of the Imam, our guide who welcomed us, I sensed a feeling of warmth. His "taqiyah", a Muslim head covering, looked strikingly similar to my own religious head covering, my "kippah." As I listened closely to him speak, I was curious about other similarities between Islam and Judaism. After touring the Mosque's prayer space, he led us to a room with a circle of empty chairs. He shared stories of his community's traditions, and then asked if we had any questions. I was a balloon inflating with curiosity. What was it like as a Muslim living in a Jewish state? Did Israelis treat him with respect? Did he have Jewish friends? And, yes... That was the moment when the swirling thought-tornado morphed into my burning query. How does jihadist terrorism affect you as a Muslim living in Israel? I looked around the room, like an amateur comedian does after bombing a joke, hoping that someone would interject and take the spotlight off of me, but the room was still as the glass-like water of the Galilee. In my head, I was scolding myself: How can you expect one man to speak to the suicide bombings of the Intifadas or the unfathomable acts of 9/11? Can you speak to those same atrocities? Or are you putting the burden of your own ignorance on him? The same burden that others put on you when they see your kippah and ask "Do you speak Jewish?" then laugh and walk away? The Imam gazed at me from across the room. His pause didn't convey contempt, yet he could not answer. He shuckled back and forth, his hands taking hold of his knees. I felt my temperature rise within; red faced and sweaty palmed, I waited in the defeaning silence... until what seemed like minutes after... our eyes finally connected and he responded with a smile and a head nod: "I hear you. It's very difficult. It's tough to know what I feel about violent jihad or the remnants of past acts both in this land and others. It's a good question, though." That was it. As raw and intimate as it was, the response was enough. My question led to an exchange between two strangers of different backgrounds. He made me aware that he, too, struggled to find answers, and yet his voice assured me that it was okay to ask that question. We'd formed a human connection, not sought to solve the Middle East crisis. We'd reached the nitty gritty in an unfinished puzzle. Tachlis. Though I feared how my words would hurt the Imam, I dared to ask a tough question because I sought to build a connection with him. I could allow myself to feel undaunted by the possibility of his answer. Nonetheless, getting into the heart of the issue with the Imam required an intense level of trust, compassion and patience. Stand-up comedian John Mulaney believes that if something is truly funny, but possibly controversial, then it's worth being 79 94 One of my friends once told me that being short made it so that I could comfortably creep through air vents. So I guess that's a good thing? Another example is that authors somehow think that the only time to mention the height of a character is when they are either really tall, or really short. This leads to me having characters to look up to, or to reword, look up to without craning my neck. When I still did Tae Kwon Do, I'm a black belt, by the way, I usually couldn't reach far enough to kick people in the face while sparring. However, I was able to aim lower, leading to instances such as the time when I accidentally kicked one of my male opponents in the... lower area, and I never saw him again. The moral of that story is that being short helps rid you of enemies. your But it doesn't stop at basic logistical issues and unnecessary commentary. Unsurprisingly, height has an unfortunate tendency to affect future job options. A few years ago, I had my eyes set on becoming a NASA astronaut. However, the official document for astronaut selection and training has the statement that all candidates must have a standing height of 62 inches minimum. 62 inches is five feet two inches, and as you all know, that's not going to be possible for me. One would think that NASA would prefer astronauts to be shorter, due to the size of the machinery, but evidently not. After learning that limitation, I started reading sci-fi like I never had before. Through books I could go to places much cooler than a confined metal structure or the moon, and there was nothing NASA could do to stop me. I'd like to say that I have never been ashamed of my height. But that would be a lie. I always look at the statistics that say short people will be paid less. Short people have a smaller chance of being promoted. Short people can't be an astronaut no matter how much they want to go towards the stars. I will freely admit that those realizations, those comments, they hurt. For years, I managed to cover up that insecurity with comebacks like: when the sky falls you'll die first! My height is something that I can't change about myself and I could never understand why people felt the need to comment, much less the need to mock. I make fun of my own height, but it's the comments that come out of nowhere that really sting, the comments that come from complete strangers. I know that people aren't going to stop commenting about my height. It's very noticeable after all. But what I can do, what anyone struggling with a similar problem can do, is to find the strength to ignore the commentators and love yourself as you are. Your body is the only one you have so you might as well appreciate it. I be too short to be an astronaut candidate, but I am short enough to have qualified as a hobbit for the Lord of the Rings may movies. So here's the truth. I am not, five feet tall. I, am four feet, eleven and three quarter inches tall. I am not ashamed anymore. Elizabeth Nowakowski What is hope? It is an abstract idea that is hard to put into words. It's something that most people, including myself, can't fully comprehend, but benefit from nonetheless. Although I'm not entirely sure of it's definition, I do know however, what hope is not. It is not a denial of the reality or a failure to see a situation for what it is. When my parents told me that we were going to visit my great grandpa to "say goodbye" I genuinely did not accept the reality of the situation. When I saw him he was sitting in a chair looking crumpled and frail -- not the way I was used to seeing him. My heart sank when I entered the room, but it was because he was in such poor health, not because I believed it to be the last time I would see him. In fact, in my head there was a large possibility of him recovering from terminal lung cancer. That was, in my mind, the only possibility. Or at least the only possibility that I would allow. But seeing him made me feel helpless. The only thing that I could do was give him a hug, and tell him I loved him, so that's what I did. That was the last time I saw my great grandpa. Later that day I rode in the backseat with my grandma and dad in the front. In a saddened haze I listened to their conversation, which eventually came to my dad asking "when will the funeral be?" I was confused and upset. Furious with my father, I asked him why he had given up on my great grandpa. He told me that in this case there was no hope for his health or for him to make a recovery and that planning for my great grandpa's funeral was the next logical step in this process. belief Until this moment hope had been a given, but heating this was demoralizing and for the first time I was questioning my that there's always hope for the best case scenario. Listening to my father say that there was no hope for my great grandpa made me question my own reality, as I realized--or maybe finally consciously recognized-- that there are diseases that can't be cured and problems that will go unsolved. I was deeply saddened that where my great grandfather was concerned, there seemed to be no hope. I had been operating under the genuine but ultimately misguided, and, perhaps destructive, notion that it was positive to hope for things that were unrealistic. I wanted to hope for my great grandpa to recover, when it was impossible, and would leave me devastated when he didn't. I dwelled on what I thought was the callousness of planning a funeral for the living and on giving up on a loved one who himself never gave up on anyone. I was hurt and angry and confused, and I dreaded saying goodbye but that was what ended up changing how I felt and how I think about hope. My great grandpa's funeral was a celebration of life more than anything, The somber tone of the day was overpowered by the stories and memories that the people who loved him came together to share and reflect on. He was eulogized by many, each representing a part of his family who loved him. Following the eulogies people were asked to share stories. Some were funny, some melancholy and some were extremely personal while others were universal to the experiences that his family and friends had with him. At the funeral I was shown through heartfelt and touching stories that his memory would be carried on, even after his passing. This eased my suffering over the loss of my great grandfather and led me to a realization. Though there was no hope for my grandfather to live past his cancer, what I truly hoped for was that his memory would not be forgotten. This is a different and more powerful kind of hope, because it involves the possible and gives me a role in fulfilling it as opposed to hoping against unrealistic things that are out of my control. I can share his stories and unwavering love for life with the people around me. After living through the funeral I had dreaded my definition of hope transformed. I could identify that beyond the unrealistic hope that my grandpa would not die there were other things I hoped for. These were things that I could realistically look forward to and hold a stake in. I hope that my great grandpa felt content looking back on his life, something that was illustrated to me by the incredible stories of perseverance and joy shared at his funeral. I also hope that his memory will be carried on and that my great grandma will continue to lead a life full of happiness, both things I could and can continue to contribute to. Beyond the inevitable passing of my great grandpa I could alleviate my suffering by focusing on smaller things, consistent with my new definition of hope. And not only is this hope comforting and empowering, it is yet another tribute to the person who helped me realize it. It could have been really easy for my great grandpa to be hopeless. He grew up extremely poor and dropped out of middle school to help support his family. Despite it all he remained hopeful. He fought in World War II, started a family and provided for them as a carpet layer and remained impossibly positive no matter his situation. He had hope for a better future, the kind of hope he played a role in by working hard. His life would have been immensely different had he had no hope. Instead, he never denied his own reality and was happy to live his life and hope for things that he could work towards and look forward to. No matter what kind of day he was having or what he was going through, if asked how he was doing he would always say "I'm pretty optimistic." or "If I was any better it'd scare me". Optimism is an expression of hope. My great grandpa constantly had a good attitude, even when there was no place to be optimistic or hopeful about his health. Now I understand that while he wasn't optimistic about his own future, he was for the futures of those whom he loved and cared for. He looked beyond his initial situation, beyond his diagnosis and terminal illness, and beyond his imminent passing to find something to be positive about and hopeful for. And that focus on what we can control, that belief in finding and celebrating the positives in life and hoping--combined with making--the best out of difficult situations, is what makes me hopeful for my future. 95 : 55 54 Maggie Hlavka This story, like many stories, starts in the dark. It starts with lying awake every night for months. What nobody tells you about questioning your sexuality is that it can be awfully lonely. And I was scared, both of the vast abyss of not being as straight as I thought, and of the fact that I was lonely at all. I hadn't realized that I was missing anything before that summer, but I was. The need to belong, the need to be accepted, the need to have a place in short, the need for community-is a painfully human one. The lack of community creates loneliness, and a community needs visibility and support to stay together. In the need for community, being LGBTQ+ can be very isolating. Representation is thin on the ground. Few LGBTQ+ characters exist in books, movies, and TV. There are only seven current LGBTQ+ members of Congress out of five hundred and thirty- five. Furthermore, for people living in less tolerant areas, there may not be any accessible community at all. The LGBTQ+ community exists in a duality between people who are "out and proud" and those who are "closeted", or keeping their identity private. Existing on the fringes, as I did for that first year, can be terribly lonely. I knew there was supposed to be a community out there. I heard about it in the news, and I knew of perhaps half a dozen LGBTQ+ people in my own life, but I wanted the world that I'd been told existed out there. So I went looking for it. I didn't look very hard at first, because for that whole first year of thinking I could maybe probably one day call myself queer, I was closeted. I came out to a handful of people, and I stopped there, until I came out to my immediate family. After that, it got easier to tell people. But during that year of being closeted, I couldn't join a community without coming out, which I wasn't ready to do. So, for that year, I found the LGBTQ+ community indirectly. I started listening to podcasts made by LGBTQ+ people. I looked for books with characters like me- girls who liked other girls. There aren't many, but there were enough. And I started noticing things, too. There's a church on Hennepin Avenue that flies two flags out front- the American flag, and right below that, the rainbow-striped Pride flag. I see them every morning as I take the on-ramp: the flags flying together over the church, billowing in the wind. It meant something to me, the first time I saw that, and it still does. It's a reminder that communities and people can and do coexist. It's a reminder that my community can be recognized, and so can I. Another moment stands out to me, in that year of silent noticing. I was in the Czech Republic with my family, and as we walked through an alley in the old quarter of Prague, I noticed a little square sticker with six rainbow stripes in the back window of a cafe. The original Pride flag was created by Gilbert Baker in 1978, and it had eight stripes: pink for sex, red for life, orange for healing, yellow for sunlight, green for nature, turquoise for magic and art, indigo for serenity, and violet for spirit. Pink and turquoise were cut from the flag, so the most common design today is red, orange, yellow, green, indigo, and violet. There are other symbols, including ones for specific genders and sexualities, and new stripes have been added to the rainbow with other meanings. But the six-striped flag is the most easily recognizable and widespread symbol of the LGBTQ+ community. So of course I spotted the rainbow sticker in the cafe window in Prague. I hadn't been looking for it, but when I saw it, I found myself smiling. It was reassuring, somehow, to see that symbol thousands of miles away from home. It said: there's always a community. And that community doesn't need a specific location or even more than one person at a time to be recognized, and to exist. Days later, I mentioned the cafe to my family and realized that none of them knew where it was. The cafe was nondescript except for the rainbow sticker, which no one had noticed but me. That's the downside of that kind of indirect community. It helps the loneliness, but you're still alone. And then the next summer came around, and I was ready, I decided, to be out. Which brought me to the next part: reaching out directly, meeting people, making friends. And that was terrifying, too, in its own way, because it meant letting myself be seen. So I took it slow. I cut my hair shorter and shorter, every time not quite recognizing myself in the mirror and then suddenly seeing myself more clearly than before. I started wearing flannels and button-downs. I cracked the jokes that had been waiting in my mouth. I said, out loud, where anyone could hear me, "I'm queer", and I ignored how it made my hands shake, until they didn't shake at all. I came out to the grade at junior retreat, which I'd been thinking about doing for months.
11111 And over the course of that year, I met friends who were, like me, in the LGBTQ+ community. I found out about Pride FM, an LGBTQ+ radio station, and I started listening to it in the car. I attended a couple GSA meetings. And one day last summer, I went to Pride. Minneapolis has one of the biggest Pride celebrations in the US. Pride Month is celebrated over a long weekend in June. There's a festival in Loring Park and a parade along Hennepin Avenue. Last summer was my first Pride. I'd meant to meet up with a few friends, but two went to a different spot on the parade route, and one was coming late. So I sat on the sidewalk, and I pet a dog, and I watched the Pride parade. Afterward, while wandering through Loring Park, I stopped in the middle of a crowd to talk to a group of people who recognized my t-shirt, and I realized: I wasn't alone at all. There was a community for me, and I was right in the middle of it. It didn't matter that I didn't really know a single person there. We were familiar anyway, sharing a moment in a festival in the middle of a city full of thousands of people like us. I had to leave eventually. I biked home with a Pride flag fluttering from my basket. The flag is in my room now, hanging over closet. I leave the door open out of habit. It was only while writing this speech that I realized how much I like that image; the Pride flag flying above an open closet door. my This speech is addressed to someone. It's for the SPA community, of course, but it's also addressed to someone in particular. I don't know who that person is, and I don't have to. I'm making an educated guess that someone in the audience right now is questioning their gender or sexuality, and that someone is closeted, and lonely, and scared. I'm making that guess because I was in that spot, too. And here's what I want this person to know: There's a place for you to belong. Being LGBTQ+ can feel isolating, but there's a community and there are friends, and there's a big, bright future, too. Here at SPA, the Gender and Sexuality Acceptance club will welcome you, as will Rainbow Connection, I know that kind of hope might seem like an exaggeration or an outright lie. But it's possible. It happened to me. And when you're ready, whether that's in a day or a year or a decade, that community will be there for you, too. I wish you very best of luck and happiness along the way. And to everyone else here today, I have only one thing left to say: thank you for listening. Lucie Hoeschen the I'm going to tell you a tale of love. A love you can't define. A love so deep, so strong and ever changing in its ways. It cobbles like rolling water over boulders in a stream. Its flow is steady and never ending, moving paths and shifting speeds, from rapids to calms. It washes over things like the rain of a new spring all like the tears of a child. This love is undenying and unapologetic. It serves a purpose in everyone of us. With each note, each chord, each lyric, this love strengthens. Each three minute melody, so eloquently strung together, so transparent in their own way. Written with intent, and meaning, without ever knowing why. This love makes me question everything while it in turn gives me the answers; maybe not the answers I want, but they're answers all the same. It is unrequited in all its glory. The fleet have given me everything with asking nothing in return. Stevie's romantic forgiveness, Mick's rhythm synched to the beat of my drum, Christine's voice filled with love, light but most of all longing. The sounds of my life added up are a testimony of my strength and my willingness to love, but most of all the length I'm willing to suffer. They have taught me to survive after the suffer. I've been given everything and nothing. I've listened of happiness and misery and sometimes I can't tell them apart. Sometimes happiness is misery. An old friend taught me to come as you are and as I want you to be, sometimes soaked in bleach, sometimes just a lonely, shy boy from Aberdeen. All the same, with no need for an explanation, it just is, it just was. This love has nothing and everything to do with you. It leads your life in someway, somehow, holding a power over you that you can't deny even if you wanted to. The tempo changes from person to person, life to life, heart to heart. The beat melts then forms then melts again to fit its new owner as we change and grow and feel new. Just like rivers and roads, rivers til I reach you. 55 58 Now... most of us will stumble and fall in life. Doors will get slammed in our faces, and we might make some bad decisions. But without failure, we can never improve. Failure can teach us things about ourselves that we would never have learned otherwise. Failure can help us discover how strong and resilient we are. Failure can help us discover new passions, or find the motivation to continue to do the things we love. So, yeah, you should never be afraid of failure because it's only stopping you from enjoying all... that... life... has... to... offer. Thank you. Thomas Jaeger When I was little, I discovered I could heat a wire by using it to short circuit a nine-volt battery. My four-year-old self, for whatever reason, proceeded to use this newfound power, taking a large jar of jellybeans my grandma had given me, and melting their insides before eating them. While causing electrical shorts has been known to be quite a harmful activity for young children, for me, it was my first memory of creating something, a pastime that I've come to love. My creations have become slightly more ambitious, gradually expanding to include the use of things like power tools and soldering irons, and as I've grown older, I've slowly begun to understand why making things makes me happy. I've learned a little something from each experience along the way, so I thought I'd share some of my favorites with you today. my One day, when I was younger, and feeling ambitious, I decided that I wanted to build a potato cannon. I'd heard stories of dad and his friends making kerosene fueled potato cannons out of soup cans when they were kids, so I was looking to make my own, more modern version. One visit to the hardware store with my dad, and several feet of PVC tubing later, and I had everything I needed. It was relatively straightforward, just cutting things to length and gluing it all together, so after a while, little Tom was holding a shiny new potato cannon. Now all I had to do was figure out how to make it work. It seemed simple enough, fuel in one end, potato in the other, there's a loud pop, and, hey, you've launched a potato. Unfortunately, things weren't quite that easy. Getting the fuel to burn seemed impossible. The internet recommended using everything from WD-40, to hairspray, and I was a lost cause when it came to getting the right mix of air and fuel. reasons you Luckily for me, before long, my dad ended up googling the phrase "potato cannon fail?" and came across a treasure trove of should never build a potato cannon. From people trying to catch the potatoes with a baseball mitt, to cannons outright exploding, the list of search results was extensive. If you've ever wanted to see a potato punch cleanly through the side of a car, it's out there on the internet, Needless to say, I was suddenly no longer allowed to keep tinkering with the potato cannon. I was a little disappointed at the time, but looking back on it, that cannon was an accident waiting to happen, which brings me to my first piece of advice: surround yourself with smart, kind people. Specifically, surround yourself with people who are smart enough to know when you're being an idiot, and nice enough to gently persuade you from potentially blowing off a finger. It's indispensable to have people around who will support your great ideas and dissuade you from your not so great ideas. A few years later, having matured a bit and learned it's important to not risk blowing myself up, I started a new project: melting aluminum in my backyard. While this was slightly more complicated than building a potato cannon, I still managed to get everything I needed in a single trip to the hardware store. Somewhat surprisingly, if you combine plaster with sandbox sand and use it to coat the inside of a steel bucket, it creates more than enough insulation for you to melt metal. Then all that's left is to make a hole for a steel tube to supply a constant flow of air from your mother's hair dryer. Sorry, mom. Anyway, congratulations, you've now got a charcoal grill turned up to eleven. Now you can invite friends over for a barbeque, where instead of cooking hotdogs, you're melting down soda cans. And now we've come to my second point: it's perfectly fine to do things, even if all they do is make you happy. Unless you're going to lose a finger in the process. I didn't have a goal when I decided to make a miniature foundry in my backyard. All I knew was I could buy 50 pounds of sand for two dollars and plaster and a bucket for a little more than that, and that sounded like a good time to me. Even if a hobby or pastime isn't practical, it's still worth pursuing if it's something you find joy in. At the end of day, as long as your hobby makes you a happier person, that's all that's important, and you'll usually learn a valuable skill along the way. Which brings me to my third and final hobby I want to tell you about. Around the start of my junior year, I discovered 3D printing. To make a long story short, I was hooked. Using a few cents worth of plastic, I could make anything I wanted in a matter of hours. It started as just something I would do for fun, but it's so versatile and useful that it's even worked its way into my school work. I could go on about the benefits of 3D printing, from rapid prototyping to its democratization of the manufacturing industry, but I'll spare you all that. The important thing here is that learning about 3D printing has been hugely influential for me. At the start of high school, I'd thought I wanted to study science in college, chemistry in particular. However, as I started to use 3D printers, I started to lean towards engineering, initially chemical, but eventually movingly entirely away from chemistry to mechanical engineering. And just like that, the list of colleges I was interested in changed completely. It's surprising how much our lives can be altered by the smallest of events, but as long as you're open to change, these little instances can lead down exciting new paths and give you new perspectives. you So, go out. Find a hobby. Do what makes you happy with the people that make you happy. Just, try not to lose any fingers in the process. Thank you. Andrew Johnson Being an SPA student isn't easy. It's not an ordinary high school experience. Maintaining the school's caliber of excellence is expected of you, and that's a reality that I didn't grasp when I first waltzed onto the Randolph campus in sixth grade. That was a time when the most important thing to me was choosing what color Nike elite sock I was going to wear the next day. I had always tried to match up to my peers, but honestly, it wasn't until high school that I truly understood what caused my innate need to meet the expectations set upon me: Pressure. Pressure seems like a basic concept, but it's present in our lives every single day. It's human nature to care about what other people think of us, how they see our strengths and weaknesses; we have all done something because somebody we care about has expected us to meet their standards. I wasn't used to facing any kind of pressure before coming to SPA, but now, standing before you as a senior eight years later, it's a constant part of my everyday routine. Don't get me wrong, facing it is always uncomfortable, but I've learned that it's how I choose to respond to the discomfort of the pressure that truly defines my growth as young man. We shouldn't shelter ourselves from facing the music, but rather, embrace it and learn from each experience we have. In my case, it took me until high school to understand how important the mindset of never taking myself too seriously and laughing at my failures was in the effort to learn how to rise to the occasion in the face of a challenge. So, I'm here to tell you about how I reached that understanding, and it starts all the way back to when I was a fourth grader. In fourth grade, life was pretty easy. The only things that mattered were playground football, Smuckers uncrustable sandwiches, and of course, Cub Scouts. Yes, Cub Scouts, the most exclusive group of elementary schoolers known to man. I was a part of the Webelo den at Horace Mann Elementary School. I never found out what a Webelo was, but it didn't matter; the patch said all that needed to be said. Even though being a Cub Scout was technically a year-long commitment, one event defined your experience; The Pinewood Derby. Held in the gym, this event was the equivalent of the Daytona 500 to us. For those of you who aren't familiar with what the Pinewood Derby is, I'll explain: Basically, every Cub Scout is provided the same set of materials to build a small, wooden race car. It's your job to construct the spare parts into a functional vehicle, so come time for the derby, you can enter it in a race against your friends to bring home a gold medal. With my dad's help, I thought the path to victory, and earning my place in cub scouts immortality, was pretty clear. The night before the race, my dad and I, but more accurately, my dad, spent hours piecing the car together. I didn't know it at the time, but my skills were better used for riding around school on Heelys than building anything at all. Finally, when he had finished, he made the mistake of leaving the design aspect in my hands. I had convinced my friends that they stood no chance against me in the race, so naturally, I doused the car with blindingly bright paint and taped on what had to be about five dollars worth of quarters to "add speed." 59 66 This is a love that goes beyond mere utility and entertainment. Sure, everyone's used Wikipedia for a tough school assignment (but only as a starting point!), and my rabbit holes can be pretty amusing at times. But more than that, Wikipedia is a free resource, constructed organically by anyone who chooses to edit it, that aspires to distill and make widely accessible all of human knowledge. How can you not love that? Learning more about our world is, I believe, an integral part of humanity's purpose, and Wikipedia thus neatly encapsulates human existence from our most embarrassing blemishes to our highest aspirations. - But why is that kind of wandering curiosity so important? In 1941, a Swiss electrical engineer named Georges de Mestral took his dog for a walk and noticed the burrs that grabbed onto his socks and the dog's fur. Instead of picking them off and throwing them away, de Mestral put them under a microscope and observed how the burrs' hooklike barbs effectively clung to soft surfaces. After fourteen years of trial and error and convincing others that he was serious, the electrical engineer curious about a natural phenomenon patented the mechanical wonder that is Velcro. Curiosity, then, is the catalyst that allows us to take one thing and use it to create a new thing, which is all that progress in any field really is. Besides being enjoyable in its own right, the boundless pursuit of knowledge, unconstrained by field or subject, is how we can solve problems and ultimately benefit the world. The Internet might seem like the perfect example of humanity's amazing powers of curiosity at work. After all, it's an information superhighway that connects the species so we can share facts, stories, and cat videos nearly instantaneously with our friends, the farthest corners of the globe, and billions in between. It's home to the idealistic marvel of Wikipedia, the pragmatic genius of Google, and the social engines of Instagram, Reddit, et cetera; it should help us learn, research, and connect. But instead of leading us to new viewpoints, the Internet has been tuned to reinforce our biases for profit. Facebook shows us news that confirms our beliefs. Twitter surrounds us with people who think like us. The optimization algorithms of YouTube show us what we want to see in order to maximize our view time. And it's all carried to us by service providers that, with the demise of net neutrality, no longer have to treat all content the same. This is because, from its military and then academic, open source roots, the Internet has been privatized and then shaped by private actors into just another tool of corporate consumption instead of the anarchic paradise technolibertarians like to imagine. Here, the failure was not a lack of curiosity, but a lack of altruism, the action of helping others without gaining anything in return. If curiosity is caring about all topics, then altruism is caring about all effects, and in today's world, faced with global, existential threats like climate change, runaway nationalism, and hasty technological progress with too little concern for societal implications, the ethical obligation for us all to move beyond simple self-interest and embrace altruism is greater than ever. Here in the SPA community, we're very good at drilling deeply into a given topic to achieve a given goal. But we might do better at thinking about all of the topics and broader goals. Too often, we may allow our minds to narrow in on a single subject in order to get a good grade or do well on a test; there is value in opening our minds up to curiosity, allowing ourselves to get lost in the rabbit hole and feel the pleasure of learning, and seeing what great ideas we come up with along the way. And then, too often, we allow ourselves to focus on the ideas, the intellectual goal, and forget about the social context. There is a section of a Mary Oliver poem that reads: "Instructions for living a life: / Pay attention. / Be astonished. / Tell about it." If we can grow beyond echo chambers and apathy, so that everyone cares about learning as much as possible about as much as possible, and if we can infect everyone with this spirit of curiosity, then the real work begins. Because it is necessary but not sufficient to know things. To really make the world as good as it can be - which is the true ultimate goal, the full purpose of humanity we have to take action. And for those of us whose minds and hearts have been shaped to change the world, we need to remember who our actions benefit. We must always keep others in mind. The clichéd question at this point is "What can one person do" against our great societal problems, which are indeed much more daunting than any goal imposed merely by self-interest. I answer that question myself by thinking about connections. Naturalist John Muir famously stated that "[w]hen we try to pick out anything by itself, we find it hitched to everything else in the Universe." My first instinct is to connect this to technology. Muir's original phrasing, less commonly quoted, was actually that everything is "bound fast by a thousand invisible cords that cannot be broken"; tell me that doesn't sound like a well-maintained World Wide Web of hyperlinks. Indeed, it has been said that if you click the first link of a Wikipedia page and repeat the process with each subsequent page, you'll reach a common root not the etrog in this case, but the article on philosophy. Looking at philosophy's own etymological roots, the Greek philos, love, and sophia, knowledge, we see that through the love of knowledge, all is connected. Curiosity and altruism are really two sides of the same coin, the "caring about everything" coin, and we all figure in as well. Each of us individually may not achieve world peace or solve the climate - H crisis, but we can all pull things in that direction by a thousand invisible cords of thought and love and action, a ridiculously complicated web, or tree, of forces bending towards betterment that starts with learning things, caring about them, and then working to improve them. So pay attention. Be astonished. Tell about it. Then, do something about it, Annie Kristal I walked into my local gym, did a quick warm up, and headed over to the lifting platforms. I loaded weight onto the bar, and proceeded to do my lifts, I had become used to the occasional stares from curious onlookers (for the most part men). I never engage with any of them. But this day was different. As usual, I had my headphones in and music all the way up. I really don't like talking to people when I'm working out. After finishing a set, I walked over to the water fountain. As I made my way across the floor, a middle-aged man said something to me. I didn't hear him, so he got up and tapped me on the arm. Great. I took out one headphone and turned around. He said, "hey girl, that's a lot of weight you got there." I responded with a slightly sarcastic "yup!" and I turned back around, hoping that would be the end of the conversation. Unfortunately, it was not. He proceeded to step in front of me, directly in my face, and say, "are you sure you know what you're doing?" I punched him. Like, throttled him. Just kidding, I politely said yes and walked away. He eerily, if not creepily, watched me for the rest of my workout. His words were not directly sexist or gender oriented, but his actions and even intentions were. They reflected a stigma in weight rooms that women should not be lifting heavy weights. Would he have behaved the same way if a man was doing what I was doing that day? Probably not. Yet, this happens often. While I don't feel threatened or even offended at this state, I still get frustrated by these types of comments. Weightlifting has been a passion of mine since middle school. I find that after workouts, I do my homework more efficiently, sleep better, and feel more confident about myself, physically and emotionally. I am not wrong, according to the American College of Sports Medicine. They recommend that adults participate in weightlifting at least twice a week, because the lean muscle that people build while weightlifting is necessary to complete many functional tasks, and for athletes, improves performance in sports. In reality, only 20% of women engage in some form of weightlifting two or more times a week, Ok, let's be real here. I am not some big athlete or anything. I weight lift because it makes me feel good, and I use it as a way to better my performance in sports. But as I reflect on the lack of women in the weight room, I cannot help but think about how I, as a woman, interact in situations or places that tend to be male dominated. The weight room phenomenon has opened my eyes and caused me to think about what society has characterized as typical "gender roles," how odd and misleading these perceptions can be, and mostly that I hope they don't negatively influence how I live. With a little help from writing seminar, my own experiences, and a few amazing role models, I have learned to question and act against these stereotypes. For me, role models are women (and men if they are extra special) who are successful in their sport or work, not just for skill and talent, but for their work ethic, positive attitude, respect for others, and doing what they do in an unbiased way, regardless of what societal norms for women might suggest. In sports, strong women coaches have taught me that no matter what gender, being an athlete takes competitive spirit, drive, and a hard work ethic. Teachers have taught me to speak my mind and not be shy during discussions. My parents have reassured me that my opinions and ideas matter, and that they should be shared. I have learned that the idea of "gender roles" is complete baloney. I am lucky that I've had inspirational and positive role models in my life, but not everyone is as fortunate. That is why social media, television, movies, and other forms are media can be so important. Although media has mostly been a negative influencer when teaching young women about body confidence, it can also be used as a tool to spread positivity. 67 Chloe Morse For as long as I can remember, my world has been quiet. Lazy days at the pool punctuated with periods of ringing silence when I slip into the water, nights spent falling asleep without the sounds of home filling my ears, sleepovers busy with the sound of whispers and giggles, so soft that I barely hear them. Conversations constantly morphed by my hearing loss and my inability to hear certain letters, creating an jumble of words that I can't tell apart. A childhood spent with an audiologist who I thought was named cake, not Kate, and appointments at the doctor's that I called Ketchups, not check-ups. In my world, I've always had to concentrate on every word that I wanted to understand, letting my mind go quiet as I zero in on the sounds I'm hearing and listen with every fiber of my being. Even with my hearing aids and the most advanced assistive technology possible, this is the only way I am able to understand what those around me are saying. But it's exhausting. My childhood was filled with days of exhausted stupor, my hours after school spent sleeping because I needed a reprieve from the constant strain of focusing my ears throughout the entire day. However, this concentration is still not enough. I still rely on facing the people I listen to, examining the shape of their mouths as they pronounce words, using my sight to identify sounds that are impossible for me to hear. And when there is no possible way for me to hear, I have to ask people to repeat themselves, a well-practiced "what?" spilling out of my mouth. Yet, not everyone wants to take the time to return to something they already said, so if I'm lucky, I am able to turn to someone I know next to me, and ask them to tell me what just happened. If I'm not lucky, I'm forced to move on. These incidents may not seem important, but they accumulate to create conversations riddled with holes, and if it happens enough, entire experiences that I'm only able to understand part of. I've seen this pattern play out in infinite ways. In jokes my middle school friends made that I somehow always missed the punchline to, yet laughed when everyone else laughed. In conversations at lunch that traveled a mile a minute, each person tossing their words out, fast and unflinchingly, unwilling to repeat themselves. In the image people developed of me, one of an introvert who doesn't like to talk to people, one who prefers the company of two people at lunch rather than six, when really, that couldn't be farther from the truth. When really, the issue is that every large group conversation creates an exhausting marathon of picking apart different people's voices, tracking who's speaking as I try to lipread everyone, belatedly understanding stories and jokes, and simultaneously attempting to give myself the time to react to what everyone is saying. When really, I am simply too tired to always keep listening. I don't want to give the illusion, however, that I am defeated, that hearing loss is some grand struggle in my world that I am unable to overcome. In fact, it's quite the opposite. When I was younger, I would pass the time while I fell asleep thinking about the odds it took for me to be living in this life, in this world, today. My mind was baffled at the enormity of it: out of the millions and billions of people I could have been, I ended up being me, Chloe, a red headed girl with hearing loss. And I never felt angry that this was my luck, but rather, I was awed at that this had been my luck, that my life so easily could have been a life without hearing loss. I've never thought of my hearing loss as just a disability, as something that stops me from pursuing the things I care about. Instead, it's actually been empowering. Growing up with a condition that prevented me from experiencing the world like most people has strengthened me, and made me more determined to work around any obstacles that come my way. I've been in choir since second grade, I've played piano since seventh grade, and I am in musicals, plays, and countless other activities that rely on my ability to listen. I've chosen not to let hearing loss hold me back. I tell you all this because I want you to understand that this is my world, and this is what I carry with me into every interaction I have with each one of you. Hopefully, understanding this will make you understand how necessary empathy is on a personal, day to day level. Not sympathy, and not pity. Empathy. The action of metaphorically walking in someone's shoes, working to understand their experience rather than simply pitying it. For me, it means little to nothing to hear that people feel sorry for me, that they're sad that this is my world. It's easy to feel that kind of sympathy, a general sorrow for someone's state, without any commitment to helping them. When I call for empathy, I'm referring to the ways you move past simple feelings to actually helping those around you. I am asking that if someone needs help, you make your best effort to help them. My own experience has shown me that even the smallest actions make a world of a difference. I still remember every moment from when an acquaintance noticed me trying to figure out the source of a group's laughter and simply asked, "did you hear what they said?" I hadn't heard, and I don't remember what that person told me they'd said, but I remember them and their kindness. Everywhere, but especially here at SPA, the school of changemakers, writers, and scientists who are all hoping to change the future, we must examine how we treat the people around us. How can we create the future if we are self-focused, choosing to live only paying attention to our own lives, our own experience, our own reality? But that brings me to the question of, how do you begin to understand someone else's world? The experiences that have shaped how they live? I don't believe that you can completely know someone else's experience. But the best way to begin is to ask questions, to learn, to listen. Everybody feels differently about being asked questions about their identity, and I do not have the right, nor the ability, to speak for everyone. But I can speak for myself. I enjoy it when people ask me questions, whether about my hearing aids, how much I'm able to hear, or why I even have hearing loss. To me, a question symbolizes genuine curiosity, and by extension, genuine care for understanding my experience. Genuine curiosity is better than indifference or pity. I'm not going to punish you for asking me a question, as long as you're sensitive about it. I want to impress upon you, however, that this sense of empathy should not just extend to people with disabilities: it should extend to everyone who is different from you in their race, ethnicity, gender, sexuality and more. This world has an infinite well of people, backgrounds, and ways of life, as well as an unprecedented rate of globalization. We are coming into more contact with people from different walks of life than human society ever has before. But even with, or perhaps because of, this connection, our world today is incredibly divided along different walks of life, religions, and political perspectives. More than ever, both right now and as we look towards the future, we need empathy. We need empathy, and the ability to cross over barriers that have been constructed by today's divisive humanity. We all exist in our own world, in a personal existence that shapes our perspective. Yet, we also all exist in this world together. We must learn to live together as equals, to let our future grow with the possibility of more kindness and unity. And the best way to start is right here, right now, Mashal Naqvi Our car makes its way down the dirt road, sunlight blazing through the towel-covered windows. Outside, mustard plants dance in the slight breeze, sending their yellow-gold warmth back to the sky. Inside the car, I hold my chin in the back seat, sitting behind my uncle and next to my cousin, waiting to reach the gates of my grandfather's farm. Slowly, we come to a stop. I look out my window, meeting eyes with a man who stands by the roadside waiting to cross the road. His face is wrinkled with old age and decades of smiles, and his eyes are deep set with a mischievous sparkle. My uncle waves him over and he leisurely walks past the car, giving us a salute and a smile as he does. We wait till he is on the other side and then continue on our way, Coke Studio songs blasting and mustard and rice fields paving our way to Saprai. Where do you think I am? Somewhere beautiful, peaceful, pleasant, right? You're right. I'm talking about Pakistan. Life in Pakistan is like nothing else I've ever experienced. We run on desi-time but somehow, there is never a slow moment. Every food vendor and chaat stand stays open till at least two in the morning, and the roads are absolutely deserted until 10 or 11 a.m. And the people? We're no joke. Lahoris will feed you until you are about to explode, families blast their wedding music until the sun comes up, and don't even get me started on independence day festivities. In a nutshell, we are a passionate people: passionate about our food, our music, our history, and every little thing in between. I like to think I'm no exception, as everyone in the senior class has definitely heard me ramble about Pakistan at some point in the last 10 years. Sorry, guys :) 90 200 91
00 My Oma? which means grandma in German-is fading, too. She was diagnosed with Alzheimer's a few years ago and while she's still here, part of her has gone. It was so slight at first, I didn't want to see it. But time stuttered on, as it always does, and her words became less sure, her smiles less broad, Her illness has progressed drastically, especially this past year. I'm no longer sure how to express my love to her. I hold her hand, trace her blue veins, squeezing it as I always have. I can only hope that she feels truth in my touch, and doesn't need to wonder why I care, or who I am. It hurts to see her this way, it hurts to feel a guilt that I know can never be redeemed. Not anymore. I spent so much of my life with her and yet, I feel like I only know one side of her: the doting grandmother. There's so much more to her story that she never showed me, that I never looked for. Everyone says that she's so different now and I know it's true. But I can't quite remember how she was before, only small scenes, like through an old slideshow flickering from frame to frame. I remember, but I've forgotten enough that guilt pours in, filling in the gaps. I remember her kindness, sneaking extra candy to me and my sisters; I remember an easy laugh and the smile lines fanning from the corners of her eyes. I remember her hugs, once so tight and sure. I remember the sound of her voice. But I don't remember her words. Most of all, I fear forgetting more. The memories that I have with her are painful, like nostalgia's definition expresses, but they're also a solace. They may only be a shadow of her warmth, but they are warm nonetheless. I cherish my memories of her as I know that they're precious. Not only for their rarity, but also for their love. They brim with love from me to her and, I know, from her to me. I'll cling to my memories for that love and to honor her as best I can. Remembrance is painful. I'm experiencing this pain more acutely than I ever have as my life transforms, soon to be unrecognizable. And I'm learning that where transformation occurs, loss always follows. But maybe anticipating this loss is a pain in itself. Though my life will change, and I will change as well, I will try to remember what I've lost, appreciate what I have not, and mourn what I can't remember. Matt Pauly how many Most of us in this auditorium are in high school, with limited life experience and understanding of the world, but just like the adults around us, we all have our own opinions and world views. After looking at my own beliefs and values, it troubled me of them I had never critically examined, and the number for which I had no logical backing. The hidden pressure from our parents, our school, and the people we interact with silently shapes our views on issues and events, and creates the lens from which we look at the world. This isn't necessarily bad, as hearing what others think is the best way to learn yourself, but when you internalize an idea without understanding the reasoning behind it, you create an unstable foundation for future thinking and you lose the ability to accurately present it to others or do it justice in a discussion. We are all old enough to hold our own opinions, but if you care about something enough that it changes the way you act, it is imperative that it be a value you truly hold, not something parroted from someone else. Seeing inconsistencies in my own thinking has really changed the way I look at how others present their own thinking. Here at SPA I think we often find ourselves caught up in arguments while ignoring the illogical thinking and basic misunderstandings that cause them. To put this in a context we all understand, let me for a moment take you to the hallmark of every SPA classroom, the Harkness table. A frequently occurring situation is that of a student making a comment that another deems offensive, with the offended getting excessively angry as they publicly call out the accused. These situations often feel absurd, but most of the time no one is completely at fault. Those who condemn bigotry are right to do so, though in my experience the trigger is often pulled too quickly, before the accused bigot has a chance to explain themselves or admit they made a mistake. It can be hard to remain calm when a comment seems to be an attack, but without the nuance that can only be provided by really listening to each other, our discussions might as well be mindless yelling. Does being critical of Israel's foreign policy make someone anti-semitic? If someone is against late term abortions does that warrant giving them the blanket label of "pro life"? Are people who want to reduce illegal immigration inherently xenophobic? Far too often the answers these questions are yes, but instead of looking at individual issues, I want to comment on the obsession we have with creating dichotomies. The "good vs. bad," "us vs. them" mentality satisfies our innate urges to categorize and find meaning in the complexities of life. The obvious harm is that all nuance is erased from discussion as we gravitate towards the extremes. The world is painted in shades, and taking absolute positions is usually evidence of flawed thinking. The same disagreements we have in here high school can be seen at a national level in the form of politics. From my point of view, American politics is incredibly inefficient, bordering on plain stupid. I understand that a completely direct democracy would be infeasible, and that we need elected representatives to legislate on our behalf, but why then do our representatives not seem to care about the people once they get into office? Bills seem not to be passed or shut down based on their merits, but based on how politically popular they are with the party in control and the amount of money paid by big businesses and special interest groups. In my opinion, the most egregious example of counterproductive legislation is that of criminal sentencing, specifically mandatory minimums and three strike laws. America currently has the highest incarceration rate in the world, spends billions upon billions of dollars on prisons, and locks away millions of people for non-violent offences, all of which sends the message loud and clear that the government prioritizes punishment over rehabilitation, and arbitrary rules over the good of its citizens. While this is of course a huge simplification, increased partisanship and inability to compromise seem to have reduced the efficacy of our democracy. Despite the inherent nature of politics, I don't think significant improvements to our nation's government are going to come from legislation, at least not in the short term. I believe the flawed logic and lack of perspective that prevents compromise and long term thinking on a national level is the same as what turns one of our in class discussions into a nasty argument. The solution needs to come from the bottom up, not the top down, a cultural shift of sorts, away from the blame closed-mindedness that plagues everyday conversations and taints the way we look at others. games and This is a fairly abstract concept, but I think there are a couple of significant things everyone can do on a personal level to move towards the greater awareness of the world outside of our immediate selves and in the process create a more just and civil nation. Taking a step back from the political outrage culture of social media and the mainstream media's often biased coverage of the news has been hugely beneficial for me. The perfect antidote for the oversaturation of mindless argument comes in the form of long form media, specifically podcasts. Through multi hour interviews with some of the best thinkers in the world, I can hear new perspectives and learn new ways of looking at things in my own life, all from the comfort of my car as I drive to school. I really believe that the depth reached in a three hour podcast can exceed that of hundreds of hours of traditional news programming. I'd encourage everyone to at least try out the format, as hearing from so many knowledgeable and well spoken people has had a significant impact on my thought process. Some of my favorite podcasts are Radiolab, Fresh Air, and Revisionist History, all of which are great starting points for anyone interested. In addition, I think it's important to give people the benefit of the doubt, and assume good intentions even when the past suggests otherwise. It can be hard to listen to an argument and respond to it without attacking the person making it, but it's essential that we have empathy for each other. I also think it's important to be intentional about acknowledging where our ideas connect our identities, and ideally take measures to separate the two. Attaching oneself as a person to a specific belief makes it very difficult to change your mind, as every criticism of the belief becomes a criticism of identity. Just as we allow others to change, we must be able to change ourselves as we learn new things and gain experiences. A big focus of this speech has been politics, but I think the message is so much bigger. While politics provides the biggest arena for public discourse, the vast majority of our lives are not spent having political discussions. That time is spent interacting with other people, and while the structure is less obvious, the same concepts apply. I know that a call to listen to and respect one another is one we hear often, and while the benefits to the community are clear, I feel we often miss out on hearing about the individual benefit that can be found from listening to others. As much as we care about the community, at the end of the day we seek to do what is best for ourselves, and in the case of discussion the
01 18 At this point I was left off most NHL first round mock drafts, not what I was really hoping for. Not only was I missing the mark at my former dream, it came to my attention that I was getting tall. People who I hadn't seen in a couple months would comment on my height. Something weird was happening. I started noticing changes and my voice got deeper. Apparently being tall is good for basketball, so I added one more thing on my to-do list: see if I'm good at basketball. I went to the open gyms every Monday and Wednesday in the summer to "perfect my craft", and "get in my bag", as well as continuing with the hockey training that I had been doing. I was pushing my body to its physical limits, and I started noticing the fatigue. I would sleep for up to 8 hours a day in the summer. My basketball skills were quite raw, my jumpshot was broken, and I was grounded due to many years of forgetting to jump. It would take a stroke of pure luck for me to make the prestigious men's varsity basketball team, but it would take a Christmas miracle to help me make varsity hockey. This didn't make my decision any easier though. I enjoy the social aspect of sports. For example: warming the varsity bench my sophomore year, so I had to gauge what would come from playing either sport. This is when I used the input of my friends to help me commit to a sport. To Tom, John, Louis, Senai, and Michael, thank you for all the help sorting out this decision. The advice that came from discussing this issue was subtle, but it surfaced and I was able to make what I still believe is the right decision. Although this is only a revision to my hockey playing foundation, I would most likely have not discovered it without my friends. Right now I'm looking at a fifteen percent chance of becoming the next Larry Bird so my dreams have shifted from the NHL to the NBA. I fit the build of a typical Minnesotan high school basketball player: white, tall, lanky, and great three point shooting I didn't join basketball to fit in, though. Walking into a gym and knowing that the other team must be thinking I shoot 60% from three is awesome, and so is being able to answer 'yes' to the question "do you play basketball?", but having fun was the ultimate factor in this decision. Ball may be life, but the advice of my friends and family comes into play off the court, too. For all the people in my life who have given me any advice at all thank you, but most importantly thank you to my sisters Annie and Lexi, parents Cathy and Tom, and grandparents Gammy and Marky, for being there to keep me on track. Although I may seem very stubborn and uninterested in what you have been saying the past 17 years, I've tried to listen to a few of your suggestions. Thank you to Coach Keto for forgetting about how I hadn't played basketball for four years and giving me a shot. With my first and last year of highschool basketball more than 50% over my hoop dreams are small, but if you would like to watch me play please attend our home game against The Blake School at seven p.m. tonight. Maddy Breton It feels like I've been to an awful lot of funerals. A few for family friends, family friends' friends, three for my grandparents, one for my cousin, and two for my dad. He was that special. We had one funeral here in Minnesota for us and all our friends. And we had another funeral in Connecticut for all his brothers and sisters and nieces and nephews and neighbors. He touched a lot of lives, and they all came to say goodbye. After the ceremony I'd crawl through the crowds of people, holding my box of kleenex. Weaving through the bittersweet chorus of talking and laughing and sniffling all around me. I'd be stopped, catch someone's eye. A hug or a hand on the shoulder. I was 12, many of these people I barely knew. "I'm so sorry. Your dad was..... Incredible, Irreplaceable, One of the good ones, A wonderful husband, A dear friend, A great leader, Kind, 77 Caring, Intelligent, Curious, The best dad I could've asked for He would laugh with you, lend a helping hand, go on an adventure, make a plan, and he would drink. A lot. Except they never mention that part. Certain things become taboo after a loved one dies. Certain things get left out of the story. Dead people become saints at their funerals. I mean, the only reason I'm allowed to be saying this at all is because those who've sainted him aren't here today. He died for three years of what started off as pancreatic cancer. It was a long, long process of hospital trips and CAT scans, pain and pain medications, cancer gone then cancer back, he was even one of the first patients to receive revolutionary nanoknife surgery. And after all of it, he still died. People still apologize when I say it. If they knew him, they tell me a story too, no matter how many times I've heard it. To this day I'll bump into one of his old friends and they'll tell me about that time they nearly burned a house down, or lost all their camping gear, or a hilarious encounter from his world travels, or a busted college party from his frat days. In every single one of them I know it's there, but we don't say it out loud. Alcohol drips in the background of these stories. Empty cans of beer behind the scenes piling up. How many of these crazy, sweet, miraculous stories led to his death? They don't say it but alcohol kills. It's an FDA approved carcinogen, doesn't matter what you're drinking, just how much. Once in a while is a different story, but excessive drinking over time affects your liver, stomach, heart, pancreas, your coordination, memory, and personality just to name a few. Alcohol is directly linked to 21 different types of cancer. My dad wasn't an alcoholic, per se, but he drank, often, and from an early age. High school, college, and throughout his adult life, drinking was a social activity for him. And he had a lot of friends. But now that he's gone, they seem to only remember the friendship, the good times. Why? Why don't they say it killed him? Do they not know? Did they never connect the dots? I didn't until recently. I was too young then to notice how big a role alcohol had played in his death. I wonder, did he? During that last year my mother asked him if, given the chance, would he go back and change anything? No. No, he wouldn't, he said. He'd change nothing and I have no father. Alcohol takes away people's inhibitions, and their friends and husbands and fathers. Let's talk about it. People fear that saying it out loud will make his death less horrible, his life less great. But there is no one to blame. He didn't leave me behind on purpose, but he did sing to me every night before bed, and take me on tree climbing adventures, and teach me how to feel loved and love in return. My dad was great. This speech isn't to speak badly about his character. Nor does what I've said make his death any less of a loss. This speech is just so you know. Learn from the funerals. Remember the dead and remember the people left behind. Remember the cost we pay. Remember that you matter. That when you die, people will feel it. Please, take care of yourself, your body, and your mind. I love you.
9 82 On the subject of me almost dying, my mom and I made an almost costly mistake on our family vacation to Puerto Rico in 2015. It was New Year's Day and we decided to go for a hike to see a waterfall. It was about a thirty-minute trek down through the jungle to finally get to the base of a huge waterfall. After looking around for a little bit I convinced my mom to come with me to explore the other side of one of the smaller falls. We had seen other people walk across the ledge so we assumed it was safe to cross but as we approached we noticed how strong the current was. My mom was rightfully a little nervous about the current but after I reassured her that it would be fine, I lunged for the other side. Unfortunately, I didn't get to the other side. Instead, I somehow ended up tumbling head over heels about twenty-five feet down into the pool beneath the falls. Now I don't remember much but I do remember resurfacing and looking up to see the worried face of my father. I walked the waterfall that day with just a few bruises up and down my leg and a now very natural fear of waterfalls. away from But the strength of my infamy for ruining family vacations extends beyond more than one trip. Much like the waterfall story this next one happened over winter break, except this time it was in Key Biscayne, an island right off of Miami, My family decided to go out for a walk on the beach but this was not one of those pristine white sand beaches you see in the pictures. This beach was covered in gross seaweed and washed up jelly fish. Before we left to go on the walk my parents urged me to put on some sort of shoe or flip flop to protect my feet but I didn't listen. So naturally about half way through the walk I stepped on something sharp and it punctured the skin on the bottom of my big toe. I finished the walk with a bit of a limp but not thinking anything of the small puncture on the bottom of my foot. Then the next morning I woke up to my foot feeling as if it were on fire and looking twice the size as it normally does. My parents, after learning their lesson from the appendix incident, took me to the only health care option available which was a CVS Minute Clinic. With their very limited resources they said it was an infection and gave me some antibiotics. The antibiotics did not work so my parents decided to make the trip to the nearest doctor's office. There they treated it again like an infection and gave me the biggest shot I have ever seen into one of but cheeks. But that didn't work and swelling kept spreading and a yellowish green color started to appear on my toes. This time we went to the ER and after hours of waiting followed by lots of x-rays and tests the doctor came in and told my mom in what was supposed to be secret that they might have to cut off my big toe. Luckily that doctor was wrong, which I learned after I was transferred to another hospital and after another round of tests and a very unpleasant overnight stay. There was a point to me telling you all of these stories and it wasn't just to tell some funny stories about my family's mistakes and how we like to take turns avoiding obvious signs of danger and toe-threatening injuries. Instead, I wanted to give you some examples of times that people made mistakes but put them in perspective, learned from them and moved on. My parents could have started believing that I was actually sick every Monday morning after the appendix incident and let me stay home. Instead, they told me the story of when a boy cried wolf and taught me the importance of honesty. They could have put me in a bubble of overprotective parenting after I fell off of the waterfall instead, they realized that it was a freak accident and let me continue being a kid who would inevitably make painful mistakes. They could have even turned to alternate forms of health care after being mislead by so many doctors in Florida but they kept their belief in conventional medicine which has helped a lot to this day. At SPA we sometimes have a problem with how we handle mistakes. We are a hyper-competitive community that strives for academic excellence but to a fault. Yes, getting a 4.0 and a 36 or 1600 would be great but that is extremely rare. So when we end up making a mistake like getting a bad grade on a test, paper, or even in a class we can lose our minds. We might argue with the teacher to get points back, we might even lie to our friends about our grade to seem more perfect than we really are, we might cry or pout and sometimes,and we can even let our mental health deteriorate. All over something as silly as a grade. When instead we need to put it in perspective, learn from it, then move on. Because we're already not perfect so what's one more mistake going to matter. Thank you. Sharee Roman I have a difficult confession to make. A confession that on its face seems rather insignificant, but in many ways shakes the foundations of who I always thought I was, and how I've chosen to express my identity. I want to be a doctor. I want to be a doctor despite my racial makeup and my upbringing. And yes I said despite, not because. But even as I said it, I winced. Even as I strung the words together to write this sentence, I wanted to hesitate. You see, to admit this desire is almost unbelievable. So much of who I was and who I have become are enmeshed in the mission of avoiding stereotypical Asian professions. For quite a while, I purposely plan to not follow a similar professional path as my parents did. I viewed almost every aspect of my life through this lens. This lens that I didn't know existed until recently. How could I not view my life through this lens? One of the first memories I can recall from childhood was wanting to be doctor. I can see a little girl getting an ultrasound for fun on her father's worktable. I recall standing up in front of the whole school in fifth grade declaring that my future job would be a "pediatric cardiothoracic surgeon". ? In fifth grade, I wanted to be like my daddy. Or maybe I wanted to be like the rest of my peers. In the program that I attended, everyone would stand up and say what they wanted to be at the end and receive awards. They all said doctors. 80% of them were Asian. That didn't bother me back then. I just wanted to conform, but I didn't realize that fitting in meant falling down a rabbit hole of stereotypes. As I got older and I learned about the stereotypes around my Asian heritage, and the complications that it entailed, I questioned the idea of becoming a doctor at all. Yet, a combination of genes and jobs still seemed to foreshadow my fate. I will follow in my father's footsteps. I will continue the work of adhering to stereotypes, but not because society says to, but because I want to. To deny my future profession is to deny my own reflection. It should have been obvious to me that I was so much more than a general type: half Asian and the daughter of a doctor. My goals happen to align with societal expectations and stereotypical considerations, but I am more than broad strokes of culture and predictable patterns of thought and action. I contemplate! I question! Who defines me? Who dictates my future? Is it me? Or society? Am I supposed to simply follow the idea of becoming a 'model minority?' But other than my race, when have I ever conformed to a model? Racial prejudice as alive and well toward Asians now as it was in the past. Asians are supposed to excel at math, but I spend a good portion of my free periods reworking homework problems just to obtain the Asian F'. Growing up, I have struggled in finding who I was because in some ways I did not conform to the stereotypes and in some ways I did. I asked myself questions such as "was I good Asian?" Am I worthy of becoming a doctor if I have to work harder to get an acceptable grade in math? I learned later that of course I was worthy, but that self-discovery did not stop me from tumbling down the path of questioning a desired job and my racial makeup. I forced myself to believe that the road to medical school was difficult enough to deter me. I convinced myself that I was not interested in grade grubbing that might be required to get into medical school. I focused on how I didn't find the biological sciences interesting or inspiring. I created a false "medical student persona" who only was interested in making money, memorizing facts and figures, only to regurgitate information in a robotic way. Obviously, I didn't want to become that person! But from the minute I was born, I have been surrounded by practitioners of science. My mother was a neonatal nurse. My father is an emergency physician. My cousin is on her way to becoming a hand surgeon. My other cousin is becoming a doctor and it seems like just about all of my cousins are becoming nurses, doctors, or working another job inside the hospital. But no matter how much I let myself believe these constructs, I couldn't help wondering if I could escape my fate. I respond to life not just like the daughter of a doctor, but as a doctor in training. When a teacher tells me she is pregnant, my first thought isn't congratulations, it is "lay off the coffee." When my teacher tells me her feet are swelling, instead of acting sympathetic, I tell her to elevate her feet more often, get a stability ball, and to stop wearing heels in 3rd trimester. I say those things without thinking twice about my position. I say those things without thinking twice if I am wrong. Because deep down, I already know who I am. Deep down, my way of showing affection and care was through giving advice. And that no matter what I did, or my racial makeup and my upbringing, I could not stop my innate drive to care for those in need. However, most of you know me. My bedside manner is not the most therapeutic. I have a temper; a quick one at that. While some of my comments are funny and sarcastic, others are mean and cruel. Someone once said "you're a no-nonsense kind of person. If two people were arguing, you'd put them both in their places by smacking them first on the side of the head and then with your words". My friends exchanged looks with one another and then burst out laughing at the countless times I 83 6 Masha Ames It's when I wake up and it's clear blue skies with the sun shining. It's when I walk into a grocery store and I see the beautiful bouquets of flowers, perfectly put together. It's when my parents ask me on Sunday mornings if I want some eggs, bacon, and toast. It's when I get home late at night and I go into my parents' room to get my dog, who's sleepy and wants to do nothing but "snuggle," as my mom likes to say. It's the laughs that my family and I have when my dad teases my mom for the way she says southern and brat, which my mom pronounces "sow-thern" and "brat". When I get the texts from my dad during the school day of my dog sitting on one of my pillows captioned "just chilling." Or when I meet up with my friends from middle school for dinner and we do nothing but laugh about the extremely questionable things that went on during that time. I decided to make this speech full of the things that make me happy while I'm making my way through my life, especially since I'm a pessimist a lot of the time. My parents can vouch for me on that. But here are some other things that have made me happy: when my parents tell me on a Friday afternoon, after a long day of school, that we're going out for dinner! Or the times during dinner when my sister starts humming, and then my dad starts to copy her. Or when my sister fidgets and moves around during dinner and my dad copies her doing that too. Or how my sister drew a guy on a mountain where he said "sup" and the teacher wrote a note on her spelling test, not to draw on her spelling test. There's also that one time my sister saw that I got beads and string and she decided to make me a snake with my name on it entirely out of the beads. It was a keychain of mine for awhile. There was also a time, last month, when I was sick with the flu and my dad asked my sister what they should get me to eat and she replied with, "a keychain." There are also the times when I get texts from friends saying "hi :)," with a smiley face. Or when Lauren asks if I want to go to the pool with her over the summer for a bit before she has to work. Or the times when Meagan will text me a picture of something saying, "this reminded me of you." There are those times when my dog will just come into my room, walk over to my bed, check to see if I'm there, and then go lay down on my rug. There are times when my mom will ask me to pick up my dog from the groomer, and when I do, she just sits on my lap full of contentment on the whole drive home. Or every single time I leave, my dog barks and my mom says "she doesn't want you to leave!" Or whenever I get home and my dog whimpers because of how happy she is to see me. There are also the little things that my grandma does, like when we'll be sitting at the dinner table and she'll start to scratch my back, or she'll lightly go over my back with her fingertips, which remind me of the times when I was little when I would take off my shirt and lay on her lap while she "drew on my back." There are those times when my grandma just looks at me and tells me how much she adores me. Or those times when I told her I got into college and she looked at me, started tearing up, and told me how proud she was of me. There's the time when my grandma and I went to Parsun and got matching sweatshirts together. She always makes sure to let me know that I'm special to her, which always brings me that warm fuzzy feeling in my heart, especially when I'm at my lowest. It's the times when my grandma tells her stories about growing up and her experiences with high school. Or the time when I showed her my prom dress and she just looked at me with sparkling eyes, and said so gently, "it's beautiful." It's when I play piano for my grandma and I look at her afterwards and her eyes are watery and she just tells me again, how proud she is of me. There are also those times when I tell my mom I don't feel well, so she makes me my favorite soup. Or when I was sick over the summer and my dad brought me apple cinnamon gogo squeezes. It's the times when I get those "sup" text messages from my sister and little gifs of people dancing or little cartoons. Or just the times that I have with my sister where we just laugh about the most random things, especially since we don't interact much since she's nine and I'm seventeen. you I don't really tell my parents that it makes me happy when they tell me they love me, or when they just randomly give me hugs, or when my mom asks me if I want to watch CSI Miami with her on a Friday night. So, Mama, Papa, it makes me really happy when do these things. Even though I look like a brick a lot of the time, on the inside I can't stop smiling and I cherish those moments more than you could ever imagine. To my grandma and my friends, your small acts of kindness, and your constant thoughtfulness make me feel so loved and like I have purpose to you. Thank you for your time and your endless love, as it's the time that I spend with you that I will hold dear to my heart when we all have to leave each other for college. To my sister, I know that I don't tell you nearly enough, or really at all, but I love you, your drawings, and your text messages more than you think I do. I'll miss you deeply when I'm away for college, but I'll always have you to text now. Sup! It's important to realize how much good can go on in one's life. I tend to focus on the negative things more than the positives and with the stress of school, social life, family, college, it can be hard to stop for a moment and acknowledge all the love and H pure things that happen around us. I know that when I'm stressed, I get into the "go go go" mindset, which makes me think that I have to finish and fix everything going on in my life at that moment. So, to put it this way, I don't "stop and smell the roses" nearly enough in my life. So, I thought it'd be important to do that, especially for this speech, and I encourage some of you to just try to stop, take in the good, and reflect on the good. Life seems to go by too fast, that I feel like I can barely keep up sometimes, but for this moment, I want to stop time and take in all the wonderful smells of the roses. And at this moment, the roses smell really good. Quinn Appert I've been told many times throughout my life that the third times the charm. As I write this, my third draft, I pray that rule applies. Today I want to share with all of you an important part of my life. A part of my life that I get to enjoy, a part of my life I have to put up with and tolerate. A part of my life that I am thankful for because I will benefit from it until the day that I die. My name is Quinn Appert and I have three little brothers. One thing I was never told about having three little brothers is that they always take after you. That means you have to try your best to do good around them, and sometimes hide parts of your life that they aren't ready for. One part of my life I am unable to hide from them is the morning commute with Cy. If I had a dollar for every time I got home and my mom said, "So, do you want to tell me what Cy found in your car this morning?" I would be a very rich man. I would like to thank Jake Hosszu for always being there in the mornings on speaker phone with the inappropriate joke of the day. As I live farther away from school than the average student, my brother and I get to enjoy a longer morning car ride than most of our peers. What would you do with 30 minutes in the car every morning with your littlest brother? I used to try and educate him on songs that came out before his time. He seemed uninterested. Then, we transitioned into listening to podcasts. Although he didn't like it, I noticed a strong uptick in his use of words my poor mother wouldn't approve of. Obviously that didn't work for either me or my mom, so again I had to look for a new activity. Once I even resorted to absolute silence. That was nice. A few weeks ago we finally found the one thing we both like: competition. Every morning we see who can spot more Audis and BMWs on the road. I am pleased to announce that after a month I am still unbeaten, Although sometimes I wish I was by myself, I would like to take this time to thank Cy for giving me an excuse to be late to advisory, as well as bringing the nine year old side of me back into perspective. I also want to tell you that I will miss those rides next year when I'm gone, and I hope you do the same. Hey Mac, or Mappert as you like to be called. What's up? One thing I want all of you to know about Mac is that he is truly the nicest Appert boy. We always tell him that what he lacks in smarts he makes up for in patience that the rest of us don't have. That is a trait of his that I truly admire. Although he is sweet, he frequently misses the higher intellect jokes Roan, Cy and myself throw around at dinner. Let me tell you I never would want any part of that, and Mac I'm sorry you have to put up with it. Although we rag on him from time to time, I was recently informed by mother that he is not only the sweetest, but the best looking as well. Soooo, thank you mom. One thing Mac likes that me and Roan didn't as much is his phone, and more specifically, his Instagram. I mean it's like the kid thinks he's a hype beast or something. I know that's the craze these days with him and all his buddies, but that never stops me, Roan or even our friends for taking shots at his online choices. I would like to take my opportunity to formally apologize to him for that. I'm not saying that it will stop, but I will say that it comes from a place of love, Mac, I'm gonna miss you a lot next year, but I know that it'll be like you're in college with me because I'm sure that your posts will pop up on my feed every few days. Last but not least is Roan. Me and Roan have been through everything together. We live right across the hallway, we now share a lot of the same friends, and on family vacations we escape the rest of our family together as well. It wasn't always this way, though. Up until recently we were never that close, but once he entered high school and started to do the same things that I do 7 And a third opinion of mine that isn't extremely popular regards my TV show preferences. Personally, I enjoy watching documentaries on TV, in particular, the TV show Air Crash Investigations. As the name suggests, the TV show examines the reasons for why certain flights have gone awry and over the past few years, I've watched several hundred hours of this TV- show, relishing in its deep, thought-provoking analysis. Like in Season 16 Episode 2, the aviation expert said, in reference to airplanes, that "crashing it is a lot easier than landing it". Similar to my previously mentioned preferences, I've found that many people don't share this same interest in documentaries, or in Air Crash Investigations. Documentaries represent a mere six percent of the top 250 most-watched TV shows. And when I used to tell people that I watched a show called "Air Crash Investigations," I'd be met with laughter. People tell me that they prefer to watch shows such as the 2.6-star show called The Bachelor or the Great British Bake Off. However, that doesn't really faze me as there's probably a pretty good reason for why Air Crash Investigations is currently airing its 20th season, carries an 8.8 out of 10 rating on IMDb, and holds a 97% approval rating on Google. Not only has listening to classical music provided me something to listen to, eating cinnamon raisin bagels given me something to cat for breakfast, and enjoying documentaries offered me something to watch on TV, but it has also taught me a life lesson be comfortable being different and holding viewpoints different from your friends or even from the majority of society. Note: I'm not saying holding unpopular opinions such as racist ones are fine- those are simply morally wrong. But when it comes to simpler things such as music, bagel, or TV show preferences, it is perfectly fine to have them. So, if you take anything away from this speech, know that holding unconventional viewpoints or interests isn't necessarily a bad thing, and you don't need to conform your viewpoints and interests to what's mainstream. Henry Cheney Before my speech, I'd like to do a little bit of stand up comedy. What's the deal sandwiches? They're not made out of sand! They're not made by witches! I mean... uh... you know? Speaking of sandwiches, Hot dogs go by many names: the hot dog, the wiener, the frankfurter, and the tube steak. The contemporary hot dog can be found in many ecosystems and can evolve to survive the harsh conditions of the human world. The wieners of Frankfurt, Germany for example serve as prey to the automotive and aerospace engineers living in the city, as well as the other half of Germany. The frankfurters here have evolved to be increasingly large and harder to digest, making its predators left regretting eating so much food, reminding the predators that even through clouded judgement, they are in fact not American, and that they should instead play soccer well. Back in America, populations of the iconic wiener inhabit the concrete jungles of New York City, Los Angeles, and Chicago, each with their own defense mechanism to fend off their human predators. Unlike in Germany, the frankfurters of the US decreased in size, but this only lead the predators to eat more hot dogs. The winning wieners were those that covered themselves in meat sauce. The redundancy of putting meat sauce on a piece of meat confused their foolish predators, who turned away from redundancy and instead ate french fries, tater tots, potato chips, potato salad, and hash browns. The English teachers of the human population however, saw the repetition of meat as a critique of the veganism movement. The rest of humanity disregarded their message, as the English teachers mistakenly used the Chicago format, despite MLA being the obviously superior format. The two environments in which franks remain safe for human consumption are barbecues, in which a suburban family invites their urban friends from work to make a 30 minute commute to their backyard, where everyone can cat hot dogs fresh from the grill while feeling patriotic. The GOP performs a similar ritual when welcoming new recruits. The other environment tube steaks remain safe is the fridge, where they await the day they can truly become a hot dog. Among these populations, there are three methods of preparing hot dogs for consumption: boiling, in which the hot dog is placed in boiling water; microwaving, in which the hot dog is placed in the microwave; and grilling, in which the hot dog is placed in a grill. In order to easily differentiate hot dogs prepared in different settings, I will henceforth refer to boiled hot dogs as scuba tubes. Grilled hot dogs as Frank Broyles. And microwaved hot dogs as micro-frankfurter. The hot dogs of the fridge are micro-frankfurter. The frankfurters of Frankfurt, New York, Los Angeles, and Chicago are all scuba tubes. And the tube steaks found at suburban barbecues are Frank Broyles. When I first laid out all of this information for myself, I noticed the scuba tubes were the only type of hot dog that successfully evolved to defend themselves from predators. With this information, I spread the word about scheduling a rally at the capital to protest the production of scuba tubes. When the day of the rally finally arrived, I showed up at the capital to see hundreds of people standing by me and was eager to see what legislation might come of it. I was sadly mistaken, however, as soon after the protest began, I realized that these people were in fact not here to protest scuba tubes with me, but were instead calling for action on some minor league issue called climate change. It boggles my mind. that people still care for saving this planet when on a day to day basis, there are 8 planets we can ruin, but only one lunchtime. My fight was not over, though. I sought help from my father, who grew up exclusively eating hot dogs and followed his passion to St. Olaf, where he double majored in psychology and wienerology. With his psychology background he became a major gifts officer. His expertise in wienerology, however was useless in this profession, nor would it help me achieve my goal, as wienerology does not recognize a difference in a hot dog's preparation as noteworthy or "relevant to its safety." None of the scientists believed in the dangers of scuba tubes, but this would not be the first time my beliefs were questioned by science. Still though, the unpopularity of my discovery left my humours imbalanced, which really affected my mood. My father tried to use his psychology skills to help me, but I explained to him that wise words weren't going to get rid of my excess black bile, and that psychology gave me the flu. When I brought up my scuba tube problem, he performed another ritual practiced by the GOP: he said, "I'm gonna play devil's advocate here. When I was growing up we didn't have microwaves so I boiled my hot dogs and I turned out just fine." This statement brought me to a separate conclusion. My father had always claimed he was born in 1970, however microwaves were invented in 1946 and commercialized in 1964. This meant the latest my father could have been born for him to not have experienced microwaves during his childhood was 1946. My dad had lied about his age! Furious, I went to my father to ask what face cream he uses to keep him looking so young. In an attempt to dodge the question, he reluctantly helped me plan out how I could educate people on the dangers of scuba tubes. Now all I needed was a platform to get my message out. In the meantime, I would stand by the lunchline when the lunch staff was serving scuba tubes and convince people not to support this cruel industry, but I also had to eat, so I instead used my free period to teach the middle schoolers of the dangers of scuba tubes, but like Socrates, I was given detention on the grounds that I was "corrupting the youth." My dad heard about my detention and came to speak with me about what happened. "I just don't understand what your issue is with boiling hot dogs, you boil pasta all the time." This was a foolish argument. I have had plenty of micro-frankfurters in my life, but not once has my father suggested I microwave my pasta. And I definitely haven't seen anybody grilling pasta. I explained to him that the scuba tubes were evolving to prevent us from eating them by covering themselves in meat sauce. He told me meat sauce was actually getting people to eat more hot dogs and that I was just a picky eater, but this too was a ridiculous argument because just last week I put lettuce in my burrito at Chipotle. Despite my father's attempts to stop me from spreading the truth, I stand here today. I urge you to heed my call. Send a letter to your local legislators demanding a ban on scuba tubes. The world is becoming more and more inhabitable every day. If nothing is done, it is estimated that humanity has until the year 2050 until Earth is no longer safe to live on. Like many people in the audience, I would like to know that I have left a world in which my children and grandchildren can thrive. I hope this speech inspires you to make a change. 223 223 This can tell us a lot about who we are afraid of, who we trust, and who we allow to manipulate our thoughts. If we self reflect upon the authorities we obey or question it is easy to see how we rank ourselves within society. Everyone has their own hierarchies in their mind, undoubtedly swayed by those they have listened to. The most tangible example of this, is from our parents or our caregivers. From the beginning we are trained to value and respect them; they literally created us or raised us, so yes some gratitude is necessary. Forced to hear their voices from birth, our understanding of language is derived from listening to them and thus we are obeying them. That obedience and their power allows them to shape our hierarchies that determine who we then listen to and who we obey. To clarify, I am not making a point about explicit obedience and the rules a household may follow. Such when your mom tells you to clean your room, I mean they foster an environment of who to respect and where people rank subconsciously. Maybe This is why research shows that as early as 5, children have perceptions of race, gender and other differences. These understandings of groups play crucial roles in how we define ourselves. Humans have a fundamental need to belong to groups: and so our own personal hierarchies expand to include groups to which we belong. By belonging we don't define ourselves as someone, we actually lose autonomy of self thought and identity. We convince ourselves we are creating personality while actually hindering our ability to discern who we should obey. These cohorts create a larger hierarchy influenced by the combination of shared values. This is how beliefs or sometimes radical ideologies grow to power. The lack of change in hierarchies translates to the fear of those who hold status in them. So we preserve the status quo, enforcing the rigidity of the system and solidifying the silence of those we rank below us. We, decide who is valued enough to be listened to. It goes without saying that there are dangers to having internal hierarchies and the group effect of shared hierarchies is instrumentally demonstrated in society. I'm sure each of you can make connections and observe this in your mind and within the groups to which you belong. Language holds power and authority if you let it-and I urge you to. Reevaluate your loss of autonomy in a group. Think about why you actually hear some and not others. Always question the authority you listen to and why you value it. Is it a result of a cohort, or even a fear of losing your standing of self. in a categorization that only exists in your mind. If you have been listening, Thank you? If not, I find it hard to blame you considering the latter. A Special Shoutout to Ann and Mark for putting up with me and to Robin. And thank you to my Day one friends who have been here the longest. I love you the most. Amelia Batson "La palabra del día es gofres," my dad announced to my family as we were eating breakfast one morning before school. ... "That means waffles," he translated. At eight years old, nothing annoyed me more than my dad's midlife obsession with learning Spanish and his insistence that the rest of our family join him on the journey. Podcasts. Books. Songs. After-school classes. Tutors. No matter how hard I tried, I couldn't escape it. Why was he doing this to me? I was already learning Spanish in school so I didn't understand why he needed to bring it home. For the next seven years we lived this way: my dad speaking Spanish and me responding by yelling in English, "STOP SPEAKING SPANISH!" But then, one evening during my sophomore year, he came home and told us that we'd agreed to host an Amity intern from Spain for six months who would be teaching at my school. What?! I worried that our family dynamic would be thrown off by a new person living with us and that I would be forced to speak Spanish all the time in my own house. I put up unrelenting opposition to my dad bringing Spanish into our house and his imposition of the language on our family, I didn't want anything that changed my routine or family. I don't like change. I like to plan ahead and know what's happening. So, the idea of a stranger from another country living with us for six months completely dragged me out of my comfort zone. All throughout my childhood, I tried to control everything and resisted when others tried to expose me to new things. fff I didn't recognize the value of being open or realize that something that seems like it's being imposed on you might add meaning to and open up your life in completely new but cool directions. I was comfortable with and liked the way that my was without feeling a need to add to it by trying new things with new people. life The night Maria arrived, our house felt chaotic and awkward. We were all a little bit shy around each other and weren't sure how to act or what language to speak. But to my surprise, these feelings quickly faded as we got to know Maria. I learned a lot from the way she connected with us she embraced learning English deliberately by trying to understand words she didn't know and expanding her vocabulary. Even more surprising, I actually enjoyed speaking Spanish with her. And, instead of ruining our family dynamic, she enhanced it with her fun, positive personality. I was so sad when it was time for her to return to Spain. Our house felt a little less cheerful and more dull in her absence, but something inside me changed. I felt a little more confident and open to seeking out different experiences that pushed me and exposed me to new people and places. The following summer, I took a course in New York City for 2 weeks; the next school year, I started tutoring at a public library; this past summer, I spent 5 weeks at a program in London. Whether these activities were 4 or 4000 miles away from my house, I went into them without knowing anyone or anything and came out having learned a lot about myself and the world around me. The value of embracing change and the unfamiliar really became clear to me when my family and I reunited with Maria and her family for three days last summer in their hometown of Valladolid, Spain. It was overwhelming at first; the constant flow of Spanish being thrown at me by numerous people all at once was a lot to take in. They seemed to think I understood everything, when in reality, I had no idea what was going on half the time, in part due to the language and in part due to the differences in the way we live. Even though we were only there for a few days, I felt completely different at the end of our visit. I was comfortable being with other members of Maria's family who spoke no English, and accepted that even though I wouldn't understand everything, everyone had good intentions and would help me figure it out. The whole Ramajo-Rodriguez family was incredibly welcoming. Not just Maria, but her siblings, parents, grandmother, aunt, uncle, and cousins all accepted us just as we are with open arms as part of their family, sharing their home and their region of Castilla y Leon, Spain with deep pride and limitless generosity. I saw Roman aqueducts, castles and other awe-inspiring sites much older than our country, but what I remember when mind drifts back to Spain is the warmth, laughter, and love in Maria's home, and the way her family extended themselves to make sure we were comfortable. Maria's handmade pamphlets that she set on our beds to help us remember all the places we visited. Her mother's insistence on getting up at 5 am to make us breakfast before our long trip home. And even the affection we felt from her dog and her turtles. my Throughout the course of the three days we spent with Maria's family in Spain, my routines completely changed. I couldn't control when I slept, ate, or drank, and didn't have a moment to myself to think or relax. Eating dinner at 11pm; going to sleep at 2am and waking up 5 hours later at 7am; trying mosto, paella, morcilla, jamon iberico, y croquetas; walking 20,000 steps a day in hundred degree heat and driving hundreds of kilometers to see different towns in the region. I had no choice but to go with the flow. To my surprise, I thoroughly enjoyed myself and my time in Spain was one of the best experiences I've had. When I look back on it, I think about Spain as an adventure and these changes to my routine as good things. I remember Maria and her family, how welcoming they were and how excited they were to show us their home and share their lives. These three days, in addition to my other experiences, showed me that I had capacity I never knew I had, gave me confidence, and made me more willing to let go. Though I still struggle sometimes to get out of my ingrained habits and try new things that don't sound exciting to me or make me nervous, these experiences have helped to show me the value and rewards of doing so. Looking back on it, I now appreciate my dad's introduction of Spanish into our house and see it as a good thing, although it pains me to admit it. Without being pushed out of my comfort zone and forced to experience difference, I would have missed out on some of my favorite experiences. And, I never would've realized that I am interested in so many things beyond my own small world, So, next time your parent, friend, or someone else encourages you to try something new, big or small, listen to them and get out of your bubble. Go out to that new restaurant, learn a new language or skill, join a new club or sport, sign up for a trip, have a conversation with someone you've never talked to before. You never know where it might take you.
4 Sameer Bijwadia I've decided that people should just stop saying things that don't need to be said. Can somebody go write that down because that was genius. For example, when you enter an elevator with a stranger already in it, I don't think anyone has to say anything. Let's face it, conversations about the weather are awkward, but they're even worse when there's a closing elevator door between the two of you, because for some reason, people never get off at the same floor. Example #2: When I'm at my yearly checkup,. what if the doctor doesn't say "now breathe normally" after they bring out the stethoscope. What do you mean breathe normally? I was breathing normally, but now that you said that I'm gonna breathe like an asthmatic squirrel. To be honest, I just hate check-ups. A bunch of questions race through my head as I am in the car to my appointment. Will I need a shot? Is my knee gonna shoot up when they hit it with a hammer? Why do they gotta hit my knee with a hammer? I arrive and immediately catch a whiff of that hospital lobby smell. You all know the one I'm talking about, weirdly hard to explain though so I'm not going to even try. I stop and get some hand sanitizer just for fun. Then, mom sends me up to the front desk to check in, which is scary because strangers. When I was just a small Sameer, I would always work up a sweat over having to check myself in. I remember one time where I blanked on my birthday after the receptionist asked for it and tears started to well in my eyes. My mom comes up to console me and successfully recovers the check in process. That was the day I swore to myself that I'd successfully check myself in at my next visit. I'll have to let you guys know how that goes, that appointment is in a couple months. Every part of the doctor's appointment is so strange, everything from the stomach massage to the whole walking barefoot on a hospital floor thing. There is only one part of a hospital visit that I enjoy, and that's when they take you out into the hallway to measure you. It's a kid's favorite part, stretching themselves out as much as they can so that they can see their new height. Now, I didn't have much action at this part of the checkup for the majority of my life. That is, until high school, when I decided to grow a foot in the span of less than two years. Now, I am proudly 6'1" and 3/4. Yeah, that's right, "and 3/4". My nurse wasn't cool enough to just round to 6'2", but I'm not salty. By the way, my height has no relationship to my genetics, but instead is a direct result of growing up in the United States. America, your milk is insane. I promise you, my parents' genome had nothing to do with this. My mom is Filipino and my dad is Indian. You all know Karl-Anthony Towns, big dude right? Well I'm closer to his listed height than I am to the average male height in the Philippines, Yup, the average male in the Philippines is 5' 4", and in India they're 5'5". My parents did not give me much to work with. And yet, when I visit both those countries, I'm able to make eye contact with my brother over the crowd of shorter people in the streets. In Asia, we both look like trees in a forest of, well, smaller trees I guess, we're not that tall. Now I might be above average in height, but the same cannot be said about width. Alright there, I'll say it, I'm skinny. Now I know what you guys are thinking right now: "Oh my gosh he knew that?" Yeah I know, now can you guys stop telling mel? "Oh Sameer, I just noticed your legs are so skinny," Ok well thank you for sharing, but at this time I'd like to take you on a brief history lesson. Come with me back to the year 1835, and picture what you were doing, Justus von Liebig, a German is in his organic chemistry lab inventing silvering, a process that reduces silver salts to silver metal. Pretty cool right? That became the inspiration behind modern day mirrors. Crazy that the mirror was invented in 1835, and people still think I've never seen that I'm skinny. guy, To be clear, I don't think it's all my fault that I'm this skinny. I've tried a bunch of things to get bigger, but none of them seem to work. "Sameer, why don't you just eat more?" Oh thanks, never thought of that. Of course I've tried that. As I was growing, the food I ate was way more nutritious than that of my ancestors, but my body got all confused and said "I don't know what to do with this," so we went up. I'm like if you were resizing an image in Google docs and just stretched the vertical way. That's messed up by the way, never do that. When I was younger, it was just my mom telling me how thin I was. And I would think to myself, well I mean, you made this, not my fault. As I got older, though, I took more responsibility, taking control over my eating habits. But, it's really hard when your body doesn't effectively use the food you give it. I've actually weighed myself, eaten a chipotle burrito, then afterwards, weighed less than before. How is that even possible? I love science and stuff, but I think my body is literally a violation of conservation of mass. For those of you who don't know what I'm talking about when I say gaining weight is hard, I'm here to tell you that it sucks. I followed my research on the internet, which told me to eat more ice cream, whole milk, and cheese. I know they say you are what you eat but I'm pretty sure those foods are high in fat, so that's a lie. Filling myself with food wasn't going to change anything anytime soon. I tried working out alongside eating a lot more, pushing my body to a psychological limit sometimes. Changing your body requires hours spent in the gym, edging out one more rep. It means sitting at the dinner table 20 minutes longer than everyone else, trying to get in a few more bites even though you're already full. It's downing a protein shake at midnight just to get in extra calories for the day, then trying to sleep in a position where your stomach's untouched. I'm not here to complain about what I do. Ok maybe just a little bit, but I'm mostly trying to give you an example of personal challenges that I took on and am perfectly fine with doing. And while I may not be doing everything right, I've seen progress in strength and weight, which is something that I've had to work really hard for. How am I supposed to be proud, though, when people continue to make uninformed, and honestly just dumb remarks about my body. For anyone who has made these comments to anyone, not just me, you sound really not smart when you do. I don't really understand the logic behind making these comments either. I walk into a room with shorts on, and it just goes through someone's head that "Oh my gosh, well someone has to tell this man that he's skinny." Some people try to get creative with their comments, but often they don't even make sense. I've been told I look like pasta once. What does that even mean??? Am I supposed to close read that because I look nothing like last night's fettuccine alfredo. There's just some wild things people say just to get attention. "Sameer, it's just a joke." Yeah, I know you're joking, but that means you just got lucky. It's just a joke but 30 million people in the US suffer from an eating disorder. That's one in ten people, and that should scare you. Yeah, I'm able to brush it off, but how come one person dies from an eating disorder in this country every hour. Peer pressure and cultural pressure are the leading causes of eating disorders and body image issues. Every time you crack a joke at someone's body, you are taking a big risk. When you call someone overweight, you might be asking them to starve themselves more. If you say someone needs to eat more, you delegitimize any work they've already done to change that. Whenever you comment on someone else's body, you make the bold assumption that you know them better than they know themselves, which is never the case. Remember how I started this speech? That people should stop saying things that don't need to be said? When you say something out loud, you're choosing to immortalize those words in that listener's past. I want you to at least consider that every time you talk about someone else. If you notice something special about them, chances are that they've noticed it too. To anyone who is trying to change themselves in any way, whether it be weight, whether it be strength, intelligence, personality, wealth, status, or any other facet of your valuable life, first ask yourself if you'd want to change if no one was there to see you afterwards. If that's you, I challenge you to push past the people who mistake your hardship for comedy, because those are not the people that deserve to see you at your best. Please remember that the best measure of progress comes from yourself. Thank you. Kathleen Bishop I'd like to start by introducing you all to Tony. For the sake of illustration, let's pretend Tony goes to school with us. Now in this scenario, Molly is one of your best friends. Molly tells you that she saw--with her own eyes--Tony steal her phone a few minutes ago. You could react to this in several ways. A. You and Molly confront Tony together. B. You and Molly report the stolen phone to security. C. You decide not to get involved because you think it is only between Molly and Tony. Which option might be closest to your response A, B, or C? Speaking of phones, let's go back to the days when the BlackBerry Pearl was the coolest phone you could ever hope for. It's 2006. "Hannah Montana" has debuted on Disney Channel, My Space is blowing up, and the 2020 graduating class at SPA is four years old (and already gifted). 2006 also marked the beginning of an unprecedented social media movement that spread around the globe. Dozens of high- profile men were ousted from positions of power. Some were criminally charged. The roots of this movement can be traced to Tarana Burke, a civil rights activist who grew up in a housing project in the Bronx. With the support and encouragement of her mother, Tarana went on to graduate from Auburn University. Tarana was
5 24 Quinn Christensen I forget, sometimes, that neither of us could drive when we were seven. Or fourteen. She drove. For both of us. I rode up front, though. I was old enough to look out the windshield. You sat in the backseat. You had no idea where you were going. She told you to count your M&Ms, and you did. It's embarrassing that I had a better view of where I was headed than you did, had heard you talk about where you'd ended up, and still never tried to get out. It would have been so easy in the beginning, when I still recognized what was outside the window. I could have gotten away, sprinting, sprinting home, to ribs not yet barren and a full night's sleep. But I stayed. I stayed and I rode with her and I was not afraid. She told me I would do better than you had, that I was special. It makes me want to cry, thinking that I ever believed that, that I trusted her more than you, You were seven, Seven when I met you, seven when you sped away, counting the whole time. You were a natural and she loved you for it. I want to shake myself when I think of how, at fourteen, I used to compete with you as a child, a you that didn't even exist anymore. But then I remember that at fourteen, I was a baby, too. We were both too young. Too young to be taken, to be messed with like that. She knew & she took us when we were weakest. She took us and strapped us in and said don't worry I will take you to the most magical place on Earth and you won't be sad anymore and you will be very beautiful and everyone will love you and everyone will love you and everyone will love you. She told me I was in control. In retrospect, it didn't make any sense - how could I have been in control when she was the one at the steering wheel? It didn't matter, though. I was going somewhere beautiful. You'd told me it was ugly, but I didn't believe you. I believed I was going somewhere beautiful. I counted the whole way. It was a long trip. I asked are we there yet? a thousand times. Sometimes, I thought we'd never get there, and I'd stop counting. She'd scream until I started back up again. You have to, she said. You have to or it won't work. Count breakfast, count lunch, count dinner. I'm tired of counting, I said. I don't want to count dinner. Then don't have it, she said. You don't have to count it if you don't have it. Count less tomorrow and everyone will love you. Three hundred and seventy, two hundred, plate scraped clean is zero... Aren't you so excited to see everyone? she'd ask me. Yes, I'd say. They're going to love me so much. Here, she said, pointing. We're getting close. See that clump of hair? That means we're getting close. Are they out there? I asked. Who? Everyone who loves me now. Ob yes, she said. Oh, yes. They're right there, waiting for us at the end. They all love you so much. I looked out the window, but no one was there. Instead, we were in the ugliest place I'd ever seen. I should have believed you when you'd told me it wasn't pretty. The sky was so overcast that it could have been night, but there was no rain. The trees were my own skin and hair. Up ahead, I saw mountains of my own teeth. Isn't it beautiful? she said proudly. Now everyone has to pay attention to us. I began to cry. You said everyone would love me, I sobbed. You said everyone would love me. Where are they? You just have to count some more, she said. You pushed them away, I cried. You can't make them love me at all. I can make them worry about you, she said. Isn't that the same thing? But no. Worry is not love, just a symptom of it. Just the child of love and bad teeth. I pulled my knees to my chest and felt pieces of myself flake off. Everyone was gone and I was disappearing, too. Just like you've always wanted, she said. But no. I didn't. I'd strayed too far from home. All I had left was the driver who'd gotten me there and the numbers, so many numbers. Numbers spilling out from the glove compartment, squished up against the windows, gnawing at what was left of my cheeks. Every record I'd kept over the course of the road trip. I can't breathe, I said. I want to go home. But we're here, she said. We're here. And then she took the wheel in both hands and turned it, hard, so that everything was in motion, and we were speeding off the road towards a wall of lies I had told my mother, and everything I'd counted wound so tightly around me I thought I might burst, and we crashed. *** You came for me then, when I was stranded in a desert of my own making. Of her own making. You found the car rolled over in the ditch, the door mangled and nearly torn off. You found the numbers, smoking. You found me, rotting. And you pulled me out. This is where you've been, you said, and for the first time since leaving home the counting ceased. There was calm. I'm sorry, I whispered. I love you, you said. I always have. And I always will. Exactly the same amount. And I knew you weren't lying. I didn't have to count it. I love you too, I said. Please come home. I will, I promised. And then: I can't drive you. You have to do it yourself. I know, I said. I know. You had to leave then, because you had to get home, too. So I learned how to piece the car back together, bit by bit. I pushed her from the driver's seat to the passenger's side. She fought tooth and nail to hold onto that steering wheel, but I did it. Hit & kicked & bit until she gave it up. And then I held tight, tight tight tight, and slowly, carefully, I began the car ride home. Driving is scary at first. The steering wheel feels foreign and your speed is all over the place. You don't know how to control it yet. But you are in control. 25 30 same lifeguard training class by accident. Having each other there was the only reason we didn't just about die of boredom. By spending those two weekends together, we rebonded over our memories of St. Paul Tennis Club and we made plans to all be lifeguards together and continue to work there after we aged out of the swim team. Summer of 2018 came, and Sara, Julia and I all started as 'wannabes'. Wannabes are what Gary calls the lifeguards that are being trained in. We all shadowed for all the different shifts and learned how to work at the pool. After training we started picking up shifts and felt like we really worked there, and this past summer Sara and I spent a lot of time working at the pool together. Working as a lifeguard at a place I love has had some amazing highlights and some (now funny) low points. Being that all of the lifeguards are around the same age and all grew up together it's like working with all your best friends. We have a group me chat that includes Greg that is named 'SPTC Staff' and we have one without Greg that is named 'SPTC Besties'. When it rains and no members show up to the pool, we go swimming. Being around people I love while doing my job makes it one hundred times easier, even during the frustrating parts. For example, when there is a huge party at the pool of kids who just do not want to listen, it's made easier knowing that we will all be talking and laughing about it in the group chat in a few hours. Or when it's cold and rainy outside and there's just that one kid in the pool who "doesn't mind the rain", knowing there are snacks and blankets in the shack when I'm done guarding makes it seem way more manageable. There are parts that I am going to hold on to forever, even just from the past few years. I remember every lecture that Greg has given us about listening to our parents or being ourselves. I remember the first time that Gary said I was starting to look like a swimmer and I remember all of the times I spent growing up and learning at St. Paul Tennis Club. I am lucky to have a place like St. Paul Tennis Club that taught me the important lesson of loving what you do and who you do it with. The people that I work with make me excited to go in and do my job. St. Paul Tennis Club has been such a large part of my life and I am so grateful for it, and grateful that I quickly learned how much it mattered to me. I make sure to thank Gary for everything he has done, with teaching me to swim, and everything he continues to do, including always supporting me and continuing to give me swimming and life advice. I try my best to put my energy and appreciation back into St. Paul Tennis Club because of how much it means to me. Although not everyone has as small and specific of a community as SPTC that they are a part of, everyone is part of a community. I think that it is really important to give back to that community to show gratitude and appreciation. Zachary Dyar When I was about seven years old, my family decided to freshen up my bedroom. We took everything out of the small, strangely cubular space, planning to add some new furniture and lighting. That was when my parents asked me: "What color should we paint your room?" Now, being a prepubescent child with little capability for understanding the long-term consequences of my actions, I proudly declared that I wanted the walls of my room painted in alternating pink and orange and I wasn't going to settle for some dull salmon and orchid shades- no no, I marched to the Home Depot paint display and pointed at the brightest shades of pink and orange that I could find. And so, we painted the walls of my room pink and orange. I soon learned that the rest of the world was not so accepting of my choice in color as my family was. One of the most common questions asked of elementary school students is "what is your favorite color" to which I promptly replied, pink. If I had a dollar for every time someone said it was strange, un-boyish or girly that I loved pink, I would have been the richest kid at the lower school, and that's saying something. It got to the point where when I replied pink I'd preemptively justify my choice by saying "but not the girly pink". Not the girly pink. You see, I didn't know it at the time but society had begun to mold me to fit a definition- a definition of what it means to be a man. From a young age, boys are told to act like boys, girls like girls, with no wiggle room for any gray area between. Society assigns you a box, and expects you to remain in its confines for the rest of your life. So, when little me, a young boy, said my favorite color was pink, the weight of those gendered norms came crashing down upon my shoulders, questioning my sense of self by telling me "boys don't like pink" How could a boy like pink? My rapidly developing self-conscious was shocked- in my heart, my choices felt right, but every signal I was sent told they were wrong. Surely, I must be wrong, because obviously a boy couldn't like pink. But the rigid box of gender controls more than just what colors little boys enjoy. As I grew older, the norms governing what it meant to be masculine grew more despotic and more all-encompassing. First, my body's masculinity was questioned. How can you be a real man if you're so fat you can't run a mile in less than ten minutes? Real men are fast and strong. Then, my behaviors were probed. How can you be a real man if you sit inside all day instead of running around outside? Real men aren't lazy. Finally, masculinity came for my emotions. How can you be a man if you sob when you are in pain? Men don't show when their body or their heart is hurting. Real men don't cry. And so, with the masculinity of my body and mind called into question, I did what any socially driven primate would do when ostracized-- I conformed. But, attempting to conform to society's rigorous standards of masculinity turned out to be harder than society makes it seem, Every physical change and cognitive alteration I made came at a price- I made the down payment on masculinity with the parts of my soul which made me, me. I presumed that to meet society's definition of a man, I had to purge everything that was deemed unmasculine. My passion for the mental exertion of reading and card games was replaced by physical exertion in the weight room. My propensity for expressing emotion was replaced by a blank face from which not a single tear would fall. My favorite color was no longer pink. My favorite color was just orange. I told myself that this was right, that this was the way things were meant to be. I convinced myself that putting on false persona is what made me authentic. In retrospect, the changes I made were small in their material impact on my life. Yet I still felt lost. I buried a little part of who I was- locked it away and threw away the key. I created a void within myself- a void which masculinity alone didn't fill. It didn't fill my soul with joy like the color pink did. Over time I realized that something was missing- there was more substance to who I was than could be portrayed from within the confines of simplifying "being a man". But, if my soul wasn't to be filled with the characteristics and personality of the idealistic man, then what was I to fill it with? I understood that I was more than simply a man, but I had to work out what that meant. Now, I didn't conduct some pilgrimage to my ancestral homeland to come to the realization that "what was missing had been there the whole time." I didn't meditate deeply on the futility of my existence or the infinitely cascading expanse of the universe. Instead, I took a simpler route: I found myself by finding my people. I surrounded myself with relationships where I felt comfortable in my own skin and where I felt comfortable to explore what it meant to live in that skin. I found people like Sydney, Sonja, Stein, Liam, Bilal, Oliva, Alex, Kathleen, Ellie, Ananya and countless others who gave me the courage to find out who I was behind the mask of masculinity. It was surrounded by these people where I realized that "being a man" doesn't necessitate checking off a list of boxes about your persona or your body. Masculinity does not make a man. Society should not, and can not tell someone what it means to be a man. The power lies within me to determine my own definition of masculinity. We tend to teach boys they are nothing without that label. Without their masculinity, boys are told they are nothing. But, I'm more than my favorite color, I'm more than emotions, more than my strength, more than my hobbies, more than even my friends. I am a beautiful, intricate puzzle made up of a combination of all these pieces and I don't believe that the entirety of that puzzle can be expressed through the mask of masculinity." But, regardless of whether my entire being can be categorized as simply a man, I refuse to let that label control who I am, and I refuse to let that label control who I want to be. So, will I be ostracized for this speech? Will my masculinity be called into question? Yeah, it probably will. But do I care? In a word, no. From here on out, I'll be my own man. Sean Edstrom Like many people in this audience, I find myself feeling stressed most days during school. During the school year, on an average day, I spent 7 hours at school. This means that almost 30% of my 24-hour day is spent in the classroom. For me, this feels like so much longer. Maybe that's because if you subtract 8 hours for sleeping and add a couple hours for homework, school really takes up more than 50% of my waking hours. I acknowledge that school is very important, but with my personality, I feel like I gain most of my deeper knowledge from doing things in nature and being outside. Every school day that I am able, I try to get outside to explore something in nature. If I can do this with friends, it makes it even more enjoyable. Sometimes, living in the city can make it hard to find places that feel like real nature. But living in 31 27 222 26 Cautiously, I rolled a window down and let the breeze rip the numbers out of the car like mosquitoes. She tried to keep the windows closed. She made a grab for the steering wheel when I wasn't looking. But I held tight. It has been more than two years since then. We are still on the road. Sometimes, when it gets very dark, she still reaches for the wheel. Sometimes, when it gets very dark, I find a stray number caught in a corner of the windshield, and I have to crush it with my bare fingers. Sometimes, when it gets very dark, I wonder if I will ever get home. But I want to go home, to my house of skin & bone, yes, but muscle & fat, too, habitable in a way the desert is not, in a way the desert will never be. I know that you are driving, too, on a different road than I am but coming home just the same. So when she reaches for the steering wheel, offers to drive just for a little while, I think of you, whose love I need not count. I push her away. I turn my headlights on. And I keep going. I'll see you at home. Libby Cohen When she arrived, she was crowned with a mop of dark, thick, full locks. Her soft skin and big chocolate brown eyes were paired with what appeared to be a wig. From the moment she presented herself, her hair was her super power: her own specific, unique, and specialized trait that she brought with her into the universe. She started to grow, and her hair did, too. Her ringlets stretched, framing her round and young face. Her waves turned into soft and shiny curls. Around the age of 4, she tagged along with her mother to the grocery store. Upon exit, two women approached her and proceeded to speak to her in Spanish. They were unsure of her cultural identity, but based on her looks, made an assumption of her heritage and decided to engage with her. Not knowing Spanish, this girl, slightly afraid but mostly confused, grabbed her mother's hand and wondered what it was about her, that the women saw. Should she be engaging with someone she didn't know? While they were smiling and their tone was comforting, these people were unfamiliar to her, and she wasn't sure about it. At age 6, Target asked her to be in their advertisement for their Movies, Music, and Books department. At the photoshoot, she was introduced to the woman whose lap she would be sitting on, her pretend mother, who would be reading a book to her. This woman was Mexican; together they were to represent a Latino family, further enhancing the company's diverse marketing appeal. They both shared dark hair and eyes, and bronzed skin. She knew their stories were different but was intrigued by how their paths crossed. As the years passed, she began to feel more aware of her looks. She often shed tears in the morning before elementary school because her hair wasn't cooperating. The bathroom mirror wasn't reflecting an image back of what she thought was her best self. It was a challenge for this young girl to feel fully confident. Her identifying feature made her stand out in ways that she had yet to learn to appreciate. At age 8, her frustrations started to dissipate when she began to spend her summers at a magical summer camp in the heart of a small Wisconsin town, with many other kids who shared her same defining characteristic. It was a place where she could share hair products with her friends. In fact, her best friend had a much longer hair routine than her own, because her curls were more luscious. And in order to keep the hands away, together they would tell people they had lice. She wasn't questioned when she said she only owned a comb, not a hair brush. Here, she fit in so smoothly, with people who were just like her. At age 13, she visited Israel with her grandparents, a trip that would always hold so much love and significance in her heart. Upon entry, the airport security personnel spoke to her in Hebrew. Not to her cousin or her grandparents with straighter hair than hers, but to her alone. They viewed her hair as a doorway into her culture, her religion, and her identity. She crossed boundaries again, both literally and figuratively. Back at home she went to her synagogue each Shabbat morning during the school year to learn for her Bat Mitzvah and then give back by teaching the next group of kids. One day, she sat in the passenger seat of the car, her brother driving, with a kippah-- a traditional Jewish head covering-- atop his own curled hair, when an African American man holding a sign and fff asking for help was standing at the stop light next to them. They offered him a granola bar, but he declined. With the car window still open, he paused, looked at her hair, then proceeded to question her identity. He first asked if she was African American too, and then when he heard her response he said "Jewish?" Her hair was a bridge, a means to visit a world of new cultures and welcome in new people. This man used her hair as a doorway, through which conversation began. Though set apart by socioeconomic status, skin color, and race, they attempted to establish the common ground between them. He aimed to make a connection between himself and her, underlying their similarities. As the light turned green and the car drifted down the street, she left the interaction feeling heartened at their ability to connect as humans, despite their stark differences. Diversity united them. The bond that kept them together was that easy the only thing they had in common was their differences. At age 17, she brought her brother to college for his sophomore year in the bustling city of Washington, DC, and walked by a boys youth football team asking for donations. She heard the "help us get gear" shpiel, and then a loud "I like your hair!" Her hair transcended boundaries, and again, acted as a means to engage in connection. She turned around and thanked him, and together they recognized the powerful human interaction of a greeting, and the universal language of a smile. Yes, that girl is me, and I am proud to be her. I'll be the first to admit that I don't always love my wildly prone to frizz curls. And through the years I have envied hair in all their straight, silky, and shiny glory. But I do feel privileged to not only have the opportunity to express myself and my friends my personality through my coiled hair, but also lucky enough to be spotted in a crowd. You can't ignore a curly person. I feel individualized, one of the few girls in my grade to have curls. My hair has helped me conquer challenges, embrace my individuality, and push me to be the best version of myself. I know, deep within my heart, that my confidence and comfort has blossomed, and every tear shed has led me down the path I'm on today, filled with open doors, overcomeable challenges, and a broadened scope into others lives. Though the strangers asking to touch my hair may never stop pushing my buttons, my hair has allowed me to view the world through a lens of both differences and similarities between people. It is as though each curl comes together to build a bridge that I will proudly walk across forever, allowing me to partake in spontaneous opportunities of real-world cultural learning. This bridge gives me the strength and confidence to stand tall, and the ability to communicate with ease to those I do not know, whether that be in Spanish, Hebrew, or English, black or white, blond and untextorized, or dark and coiled. My hair was a love/hate relationship growing up, but it forced me to come out of my comfort zone and truly embrace and accept myself the way I am, and along the way, gave me insight into others' stories. I have grown to love my hair, a feeling that didn't always resonate with me. My curly hair is a double-edged sword, it grants me power, and challenges me by having a life of its own. I've seen that I have the ability to let my hair define me in a negative way, or I could own it and embrace the individuality. Seniors, as we embark on our last year of high school, our last year together, I challenge you to be your true self and feel proud to stand out in the crowd. So me with my curly hair, and her with her beautiful brown skin, and him with his long lean legs, and you with your own super power... We are all an important part of the fabric that shapes our community, our world. The things that unite us are stronger than the things that divide us. Thank you. Alessandra Costalonga I've been thinking about this a lot lately. When do you get too old to have fun, explore, make dumb decisions? Was it yesterday? Is it now? Is it tomorrow? If I'm being honest, I don't think anyone knows for sure. 56 Paige Indritz We are born of the Earth, A long time ago, there was no land - just water, and a man floated around the Earth on a piece of driftwood. He was tired of floating and the animals that accompanied him were tired as well so the man decided he would create an island. But in order to create the land, he needed a piece of the earth from the bottom of the deep ocean. Each animal offered to dive down and bring up a handful but each of them failed and came up empty-handed. Finally, a muskrat appeared and offered to try a final time to reach the bottom. As he swam closer to the ocean floor he became weak however he used the last of his strength and reached out to grab a handful of the earth. And as he floated up, he died. When he reached the top everyone mourned the loss of the muskrat but they saw in his paw the handful of dirt. The turtle swimming alongside this man offered his shell as a starting place to begin to build the island and as the dirt was placed on his back the winds began to blow, creating a huge island out of the small mound of dirt. There, the man was able to go ashore after many months at sea and he named the island Turtle Island. Out of the elements, humans were born and the world began to grow. So, we are born of the Earth. Every creation story starts with the Earth. It starts in a place so lush and untouched, and slowly, begins to develop the elements of the world we know today. The sun and moon begin to set and rise and animals and plants begin to grow. Lastly, humans are born and we begin to grow and explore and create our own paths through the world. These paths expand and soon, our world looks very different from the way it used to be. But we have to remember where we came from. As modern humans in North America, the natural world was plentiful but as more people came to the continent the fears of what was lurking in the woods outweighed the curiosity and need for the natural world. We began to gravitate towards bigger cities that were still growing and soon we began to forget our roots. But the wilderness is still here, holding our beginnings tightly, woven through the roots of the towering trees. A natural separation formed two new worlds, separating our past and our futures. The old world was deep in the wilderness, hiding secrets about who we used to be. Our new world was fast-moving and strong and swept away remnants of past lives. As the worlds grow apart we have begun to forget where we came from and although the answer is out there, getting to it has been made more and more difficult. The secrets in the wilderness are supposedly guarded well, and to find them you must pass a test. The test of the natural world stems from the original American idea of wilderness which came into being through manifest destiny, when westward settlers claimed the untouched land and set them aside for exploration and recreation. For many people, this seemed to open the door of opportunity of being able to bridge the gap between our two growing worlds. We had found perfect harmony between humans and the natural world and we began to write our history. But maybe the manuscript of history has a page limit, or it was simply written down in pencil for our convenience because with new history comes erasure and the history of the natural world is the best example of how well we are able to forget others. In the case of Native Americans, the idea of recreational wilderness glorified their heritage without acknowledging it, and the untouched backcountry erased their history with the land. But still we pressed on, ignoring the fact that through forgetting others we are forgetting our past selves. So maybe the secrets in the wilderness aren't heavily guarded if you're the right person. If you fit through all the twisting paths through brush and over mountains then you'll learn what is so special about Earth and you'll understand how you belong. It seems simple, doesn't it? Almost mundane - anyone can go on an adventure. Anyone, with the exception of some. Keep in mind, there are rules in the wilderness - not because they were placed there by anyone for a specific reason, just because it is the way it is - they were meant to be. So here they are: The rules you need to pass the test of wilderness. Listen carefully because they tell you everything you need to know. The first stages are simple. If you are white you can pass. If you've taken something that didn't belong to you but claimed it as your own you are free to continue. If you're male you can keep going as well - the woods are dark and deep and require only the strongest to conquer them. If you've stuck around so far you should just turn around and head home - you have mouths to feed and money to earn and being away for so long is too much. On your way out wave to those who couldn't begin those who physically and mentally didn't pass the test. So now the words are twisting on the pages of history. It seems as though there is hierarchy in a place so large we cannot even imagine it's depth. It seems as though someone erased part of the story to write down these rules and they do in fact serve to hurt and exclude. There are no limits, and never will be limits, on wild lands and the hierarchies don't stand just because they were supposedly meant to be. The paradox of the natural experience is that the wilderness is just a place yet we still feel the need to set up boundaries and when they are dismantled we take out our permanent markers to scribble over the fresh lines. Maybe the secrets that lay deep in the woods aren't so heavily guarded after all. In fact, they aren't secrets at all. Our past isn't a secret, only a reminder of where we are on this journey. And the only thing that is hidden just below the surface is that the wilderness has been shaped to be inequitable. How did we stray so far from our origins that we have lost the true essence of the wild? When did we claim the wilderness? It isn't ours to have yet we have taken it and changed it to become our own when it doesn't belong to us, we belong to the Earth. The peaks and valleys and rivers will outlive all of us - they have already seen many lifetimes fade in and out and yet they still exist. Our creation stories can vary from person to person but they all start with the Earth. We all start with the Earth. The discrimination that is ingrained in ourselves has no place in the wilderness yet it still exists through small actions compounding. We have built walls through natural places because they are threatening, both because of what we fear inside and what we try to keep out. And we work harder and harder to create obstacles that deter people from experiencing the impacts of the natural world when the truth is that the wilderness is the purest, realist place that a person can become themselves. We have all come from the Earth and we all belong to the Earth and only when we fully understand our past can we begin to shape our futures within this planet. We are born of the Earth. Elijah Johnson There is no middle ground. You are either a reinforcer of systems of power or you are against them. Somehow, there is confusion between anti-prejudice and niceties. Many that are scared of being called prejudiced will do "nice" actions excessively in an attempt to convey that they are accepting people. Constant widened eye contact accompanied by a smile and a softer voice. These acts often come across as condescending. When I have experienced this, I feel that I am treated similar to that of a young child. Please do not take this the wrong way, clearly, a kind person is a hundred percent better than a mean one. However, these measures of "niceness" come at the expense of one's authenticity, so is it truly nice? Often, what is nice has some kind of agenda attached to it, for example how our personal image is perceived by the masses. When we consider this before the people we interact with, all it does is hide how we really feel underneath. In early December of 2019, I had an argument with my brother who has now become an advocate for anti-homophobia and equality. I asked why people who are Lesbian, Gay, Bisexual, Transgender Queer, Intersex, or Asexual sometimes remain closeted because there are now so many examples of famous people who have come out in the media. The argument soon transitioned to my comfortability with people who are in the LGBTQIA+ community specifically gay people because my brother could see through my carefully worded, "nice" replies. I said, "I am fine with gay people when they are around me, but I don't know." My brother then asked me what "I don't know" meant, which I did not have an answer to. I stayed silent. He would proceed to ask me the same question, and I became more defensive. Eventually, I angrily told him that "They just rub me the wrong way." That moment was the breaking point for me. I had seen myself as non-homophobic simply because I did not personally harm an LGBTQIA+ person in a way our societal rules could recognize because of my evasive language. Humiliated at the exchange, I gave it some thought. So many times in and outside of school I simply allowed people to say homophobic things. This is a problem in itself, I never considered the hate speech and backlash that comes along with stating one's identity and the courage it must have taken to say that they were part of that community. I thought it was good enough if I didn't actively participate. I did not laugh but would remain quiet in fear of being ridiculed. But here's the thing about staying silent: you are agreeing to the status quo. As time went on, I began to laugh at those jokes and I internalized the homophobia that is embedded in our society. When my brother provoked me enough and I exclaimed "They just rub me the wrong way," I finally registered the fact that I was creating a harmful and toxic environment that ostracizes people because the way they love is not normalized. And how easy it is to fall into the false comfort of thinking I 57 52 mind. However, now I see it was just because she saw potential in me and wanted me to achieve it. I wish I could have looked past my stubbornness and been able to recognize this while she was still alive. But, it wasn't until I was sitting in the church, surrounded by 40 years of rowers she brought together, that I was able to finally realize that she was an amazing coach. Miriam, I am sorry I never told you this in person, but I am so grateful for everything you have done for me. From teaching me how to row, to providing unasked-for life lessons, to creating a wonderful community for me to be a part of. Right now I am struggling to figure out how to love something that has also brought me so much pain. Honestly, I'm not sure if there is one right answer but I do know that you can find comfort in a drawing left by a peer reviewer on your poem of a figure rowing under the stars with the world in the background. Or from hugs in the hallways given by unexpected classmates. And friends who bring you ice cream and just sit on your bed with you while you cry. Heartfelt talks with your teachers can help, as you keep their memories alive together. And sometimes it takes standing alone on a dock, shivering as the pouring rain becomes one with the tears on your face, hunched against the wind that threatens to steal away your umbrella. Looking out at the water in that moment, I could almost picture his silhouette, rowing his single down the bay. I think the grief I feel for their losses will always be there when I am reminded of memories from rowing, but that is how we are reminded of these people's impact on our lives. I can remember that it hurts because they gave me so much and I can remember to be grateful for everything they have done for me. I can keep their spirit alive by passing on the gifts they gave me to others. And I can keep their memory alive by telling their stories. And in doing all this, I think I will be able to feel sorrow for their loss but find joy again and let both myself experience both peacefully. Alex Herrmann Ever since I was just a child, sports and athletic competition have been an integral part of my upbringing. It all began with throwing a baseball in the backyard with my father. Moving quickly on to organized sports at the YMCA. Basketball, soccer, and baseball were my passion. As I got a little bit older and aged into the lower school, every day during recess I would make the tumultuous journey to the top of the hill for the daily game of soccer. These games allowed me to burn off steam and make new friends because there were often 25 to 30 people playing. Throughout those years I developed such a passion for soccer that I began to pursue playing it outside of school. For about five years I played soccer for Blackhawks. I practiced three times and would play games once or twice each week. These practices were often nowhere near to where I lived and could take more than half an hour to drive one direction. I never realized the strain that this placed upon my parents. Up until my brother and my birth, both of my parents worked full time jobs; however, after we were born my dad placed his career on the backburner and transition from a full-time job, to a more contract-based one where he had control as to what parts of the year he would work so he could be with us more. Until I was in late middle school he would always take the summer off so that he would be able to stay home with us. Even while he was working he would change his hours so that he would always be able to make it to all of our games and pick us up right after practice. My fondest memories with my father involve us and my brother playing mildly violent football games in the front yard during the fall directly after soccer practice, always resulting in someone going inside with an elbow to the stomach or face, however, no matter the injury we were always out there the next day to try it again. Even as he transitioned into roles that didn't involve him being able to miss entire summers to hang out with us, my father always made it his goal to never miss a single game. Between both of my parents, there has been someone watching every single game that I have played since before I can remember. It always gives me a sense of comfort looking into the stands or across the field and seeing my parents waiting for the game to commence. I still vividly remember getting a text from them saying that I had played well and that they had enjoyed watching me play while I was at a soccer tournament in Europe. The game took place at around noon, meaning that they had both woken up at five in the morning to watch me play and I'll never forget looking up into the stands while at Providence Academy for a basketball game and seeing my father, fresh out of three days in the hospital, reading the program. While having my parents supporting me has been awesome and I am fortunate to have such available parents, they could never really be there for me like a team could. As a team, we went through everything together, the ups and downs, the wins and losses, and all the running. The saddest part is always watching them go. The last game of every year, when the seniors are crying because their time has come before they were ready, for most of them, their last game in a uniform, playing for a team. Nothing can replace the bonds built while hanging out waiting for late practices, suffering through having a bad coach, or celebrating a huge win over a rival. Nothing can or will replace fighting together with a team for a common goal, no matter how small. I have not always been the greatest child, often fighting within the family, and having a family and understanding its role has never been easy for me considering the difficult relationship I share with my brother. Sadly I have often not taken advantage of the love and support that most of them provide for me. However, I wish to thank those that have helped my in my family. To my grandma, who was there to raise me while my mom was at work and my dad was incapacitated with a broken back, for being my second mother, and teaching me how to love. My grandpa, who is always around to play a board game with me or talk about school or coin collecting. My dad, for showing up to everything, regardless of importance, because showing up was the important part, teaching me to never quit, and passing along his love of sports. And finally, my mother, who has raised me since I was young, has always been my voice of reason, and has supported my every endeavor regardless of size. As I have gotten older I have realized that a family is just like a team, there are leaders and followers, wins and losses, and times where things just don't work as they should. Family is a struggle, but so are teams, players, much like a family, don't always get along as well as they wish they would. While my time playing sports competitively is drawing to a close with college athletics not being a part of the picture, I know I can count on my family to support me like my teams always have, and while they may not be fighting the same battles as me, I know that they will have my back, as we are bonded in blood and nothing can ever change that. So as high school ends, I will go back to my oldest and forever-lasting team, perhaps the greatest team I can be apart of, my own family. I will never forget my teammates but the time is coming for me to move on. I am extremely grateful for everything they have done for me and all the sacrifices they have made so we can be successful, As I rejoin my oldest team I am reminded how extremely grateful I should be for all the time that they have put up with my misuse of such a great resource, for everything that they have done for me, helping me without me asking when they knew I needed it the most, and for all that they will do for me. So to my family, my teams, my friends, my teachers, my coaches, and anyone who has helped me along my way I say thank you. Ellie Hoppe Let's face it, I'm perfect, and I have been since day one. Well, maybe that's not entirely true. Sure, when I was in preschool I wasn't allowed in the sandbox because I kept eating sand, but I've come a long way since then. And if I'm being completely honest there are still three big things that I would say are wrong with me. I'm about 13, 26, and 17 degrees away from being perfect. What I'm talking about are the curves in my spine that make it more S shaped instead of a straight line like it should be. For those of you who are unfamiliar with this condition, it's called scoliosis. I was diagnosed with scoliosis when I was in 6th grade. At the time I didn't really know what it all meant, but I knew that it was something that was going to make me different from everyone else. Not a good kind of different, though. I remember being thrown into a world of doctors appointments and hospitals where they would touch my back, take x-ray after x-ray, and take measurements. And it was all to prove that there was something wrong with me. When the tests, and x-rays, and measurements all came back, the doctor walked into the room and asked to talk with my mom in the hallway. I knew for sure something was wrong with me. When they came back into the room the doctor was holding a pink plastic back brace that was decorated with butterflies and a big green smiley face. She put it down on the floor in front of me and left the room. My mom was saying words to me that I couldn't understand because all I could do was stare at this thing on the floor. I have never felt more broken in my life than I did staring at the thing on the floor that couldn't possibly belong to me. In the next doctors appointments I started to understand a little bit more of what was going on. I was, and still am to be honest, terrified. In the next couple of weeks I got my very own piece of plastic that was decorated with a zebra print pattern 53 70 for my actions, I couldn't find the taste in food. As time grew, a month turned into eight. I didn't leave him. I sat across from a teacher, leg crossed over the other, arms tucked against one another. Her eyes glanced towards my legs before reaching my eyes and asking how much I had lost. I gave a subtle shrug, telling her I hadn't noticed, but I had. I saw how the plains of skin became obscured by the protrusions of my bones. Time hadn't shifted for another month. my One day, I was absent from school and as I walked back into the building, my footing didn't feel as steady. The crimson was back, flooding the recesses of my organs, deluging the blood into my ears. My cheeks painted bright. "Where were you? You're gone a lot. Why are you always missing class?" I've heard these questions often, but as I sank into my seat for the third class of the day, my heart bled at the thought of lying. There were never moments of weakness at school for me. I maintained the smile perfectly. It wasn't until I was within the walls of my home that it was safe enough. It wasn't easy to tell your classmates that you spent your morning with two detectives. The detectives had gazed upon me, their eyes firmly burrowed beneath their brows. They thought I was wasting their time. They stared at me with judgement and shame. "You should've known better. How can someone like you get wrapped in something like this? You're better than this," they said. He's not real. He's not real. He's not real. They repeated it to me like they weren't sure I understood, but I nodded. Paralyzed, the flame set ablaze once again inside my throat. It curled around my lungs, making a shudder trail down my breath. My phone felt too hot to touch because that's where he resided. There was never a time where I felt his loss in my life, only what I had lost in the process. My muscles barely clung to their bones and my heart had withered from the repeated abuse it faced, yet I felt the greatest sting at the loss of all that I stood for. I lost the pride, dignity, and honor that I held myself to. I felt the embarrassment that others inflicted upon me for my actions. It was a story that I shared with only a few people and after a while, I stopped - I was silenced. My friends and family's words could hold the endearment of sympathy, but their eyes. protested their shame. Shame is red. Shame is scorching. It was a feeling that I felt for a long time. We are conditioned to think that shame is a necessity to change, but it's not. Shame is an emotion that others project upon us. We feel their judgement and their accusations weigh upon us because we know our actions are wrong. There is a time for accountability and there is a time for the attention to hard words. There are also times for vulnerability and safety. I know how hard it is to work and learn and live in a community and society that focuses so heavily on success and perfection. We compete as if we no longer live through the pain that life imprints on us. We feel the fiery crimson that froths in the marrow of our bones sometimes on a daily basis. I felt it so strongly that even now, these words that reverberate from my tongue taste like venom. Judgement manifests inside us so powerfully that we don't remember how to be vulnerable. Shame is an emotion that isn't romanticized like so many others. We don't speak of it because it's red. It's only seen at dawn - the time that we choose to shut away our demons so that we can plaster our impenetrable exteriors on our faces for the day. We judge people so easily because as humans, we see our set of morals to be higher than others'. We don't want to feel the shame of being wrong, so we judge others to somehow set us above them. It's strange how we crave connection so deeply as part of the foundation of our beings, but we compete so strongly that the intimacy can never be formed. We need connection so that the loneliness doesn't devour all that we have left. I understand how terrifying it is to rupture the barriers that you've bandaged around your heart. The fear of rejection lies just beneath the adhesive, but here I am: undressing the wounds to give you hope because I'm no longer alone either. I found my voice once again. Whatever shame or judgement that we may feel for liking a specific thing or doing something that someone doesn't agree with, we won't let it consume us. There is a time for change and there is a time for healing. Sometimes, we need to just listen. Vulnerability doesn't weaken us, it reminds us that we can talk about our past without condemnation. It's cerulean, swaying as if you cradled the ocean in your arms. It lightens and frees the weight that has burdened your back for so many years. It speaks for you, a past sprouting from your chest in a boundless tide of indigo. The waves quench the flames, resuscitating the breath in your lungs. The past, cloaked in shades of navy, liberates the blood that has clotted in your ears and your throat. The anxiety fades. It is the freedom in vulnerability. Joshua Meitz Once upon a time there lived a child. He did everything with a purpose, even when he never said anything. He put the words in his head, nothing came out, and desired to find that one answer. He locked himself away, the key so simple everyone had it but him. He cared too much even when asked: "What's your favorite movie?" Wait for a response: Fast and Furious, To All the Boys I've Loved Before, Lord of the Rings, Ford vs. Ferrari, Home Alone, Home Alone, Home Alone. Silence haunted his heart, but the ghost was never unleashed. Silence pierced the ears of his listeners. Silence haunted the auditorium. While his confidence in himself shook to speak, his love withered away. He craved it so badly, enough to eat his own. "What's for dinner?" Wait for a response:
, 2, 3, 4 quarter pounders a night. From McDonalds, to St. Clair Ave, to Oneida St, to West 7th from the void-from Bussy-from the extra stomach for dessert that was always grumbling and never. Ironically, it may have been the only sound his body didn't make. Before he got home that grease bag--his grease bag-would be empty. As a raccoon he would search the trash can, where he threw away his munchies, his body, his voice, love. I can still remember his breath after the 16 steps that led to his room. I still can't forget that friendship torn apart by hostility that taught me how to trickshot. He remembers the silence. "Why do you wear that vest every day?" Wait for a response: He did it for himself. I still remember those lonely nights. I still see it today. In silence and darkness. In mal-nutrition and immobility. In tragedy and comedy. I never grew up as I tilted with the edge of silence. I was always afraid to raise my voice, afraid that someone wouldn't hear because even if they did they didn't want to hear from him anyways. Afraid of making new friends, to be happy, because when he did he wasn't accepted by his "friends" anymore. Afraid of himself. I guess talking to a theater kid, a cross-country runner, an underclassmen, upper schilling-anyone other than "popularity"-it wasn't worth the glare, the endless hatred, or the interrogations. These authentic people: caring, resilient, encouraging, thoughtful, compassionate, hard-working, everything but sad, happy. They were there when I needed them, but "why, why were you talking to them?" * Silence* 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9, 10, 11, 12, 13, 14, 15, 16, 17, 18 19, 20, 21, 22, 23, 24, 25, 26, 27, 28, 29, 30. I dealt with discomfort, from my body, that forced me to go silent wherein more discomfort was discovered. Although, within that silence and discomfort lied measurement, self-reflection, introspection, growth, a tid bit of maturity and positivity. Silence was both my downfall and my fight. It gave me chances that I didn't take, but also paved the way to becoming Josh. I counteracted hatred with silence. If I gave nothing to antagonize then hostility couldn't come to fruition. It was my defense even though it attacked me--and you. I have always enjoyed being an extremely competitive, energetic, foolish and off-topic kid who has a LOT of childishness left in him. I never grew up because I never had the light or room to grow. I found joy in joining cross-country despite all the hatred I got for it. I found joy in my new friendships but they have since begun to dissipate because of the toxicity within our community. I found joy in being myself. And if you didn't know, I randomly laugh because I get nervous, but what made any word, phrase, or thought so amusing to me were the contagious actions that prompted them, kindness; For example, a laugh in a silent crowd. 71 Everything our parents put in place for us seems to be to "keep us safe." But does it? I understand that safety is important and you don't want your kids to get hurt whether that be physically or emotionally. But do safety concerns sometimes result in not letting kids explore life to its fullest?? I realized this summer that people can teach you a lesson but it won't really set in until you experience it yourself. Sometimes my dad and I will sit down and talk about random things and it will turn into him telling one of his legendary stories, and a lot of those tales involve learning by doing. When my dad was sixteen he went on a motorcycle trip with a friend. They started in Calabria and went all the way up to his hometown Taino. My dad got into an accident and he broke both of his legs. He was stuck in a wheelchair for six months, and he had to learn to walk again for the next 6. Would you get back on? How long do you think he waited after he was walking again to ride a motorcycle? He didn't. After that accident, he still rode motorcycles. He got right back on the back of his friend's motorcycle when he was still in the wheelchair. And the minute he got out of the wheelchair he was driving again. As a matter of fact he still rode motorcycles up until about a year ago until he was getting tendon clicks in his hands from the vibrations of the bike so he finally had to stop. He didn't use this experience to scare me but rather to encourage me to try it for myself. And so I got a vespa when I was 16 years old. We had just picked up the moped and we were on our way home. I had a full faced helmet on because I hadn't gotten a half face helmet yet. I was probably about a couple kilometers away from our house. I didn't see a stop sign. And when you don't see a stop sign you don't stop right? Well the stop sign was behind the tree so I didn't stop. I saw that the car in front of me stopped and I grabbed onto the breaks of the Vespa and it slid out from underneath me and I skidded out onto the street on my stomach, face and knees. Five people came right out of there houses to see if I was okay. I remember thinking, why are all these people out here, like I just fell. I had so much adrenaline running through my body that I was able to be mad that my favorite jeans were ruined, and I got up and sat on the side of the road. It didn't hit me until I got the moped up and started driving home again that I could have died. I have heard numerous stories from my friends' parents and just about anyone who gets the chance, to tell me about the horror story accidents involving motorcycles. And I get it. They care about my safety. I literally could have died. But I wasn't even thinking about that. If I'm being honest I was thinking about if my dad was going to let me drive again. I forgot to mention that the car in front of me was my dad's. Anyway, The next day I spent glued to the couch balling because I thought I would never walk again. To which I was probably exaggerating. For the next two weeks, my dad wouldn't let me drive. First, because my knee was about three times its normal size and I could barely walk. But second, I had to practice a little bit more, and I got back on after another two weeks. I love the speed, the wind in my face, the adrenaline it gives me so I didn't stop riding. Why should I if it brings me happiness? Be careful? Yes. Definitely. Quit? Not for me. Even though you might not think about it all the time, I think that you have a little fear of missing out on the opportunities and amazing things in life. Do something you would have never even thought to try. Go on spontaneous road trips or even just midnight adventures when you're young because when you are older you will look back on it and know you had a good time rather than wishing you had done it. Try sailing, windsurfing, create a business, paint a painting, learn to box, dirt bike, travel the world, make a 2020 year checklist and do it all. Going out into the world with your own experiences and the ability to take risks is some of the best education you can get. This really set in for me while living by myself in Milan this summer. My friends and I would go out dancing every weekend, grab a coffee at the cute old coffee shops, go out to dinner together and talk about just about anything. What we wanted to do with our lives or even just what was going on in our lives right then and there. I was surrounded by people of so many different backgrounds and cultures, people who could have fun and wanted to 28 explore, try new things, and just live life. My friends and I wanted to go so La Fondazione Prada so we went. We wanted to go see L'arco Della Pace so we went. We wanted to go dancing so we went. My friends and I even went to dance classes just to try it out. I went to Toscana for a couple days and instead of staying in and not meeting new people, I made friends at the beach and got invited to a beach convert and a falo,a big campfire on the beach. We stayed out until an ungodly hour and biked home but I'm so glad I did it. I'd like everyone, but especially the parents in this room to consider this:, you gotta let us go and let us explore the world for ourselves. Let us not just learn about the world, but experience it. Because to feel it by living it is the only way to truly get to know it. Lauren Dieperink When I was six, I joined my first swim team at an outdoor pool about a mile away from my house. St. Paul Tennis Club, often called by its nickname, SPTC, was where I had been taking swim lessons for a few years prior to joining the team. Swim team at St. Paul Tennis Club was me and my friends trying to do the least amount of work while. Gary, the head of SPTC, called us names like 'hot dog' and 'jingle bells.' At first it was a small part of my life, something I had never really thought too much about, but after a few years it came to be where I spent the majority of my summers, how I met my best friends, and where I learned a lot about myself. Summer of 2016, Sara, Julia, Frannie and I spent every moment together. Frannie and I live east of SPTC whereas Sara and Julia live west of the pool. We would all bike and meet in the middle every morning at seven A.M. to start each day, which had the same layout. Our days would be carried out like so: starting with swim practice at seven, we would meet to get through the hour of swimming while Frannie and Julia goofed off, Sara kept up, and I actually enjoyed the swimming part. After practice it was eight in the morning and officially nap time. Sprawled out across the green chairs that covered the pool deck, we would sun ourselves while trying to sleep, but always ended up talking and giggling about this or that. By nine we were all dried off and it was time for us to make our daily walk, bike, or combination of the two, down to CVS Pharmacy on Grand, Starbucks, or Brueggers. Often times we didn't even buy anything at CVS, just wandered the aisles, threw mini stuffed animals at each other, and wasted time. Julia one time wanted peach rings so badly that she paid for them all in quarters, all while Sara, Frannie and I were laughing too hard about it. We always made it back to SPTC in time for tennis lessons, which applied to everyone except me and whoever was in the mood to skip tennis. Diving practice was at the same time as tennis, which I did go to. Diving was from ten to twelve, or whenever you felt like coming and going. Despite the length of time that we had all been diving, Sara and Julia were not particularly gifted and one time Julia belly flopped during a diving meet. By noon it was time to go back to one of our houses, usually Julia's, to scrounge for food and find something to entertain the four of us for the next few hours. We would jump on Julia's trampoline, watch American Horror Story, make music videos or explore Grand Ave. But every day was the same, spent with each other and often times ended in a sleepover at one of our houses leading into the next morning when we all woke up too early for the time we went to bed to start it all over again. We were infamous at SPTC. We would be there, rain or shine, to spend our time making everything fun. In the cold, rainy afternoons we would steal blankets from the shack where the lifeguards hung out to make forts out of. Blanket forts made of plastic chairs and thin blankets were hard to keep warm but we tried our best. We would huddie under our forts and play card games, getting a little too into it and yelling at the top of our lungs. We would always hang out in the lifeguard shack, which had a sign hung that said "No Kids Allowed!" just to annoy the lifeguards. Greg, the tennis instructor, would tease us for running around all day and never leaving. We never wanted to leave. Every year there was a picnic for all of the people who participated in the swim team and after every picnic we would sleep on Julia's trampoline in her backyard. We would set up a tent on top of the trampoline and stay out there all night, talking about everything we could think of and laughing way too hard about small things. Those nights seemed to never end. But summer of 2016 did end and by summer of 2017 we had all drifted apart. Nothing drastic or heart breaking or out of the normal but there was no routine. I had fallen in love with swimming while Julia pursued volleyball, Frannie enjoyed everything but swimming and Sara had soccer during the mornings. However, the winter before summer of 2018, we all signed up for the 29
6 a young woman when a 13 year-old girl confided in her that she had been sexually abused by her mother's boyfriend. Tarana didn't know what to say. and she never saw the girl again. The interaction and her inability to respond haunted Tarana, + Tarana later said that she wished she had simply told the girl, "Me too." Tarana had experienced sexual abuse during childhood as well. To highlight the pervasiveness of sexual abuse, in 2006, Burke posted "Me Too" on her MySpace account. What if the "Me Too" Movement had begun at that very moment? It took 11 years before "Me too" became recognizable. In 2017, actress Alyssa Milano tweeted "If you've been sexually harassed or assaulted respond 'me too' as a reply to this tweet." 24 hours later, more than 53,000 people left comments and declared "MeToo" across social media. For some women, the posts were the first time they had shared their story with anyone. Milano said, "The most important thing accomplished was to shift the conversation away from the predator and to the victim." Within the next year, 19 million people--the combined population of Minnesota, Wisconsin, Iowa, North and South Dakota, Montana, Wyoming, Idaho, and Oregon--tweeted "Me Too"... And that's only Twitter. It became clear that people were just starting to understand the scale and scope of the problem. Now let's look at the depth of the problem. Larissa Boyce was a ten year-old when she began training under USA Gymnastics. Larissa was sexually abused by former USA Gymnastics athletic trainer Larry Nassar. Scared and embarrassed, Larissa remained quiet for six years until she summoned the courage to confide in her coach, Kathie Klages. Klages responded, "I have known Larry for years and years. He would never do anything inappropriate." Larissa went on to name another gymnast who had reported a similar experience. Klages called the gymnast into her office and was told of similar abuse. Coach Klages told Larissa that if the allegations were reported it would have "very serious consequences" for both Nassar and Larissa. Klages went so far as to bring a college gymnast to talk Larissa about the "treatments." ? The college student believed Nassar was simply doing his job. Larissa resolved never to tell anyone again and hoped that Klages would not tell Nassar. The next time Larissa was sent to Nassar for a "treatment", "he closed the door, pulled up a stool, sat down, and looked at her. 'So,' he said, 'I talked to Kathic." A frightened Larissa responded, "I'm so sorry, misunderstood. It's all my fault." "The year was 1997. Most of Larry Nassar's victims had not yet been born." What if Larissa's voice had been heard? What if Klages had fought for Larissa? Nassar went on to sexually abuse 501 girls--that we know of. 501. I When Nassar was finally sentenced to prison for the rest of his life, some of the survivors were featured as the Silence Breakers on the cover of Time Magazine. However, these survivors had not been silent. For over 20 years, many girls and women, similar to Larissa, reported Nassar's abuse. They reported it to coaches, Michigan State University police, athletic directors, and administrators, and numerous times to USA gymnastics. Even with obstacles placed in front of them such as people covering up the abuse to protect Nassar, the survivors continued to speak out. The survivors had always been courageous, only now were they finally being heard. Okay it's time for another scenario. In this scenario, Molly tells you that Tony sexually abused her. Which option might be closest to your response? A. You think Molly is not telling the truth. B. You think Molly is misreading or remembering the situation incorrectly. C. You think Molly was asking for it. Wait. I didn't give those responses for the first scenario. Why not? Why are these common responses? Let's use one of these options for the first scenario. Would you tell Molly that she misread the situation when she saw Tony steal her phone? We need to change the culture of how sexual violence is discussed. We need to recognize and address misconceptions and myths. Sexual abuse is never the fault of the victim, sex without consent is rape, and women are not asking for it. Victims don't lie about sexual abuse- according to the Huffington Post "98% of child abuse cases reported to officials were found to be true." This problem is of epidemic proportions- 1 in 4 girls and 1 in 6 boys are sexually abused by the time they turn 18. Justice for victims is not common and we need to actively work for it. According to RAINN 99% of predators walk free. Regardless of a predator's social status and influence we must hold them accountable for their deeply damaging acts. A blatant example of the role of social status is the case of Brock Turner. Turner was a student at Stanford University when he sexually assaulted a 22 year old woman who had passed out behind a dumpster. Fortunately, two Stanford students from Sweden stopped Turner and physically held him down until police arrived. Turner was indicted, on rape and assault charges and faced a potential sentence of 14 years in prison. Judge Aaron Persky sentenced Turner to a mere six months. Turner only served half. Persky justified Turner's minimal sentence by stating "A prison sentence would have a severe impact on him." Persky was basing the sentence on Turner's successful swimming and academic career at Stanford. He did not consider the impact on the survivor. We need to stop making excuses. We need to start giving survivors justice. If you wonder what you can do to combat injustice, you can take inspiration from Santa Clara County. In June 2018, voters there recalled Judge Persky, removing him from office. Recently, the survivor stepped forward revealing her name, Chanel Miller. The case focused on Turner's "bright future" rather than the pain and trauma he caused Miller. It is time that we put the innocence of survivors on an equal footing with the protection of the legal rights of the accused. If you have experienced sexual violence or trauma please talk to someone you trust. "Me Too" is a start. It is time to recognize the problem. It is time to listen to survivors. It is time to believe survivors. It is time to do something. It is time. Eric Bottern Wayne Gretzky, Sidney Crosby, and Thomas Kuriscak. Like any youth hockey player these were my role models throughout my childhood. At the ripe young age of fourteen I was thrown into the fire, junior varsity hockey at SPA. Some may have said it was "dangerous" or "unsafe" for me to play due to my 5 foot 3 100 pound frame, but I strived to grace the same ice as mediocre upperclassmen who very seldom had aspirations to play at a higher level. The concerns about my size and safety would not stop me from chasing my dreams to be selected number one overall in the 2020 NHL Draft. I was welcomed by the team, finding my place in the collection of misfits who had gone winless the season before. This year was sure to be different though. Zach Baker had returned to the team after declining a spot on varsity, and the swing players from varsity were primed to succeed against such dismal competition. As the season progressed I saw my playing time increase from 3 shifts a period to 4, and my impact was felt on the ice. Plenty of people who watched me touch the ice my 8th grade year would describe me as a "pylon" or a "waste of space" and they were probably right, but that didn't hurt me. What really hurt me was when I was folded like a pretzel by an opposing player on Mankato West. My only contribution to our lone victory that year was drawing a charging penalty in the third period. For the rest of the game I would have a front row seat on the bench, witnessing the greatest upset in junior varsity hockey history. This would barely top some of the highlights I saw that year: Andy Ellis being put in a neck brace for two weeks,the golden monarch, one player's infamous "Beat Breck" chant, and when Will Rathmanner would defend me from kids back when I was still his height. Before the season started my 8th grade year I was uncertain about how things would go, but looking back on it, it was one of the best decisions I could've made. I'm grateful for my friends who pushed me to take a leap of faith and trust that there would be a positive outcome. Too often I feel as if we block out the feedback of our peers solely because they are the same age as us. Life is a series of revisions that are based on one concrete foundation, and the feedback given by outsiders has the capability to be as effective as internal input. In stressful moments, or even carefree ones, another person's viewpoint should be valued for what it may reveal about certain blindspots. It is tough to not take their words to heart and view these aspects commented on as flaws, but more often than not those trying to help aren't being critical. Their advice is beneficial and will take pressure off your shoulders. Earlier this summer I was faced with a very large decision in which I turned to my friends and family for advice; where to apply to college. I'm just kidding, it was whether or not I would play hockey or basketball in the winter of my senior year.
12 individually." Now came the groans, but with no significant protest, each kid soon found themselves alone at the steps of an unfamiliar house, myself included. With each house, I found myself a bit more acclimated to my uncomfortable position, mainly because of how many people chose to open their doors. More surprising than the residents' neighborly openness, was their willingness to share personal anecdotes with a soliciting teenager. Their beliefs and worries and triumphs, all were presented to me. That, combined with my own observations of their lives through the perimeters of their doorways, transformed what were once strangers into three-dimensional people. Not all encounters were pleasant, most if not all were riddled with an undertone of awkwardness. A few were undeniably depressing. But, while returning home, my uneasiness was overcome by an overwhelming sense of gratitude towards the residents of Roseville. Never before had I been able to connect with so many people, never before had so many people offered me insight into their lives. And, that's what differentiated my experience in Roseville from my countless other interactions with strangers: the presence of vulnerability. For, without vulnerability, true human connection is impossible. And, this may seem obvious, but how often do we truly afford ourselves the opportunity to connect with someone outside of our immediate bubble? How often do we let our fear of otherness dictate our interactions, barring us from any real chance at evolving our beliefs? I have always struggled with the contradictions regarding human connection and interaction in the context of modern, specifically American, society. We are social animals with a need for connection, and never before have we had such overwhelming scientific data to support this. The acknowledgment goes beyond data. "Professional cuddler" is now a legitimate job title. There are countless apps made to find friends, business partners, that "special someone". Yet despite all of this, never has the fear of strangers been more notable. Many of the acts requiring vulnerability towards another human being, hitchhiking, for example, have become taboo if not totally eliminated. Sensationalist news has taught us to fear one another, weakening our already wavering faith in humanity. This lack of faith breeds an environment concentrated in isolation and accusation, furthering the distance between us and our neighbor. This demonizing of the other and extremism go hand in hand. Extremist beliefs reinforce alienation while said alienation encourages even more extreme beliefs, creating a dangerous cycle. Nowhere is this cycle more present than the current American political system, and political extremism's most influential contributor is biased news sources. It's hard to avoid a corrupt or disingenuous network when media is monetized. Each news program is well aware of its audience, their views, and beliefs, but most importantly their fear of the other side. And, the one thing all these programs can agree on is the most profitable approach to news is one revolving around drama and sensationalism, in other words, the exploitation of their viewer's said fears. It's tiring to continuously watch our nation's adults act like children, knowing their arguments serve only as a distraction to the pressing issues that we face and will continue to face if nothing gets done. It feels like somewhat of a devolution, watching tribalism and bigotry pollute the sanctity of our government and the validity of our news. And, I'm not an optimist, but accepting this as our nation's fate feels so lazy. I think back to Roseville. And the countless acts of human goodness I experience each day. And, I know that our morals have not been erased, nor has our ability to connect. They have only been blurred or suppressed by our delusions of fear. For those of you have been zoned out up until now, consider the following a synopsis of my argument which also serves as the advice I have to offer. What this all comes down to is a choice. We can choose to remain imprisoned by our own fears and prejudices. We can choose to view others as a danger, a possible threat. Or, we can choose to expend the effort necessary in regarding each other as equals. And, I get it, this isn't easy. This leap of faith goes against our most fundamental, primitive instincts, but I believe that we as a species have developed and evolved. Why not challenge our instincts to do the same? This does not have to be a drastic change. I'm not saying go up and strike a conversation with any stranger, but give yourself the chance to experience other perspectives. And, that doesn't even have to involve a direct interaction. Listen to a song outside of your immediate genre. Watch the news program your news program warned you about. Be open to redefining your past beliefs. and make room for new ones. But most of all, choose to be open. Choose to let others in. Choose to open your door because the risk of vulnerability is one worth taking. issy Weber She was just 17 when she moved out to Oregon. The fastest girl in a generation. He told her that she was the best athlete he'd ever seen. He became convinced that in order to become faster, she must get "thinner and thinner and thinner." He picked a number: 114 pounds. That's how light she had to be to please him. He began yelling at her during races, weighing her in front of her competitors, and warping her mind. She began cutting herself, making herself throw up, and having thoughts of suicide. When she finally told him about this, he shut her down and told her that he wanted to go to bed. He was 19 years old and a freshman at the University of Maryland. He was an offensive lineman, working his way through a program built upon intimidation and fear. He was running 110-yard sprints with the rest of the team on a regular day in June. He began showing obvious signs that he wasn't okay, but they kept on pushing him. He fell over and began to seize. They waited an hour to call 911. When he arrived at the hospital his temperature was 106 degrees. It was too late. She was 15 years old when he walked into her life. She thought that he would push her towards her dream. Instead, he created a life for her she could have never imagined. His behaviors became cyclical, his words ingrained in her mind. "You don't belong on my field," he told her. "You'll never be good enough for college softball." She began breaking down, his grip only tightened, she sought his approval more than anything. Year after year, she wondered how she could do it again, but she was locked in his hold. These stories display control, dominance, and power from the abuser. These stories illuminate submission, obedience, and cyclical forgiveness from the victim. Abuse is absolutely horrific. 70 years ago the LGBT movement in America began shedding light on the persecution existing within the community. In the early 2000s, an anti-bullying movement launched, allowing victims to speak out and forcing abusers to step down. And in 2006, the Me Too movement erupted in order to combat systemic sexual assault and harassment across the country and the world. By no means are any of these problems fixed, but initiating these conversations started to strip abusers of their power and most importantly, allow victim's voices to be heard. But when it comes to athletics, these conversations are few and far between. You may have heard Mary Cain's story and about her stint with the Nike Oregon Project-- the most elite track team in the world. There she was emotionally and physically abused by Alberto Salazar and his all-male coaching staff. Or maybe you recognized the story of Jordan McNair and his horrific death caused by the emotional and verbal abuse that occurred on the University of Maryland football team. Or maybe you've even heard my story: I played softball for eleven years, I loved the game more than anything in the world. Until I was mentally manipulated and verbally abused by my former coach. He took something away from me that I will never get back. He tarnished eleven years of playing catch with my dad, of the adrenaline rush after a great play, of looking up to those girls in a college uniform -- the girls I always wanted to be. Victims of abuse are often caught in a cycle of tension, abuse, and reconciliation. Abusers use intimidation techniques like threatening, bullying, and criticizing before an incident occurs which may come in the form of verbal, emotional, physical, or sexual abuse. Finally, the abuser will apologize, make false promises, or even convince the victim that it was their fault before the cycle begins all over again. Often victims will be in denial and may continue seeking approval from the abuser. Mary Cain even stated, "when we let people emotionally break us, we crave their approval more than anything." While trapped in my own cycle, I lived and breathed to please my coach. Abuse feeds off of competition and power. It has been around almost as long as sports have and still persists today. I know there is someone else watching that has experienced verbal or emotional abuse by a coach or mentor, and I know almost all of us have seen it. Maybe you chose not to speak out because you were afraid of retribution from your coach. Maybe you felt you were the only one. Maybe you felt that you would get stronger if you could just "power through" and win his or her affirmation. We, victims, suffer in silence alone. Yet, when a group that is marginalized or oppressed begins to unify-- like the queer Americans and allies that began speaking out in the 1950s, or the women and men who joined the Me Too movement in 2006--a coalition of voices is formed. This union behind a cause can become strong and powerful, that together we can take on an oppressor or abuser, together we can accomplish things we could never do alone.
18 Kevin implied that Skylar, as a gender non-conforming person, should be referred to as an "it," thus labeling them as an object rather than a person. This prompted Skylar to instinctively exit the conversation, as they were being dehumanized and disrespected. To what extent is Skylar, and others who also identify as non-cis-gendered, affected by comments such as Kevin's? It is important to note that violence, including murder, against non-cis-gendered people such as Skylar, is very prevalent in our country today, and that such atrocities do not manifest themselves out of thin air. Rather, it is the result of microaggressions such as Kevin's comment, which support and eventually escalate into severe acts of violence. Imagine a pyramid with four tiers. The base of the pyramid is microaggressions, which in this case are comments that label Skylar as an object. This base supports the second tier, prejudice, as these comments morph into discriminatory opinions, resulting in some perceiving Skylar non-human. These discriminatory opinions then cause discriminatory actions, such as denying Skylar healthcare, legal protection, marital rights, and so on. Such actions allow violence, the final tier, to take place against Skylar, such as murder, kidnapping, physical assault, sexual violence, and more. Thus, it is crucial that during discussions we prioritize the safety of all over the comfort of some, as not doing so has grave consequences. Thank you all for your time and attention. It truly means a lot to me. If you want to have a conversation with me, I would be more than happy to talk with you. Thank you. Peter Wilson Growing up in the US, I have long been exposed to labels. Labeling has always been commonplace in the US, mostly to belittle others. However, they are also used when people do not understand others, so they generalize them into categories. Although most people go throughout their daily life, making generalizations and sticking labels on each other, it is harmful to do so. Sticking labels on people frequently makes you unable to see what a person is truly like, causing you to be unable to understand them. Without being able to understand each other, people are unable to work together to solve issues that need to be addressed. To progress society, we must overcome the barriers between people of different groups, and the first step to achieving this is eliminating labels from our vocabulary. I can not say that I have never used a label on others. For example, the notion that jocks or athletes cannot be good at academics or things aside from athletics. Although I generally am not tricked by this notion as I am an athlete myself, on occasion, when I see massive athletes, I get caught by it. When I find myself using labels, I stop myself and think about why I came to that conclusion so I can prevent myself from doing so again. However, it is what you do with the label that makes it a bad or neutral thing. If one uses a generalization to create a base point of comparison but is open to seeing how a person acts, allowing their actions to speak to who they are, it becomes a neutral thing. If you base how you see their efforts off of your preconception, then it becomes a way to try and put others beneath yourself. Only when you do not let your initial idea of who someone might be and look at their efforts are you able to see them for who they are. I strive never to allow my judgment of others to be clouded by preconceptions I might have about them and instead let what they do speak to their character, Doing so can be hard at times, as many generalizations are deeply ingrained within American culture. But one must confirm someone's character not by preconceived notions but by the actions that the person makes. Due to my privileged upbringing, I have not had to endure many labels or other notions affecting me too often. However, that is not to say I have not witnessed or been subjected to stereotypes ever before. For the most part, the ones that I have experienced have been minor. For example, due to my interest in anime, I have, on occasion, been called a weeb or weeaboo. Although this is mostly just banter between friends, it is still a commonly used name to call those who enjoy anime or Japanese culture. When I see others being generalized or stereotyped with labels, I always try to speak up; however, this is not possible at all times as sometimes I fail to recognize something as a stereotype. Failure to recognize generalizations stems mostly from ? notion having deep roots in society. For example, the simple fact that despite being an athlete myself I still sometimes fall victim to the stereotypes of jocks or athletes being less capable of academics. If even I as an athlete am able to fall for a stereotype against athletes on occasion it shows just how deeply rooted stereotypes can be. When ethnicity or gender gets added into the mix it becomes even more complex and important to recognize the generalizations. However, just like everyone else, each individual will excel in their areas. The area that a person will perform best at can not be decided by them merely being of a certain group but by their efforts. H Even though a label sometimes does sneak into the back of my mind due to its commonality in society, I try to recognize the this and make sure that it does not affect my perception of the person. I always try to be aware of things I have heard about person, and although I may keep those things in mind, I also try to see how they act around me. Although getting input from others can be helpful, I also try to learn for myself who a person is and not judge them purely off of other's beliefs. I make sure not to be too hasty when it comes to making a judgment of a person's nature, as acting too early often leads to misconceptions or misinterpretations. I believe it is best to let yourself experience what a person's character is in various situations before you make a final verdict on who make a final verdict on who you think a person is. It is also essential to learn of the origin of the labels used in society and know the definitions. Because even if used in banter between friends, if you call someone a label without knowing the meaning, it can become much more harmful despite it being meant as a joke. Understanding a generalization is also the first step to overcoming the stereotypes that are so prevalent in society. By learning what their definition is, as well as their origins, you can know why they are wrong, which will help you to recognize them in conversation more easily. The more you realize the usage of the notion, the more readily you will be able to speak up and prevent them from being used further. Labeling most often comes with unintended consequences, whether it be merely clouding one's judgment or hurting connections. When trying to ascertain a person's character upon first meeting them, it is convenient to create a rough image of what you expect them to be like based purely on prior knowledge. But to go forward, you must not allow the image to cloud your judgment of who they are, and let them show you their true self. Doing so can lead to surprise friendships that would not occur if you allow your image dictate who they are, rather than having who they are, dictate your perception of them. I challenge everyone to try and be more mindful of the words they use to describe someone else and how they might affect the person in question. To make a conscious effort not to jump the gun on how you perceive someone based either off lack of knowledge of a person or other people's judgment of them. To delve deep into what the commonly used words to generalize people mean and to work their utmost to try and uproot the stereotypes and labels so deeply ingrained in our society. William Yuheng Zhao When I was a kid, I dreamed about being a hero, a hero like the one that appeared in Chinese novels and movies. Among the many heroes that I aspired to be, one standed out to me. His name is Guanyu, a hero in the classic Chinese novel Romance of the Three Kingdoms. I aspired his strength; I aspired his toughness; I aspired his righteous heart and his will to fight for the weak. I went on a journey to become a man like him. I joined a Taekwondo school at the age of 7 and learned about martial arts. As a matter of truth, Martial arts did not necessarily make me a man. Instead, it made me a big trouble-maker. In the six years of primary school, I did many interesting things to showcase my manliness. I broke a bathroom door, a closet, a 15-foot long display screen, and many chairs, all of them were school properties. I got into many friendly fights with my classmates and my martial art training guaranteed my victories. I found the ultimate sense of accomplishment from winning the battles and overpowering other kids. I thought I was becoming a man. Many boys growing up looking to be a man like their father, yet I was different. I had an unique family dynamic. My mum is a very strong woman. She is decisive, determined, and hardworking. She started her own business at the age of 30, and she ground through countless difficulties on her own. She is the woman I look up to. My Dad is a great guy. He had a very successful career, and he joined my mum's business to help her out. He is exceptionally kind, and he has a big heart that is able to pardon everything. I loved my Dad, but for a long time, I did not see him as the man that I wanted to become. If your parents work together, you would know that they get into quarrels all the time. The quarrels between my parents were sometimes small, sometimes big. But whenever my mum got emotional, my Dad was always the one that backed down first. After many years, I couldn't think of my Dad being a magnificent man. I couldn't associate his traits and personality with the ones of the masculine figures that I saw in books and pictured in my head. My relationship with my father was solid, yet I always had a different picture of the man I wanted to be: a man with more power. As I got older, more and more weaknesses of myself got exposed, and I started to realize more traits of myself that were not as masculine as I wanted them to be. I realized that I was not so strong as I thought I was. In fact, I was weak since I was born. I did quite a few surgeries when I was little, including one on my left lung that left a mark on my back. I was always ill. I
19 64 out it was very challenging at first. Coming up with something clever to say while also making it rhyme proved to be very difficult, but as I practiced more and more it got easier. While the lyrics and the wordplay are what initially sparked my passion for music, it turned into something more for me. It was a way to express myself. It allowed me to turn my love of music into a productive way to deal with my issues rather than using music as an escape. Turning those thoughts into a song gave me a tool to express myself in a way that I wasn't able to before. Writing music gave me a platform to be able to think about my life in a more creative way. This helped me deal with stress and other issues by being able to take them on in a more manageable way. Instead of my mind racing to try and figure out what to do by trying to incorporate my thoughts into my songs., I was able to calmly analyze my thoughts which made things easier to deal with. In a way it was like a therapy session for me. I could write about whatever was on my mind while turning it into something fun and productive. This process helped change my mindset about certain things. Instead of using music as an escape, a way to run away from my problems, it has turned into a way for me to face my problems. Instead of drowning them out with music I can acknowledge and deal with them through writing music. While I may not identify with the same problems that most of the rappers that inspired me. I can Identify with the process in which they dealt with their problems. A lot of the rappers that I look up too often talk about topics such as poverty, gang violence and various other things that I am grateful I don't have to experience. Also use rap as a way to express themselves and their problems. I hope that through this speech I can inspire at least a couple people in this auditorium to try and find a productive way to deal with your problems, no matter how big or small they may seem to you. Whether you are stressed about homework or something more serious, try and find something that not only makes you happy but can help you deal with your struggles at the same time. I know it's easier to just shut up and do nothing. Trust me, I've been there, but music has helped me in so many ways. So I encourage you to find that thing. Whether that is writing songs, playing sports, or any other creative outlet, It doesn't matter what it is as long as you can truly enjoy yourself doing it. Thomas Kuriscak The year was 2009. The leaves were fading into mid-fall color and the air was beginning to cool down. The sky was a pastel blue, not a cloud in sight. Not a thing was on my mind except of course the annual St. Jude of the Lake Cornfest. The cornfest was our schools' way of welcoming all the kids of Mahtomedi back to school. It had carnival games, sports, and a whole lot of corn, everything to get a little kid like me fired up. I had been waiting for this for the entire summer. When I arrived at the school, music instantly greeted my ears.. I looked around to find where all my friends were.. My eyes locked onto the massive crowd of children, I had found my target. I ran to the dance circle filled with my friends from school. As I approached the crowd of my friends, I could see that all of them were dancing to this song that to me at the time sounded... revolutionary. I immediately started to bust out every move from my arsenal. I continued to dance and dance to that same exact song until the sun set. The lyrics, a clarion call to all of us, rang in my ears for hours and hours of celebratory joy: "I hopped off the plane at LAX, with a dream and my cardigan." Looking back on that day transports me to a time when I was a worry-free kid, a time when I was living in the moment, when I didn't care what happened or what I did, I just wanted to have fun. I just wanted to put my hands up because they were playing that song. That song takes me back to when I was a kid, and it helps me see the journey that I have made so far. For me this song is a symbol of my childhood, it transports me back to simpler times. And as I describe this memory and I look out into the audience, I can see the looks on your faces that suggest that you had a similar experience. I can see the smiles on your faces. I can see the smiles that bring you back to the first time that you heard
111 the greatest contribution from any Cyrus ever to live. This memory, this recognition, this shared experience connects us. Many of you may have memories similar to mine, some may be quite different, but in some way, you can relate to the song and that connects us. Because music is a universal language. As a matter of fact, when I was struggling to write my speech I went to Mr. Shulow for some help. When we were brainstorming possible topics to write about, he saw that I had a potential topic about Party in the USA. When he saw the title of the song he immediately started to tell me about the first time that he had ever experienced the song. He said that he was at a party of one of his friends. He remembered listening to the song nonstop that night and he remembered the great times he had, listening to this song and dancing with reckless abandon that may have resembled a young Tom Kuriscak of Mahtomedi. I could see the joy that this memory gave him. I thought to myself, who would have thought that Mr. Shulow would have had a memory of a Miley Cyrus song? And after Mr. Shulow shared his story, Dr. Peterson quickly spoke up and said that he too wanted to tell his Party In The USA story. Dr. Peterson was in Ohio and he was walking down the street when he could hear Party in the USA being blasted from the rooftop of a frat. As he kept telling the story I could see an exact copy of the expression that had just appeared on Mr. Shulow's face; the feeling of joy. Then, my fellow draft dodger Duncan shared his connection to the song. His connection was memories that he had after a big win. Party in the USA would be blared throughout the locker room and everyone would start dancing around. Once again, the same expression of joy appeared, this time on Duncan's face. And suddenly the whole room was filled with joyous memories of our past. By all of us sharing our Party in the USA stories, I felt a sense of connection to everyone in the room. Teacher, student, young, not so young, it didn't matter. It was a feeling of connection, that we weren't so different, that we all had these memories of the same song that we all cherished.. And as I look out into the audience of 400 people, suddenly it isn't so scary standing up here because I feel that even though I don't recognize every face in the audience, we all share a connection to this song, or in the least, the feeling that comes from remembering a moment, a feeling, a sense of joy, that is made possible through a song. So maybe it's not Party in the USA for you, and maybe it's not only Miley for me. But it is this powerful tool that can bring us together with other people, and bring us back together with our old carefree selves. It also brings me to my possible future self because I can see how much I've changed since Cornfest when the only worry I had was who had the best dance moves. I've grown a few feet, I go to school in St. Paul, I'm not as good at dancing, and I actually enjoy the crust on bread. The person I was then could have never imagined where I would be right now... ...telling this story in front of 400 people. So if that much has changed in ten years, it gives me hope, because just think of the possibilities in the next few decades. But wherever I am, and whatever I'm doing in five, ten, fifteen years, I know that I'll hear a song and it will take me back to the great friendships that I have made, the bus rides home after a hard fought win, and this, this very moment, when I was a senior on stage with a tummy turnin,' a little pressure, I was nervous. But I stood up, for five minutes long, you know it was OK, it was my speech at the S-P-A. Aidan Lanz Picture this. It's 2011. You are nine years old, and you're just beginning that stage in life where you want to test the boundaries. Nothing big, but you do consider yourself a rebel because you put a heaping spoonful of chocolate mix into you milk instead of just a mounded spoonful when no one was looking. Scandalous. (Wow! I'm not even 20 seconds into my speech and I'm already beginning to sound like a 40-year-old mom with her own cooking show. We are off to a great start.) But anyway, you're still kinda figuring out what's acceptable and not-acceptable, and where you fit in. School is going well, but your biggest problem at the moment is deciding whether, during lunch, you go sit with all the cool kids at the "cool table" (cough the peanut-free table) or at the table closest to the recess doors so you can get a jump on all the other kids who want to take the "good swing". 65 84 have scolded someone by doing just that. I don't really have the patience for people who don't get to the point quickly, I can't really stand people who complain about pain for more than 5 minutes and struggled to contain my irritation when my mother complained about an ache knee after her surgery. So let's talk about how someone with a fiery temper and a debatable bedside manner is going to become a doctor. It took a long time for me to figure out. Hospital does not mean just a doctor and a doctor does not just mean physicians. There are surgeons, nurse anesthetists, allergists....etc. And that's exactly what I'll be. When I stood up in front of the school in fifth grade and said I wanted to be a "pediatric cardiothoracic surgeon", my parents didn't believe me. Maybe now that I'm standing once again in front of the whole upper school they'll believe me as I say that I want to be a "pediatric cardiothoracic surgeon" not because of my race or upbringing tells me so. But because I do. Martha Sanchez I hate traffic. I hate when people cut me off, when they don't use their signals and when I'm behind two really slow cars and can't get around either of them. I hate it when I try to zipper merge like I was taught to do in drivers' ed but get passive-aggressively cut off by other drivers. And I can't stand when there's a biker biking in the middle of the road at 10 miles per hour as if they were a car. But I complain about a lot more than just driving. I hate when groups of people walk super slowly through the hallways. I think it's pretty annoying when I'm walking behind two people who apparently have no concerns about when class starts. I've been late to class on numerous occasions because of this. So to my teachers who have to deal with my lateness, it's not my fault, but sorry. I also think in general, the ratio of time in the day to homework assigned is a little bit excessive. If I'm late to school, it's probably because I was up the night before studying for a math test or writing a paper. So technically all those tardies I have aren't really my fault and if you think about it, I shouldn't have to serve detentions for them. However, I'll admit that I occasionally get tardies because of the adversities that I encounter in the Drake parking lot. I hate when in winter, people can't see the lines in the lot so naturally they decide to park in the middle of the lot, resulting in weird spaces between cars that my car almost fits into, but doesn't. This situation often leaves me frantically trying to judge whether or not I can squeeze into a spot without scraping someone else's car and, in doing so, wasting valuable time in which I could be running to advisory. Also, that time of year when every sophomore gets their license and suddenly having nowhere to park has made me late to advisory more times than I can count. I know that I can't control how other people drive, park, or assign homework. However, many of my everyday complaints are focused on issues that I do have the power to change. And even if I can't control, for example, the amount of reading that I have for history, I can control the way I react or adapt to the situation, I find that most of the time I'm faced with something I don't like, I complain about it. I don't think it would be too big of an assumption to say that most other people do the same thing. But even though I'm guilty of this, I think that complaining instead of dealing with your issues isn't a good way to fix a problem. Like everyone else, I have a lot of homework. But often instead of sitting down and doing my homework, I complain about how much of it I have to do. I know that this is not a good way to actually get my homework done. I also complain a lot about the various setbacks that make me late to school, but in reality, I can solve all of those setbacks by leaving my house five minutes earlier than I normally do. It can be that simple. In the way that it is often used, complaining is a way to procrastinate or get out of dealing with the issue in concern. Most of what I complain about are things I have to do, things I haven't done, or how little time I have to do these either of these things. But what I often don't consider is that by complaining about my problems, I don't actually fix them. Complaining is a quick distraction - one that momentarily resolves annoyance or frustration but that later leaves me in the same situation. It doesn't solve issues, it removes you from the responsibility of taking the steps to improve a frustrating part of life. your \|\|\| Another problem with complaining is that in doing so, we often fail to put the complaint in perspective. Yes, math is hard and everyone needs more sleep, but we take a lot more time complaining about these things than acknowledging all the positive aspects of our lives. While we all need to vent sometimes, I would argue that putting your concerns in perspective with everything that you're grateful for will make you happier in the long run. By reminding yourself of how lucky you are, complaints can slowly become less of a burden. Obviously, I have a lot of trivial things that I complain about. But I want to stop focusing on these negatives. Except for a brief release of tension, complaining doesn't have any positive effects on my life. To get out of the negative mindset that complaining creates, I've tried to do a few things differently. First, I have tried to surround myself with people who don't complain, people who overall see more positives than negatives. I think being in a pessimistic environment automatically causes me to act in a less optimistic way. Secondly, I have acknowledged that it's impossible to stop complaining altogether. Done right, complaints can be a form of criticism that creates positive change. So I've tried to limit my own complaints to ones that follow this idea. If you're raising awareness, bringing up a point to change something, or transitioning a complaint into action, I think complaining can lead to something good. After all, I'm kind of complaining about complaining - but instead of whining about my homework or lack of parking, I hope that this complaint can inspire positivity in someone else. Much to often, we complain simply to release tension, but I challenge you to change that. If you're unsatisfied with an aspect of your life that's under your control, make an effort to change it for the better. If something is out of your control, adapt your attitude to make the best out of that situation. And if you want to lead a more positive life, limit how much you complain. Henrik Schleisman I was not fired from Target. Technically, Target defined our altercation as a "termination." Now let me be clear, being "terminated" is quite considerably different from quitting. Don't get me wrong, I didn't want to work there, but I wasn't just gonna quit. Instead, I staged a more honorable departure. I told my boss that I looked forward to working next week, and never showed up again. I had done it. I had won. I found peace in knowing that at some point, my boss would look down at her attendance and wonder "Where's Henrik?" only to realize that I would never come back. After a few months removed from Target, I realized that I had not won. I wasn't being paid, and my exit really wasn't honorable at all. I felt like a failure. I don't want to get too sentimental but I find myself feeling this way a lot, like a failure. Now that I've thought about it, I probably was fired from Target, and that's not great. As I write this I am currently failing precalculus, and I'm comfortable in telling you that I have not exactly exceeded my academic expectations this year. I have yet to turn in a completed paper on time, and I really do not understand any Spanish whatsoever. Lo Siento, Senora. But academics are not where my failures stop. The two areas in my life where my failures shine brightest would be athletics and relationships. I'd rather not go into detail regarding my various romantic expeditions, so, for now, I'll just tell a story of my athletic incompetence. JV soccer junior year, Noah Lindeman passed the ball to me at least 10 feet offsides, but luckily the referee who looked strikingly similar to Elton John did not know the rules of soccer, and I was given my chance. It was just me and the goalie. A duel of fates, akin to the perpetual conflict between good and evil. I intended to dribble in such a way to create just enough separation to allow me to drill the ball right past the goalie and into the net, but it's at moments like these, moments where fate has decided to award me with a chance to be great, that failure arrives to remind me of where I belong. I created too much separation. In fact, I created so much separation, that the ball rolled right into the goalie. Time stopped. Life as I knew it, had stopped. My vision faded to black, my body fell to the dirt, I let go and allowed my mind to be transported into a metaphysical existence. I was both nowhere, and nowhen. Time and space had ceased to exist. I found myself laying in a beautiful spirit · valley, with colorful spirit flowers and magnificent spirit fauna. A spirit elk came over to me as if to say hello, but we both knew we needed no introduction. "Oh mighty, spirit elk, why am I such a failure?" I asked. The spirit elk looked at me for a moment and then chuckled. "chuckle, wake up." I opened my eyes to find myself transported back to the physical world, back to the soccer field. I looked to my feet, and I saw the ball. It kept rolling. The goalie must have also been transported to 85
16 studied by students like us, decades down the line. But what is it that those students will be reading? In our fast-paced and busy lives, chances for big-picture thinking are few and far between. During this pandemic, these chances have been even sparser, yet all the more important. I'm sure we've all seen or read a hundred articles with live updates, case numbers, and day-by-day policy changes, all of which gives us great perspective on what is happening right now. But it doesn't give us that big-picture perspective, it's not what those future students will read about this time. They'll want to know how this pandemic fits into the history of our world and our nation, and how it will ultimately change our course. Let's start with that first question. How did we get here? And by we, I mean we in this country, in the United States. As of this recording, the United States has over 434,000 confirmed cases, by far the highest in the world, and over 14,000 deaths, the third highest. How is it that we, supposedly the strongest country in the world, have fought this virus the worst? Most of you know the specific answers to this question. We were too slow to react, we didn't have enough gear, or people disobeyed social distancing. But while these answers might make it into that future history textbook, they'll be overshadowed by a far more important answer to a far more important question. Why? Why can so many other countries get it right while we've gotten it horribly wrong? This question asks us to look at the deep, underlying trends in our society. Two of these, I believe, provide the answer: First, America's turn towards populism in politics, and second, its growing hubris. In hindsight, the recent resurgence of populism in the United States makes a lot of sense. First globalization and later the Great Recession created a significant coalition in America that felt economically and politically disenfranchised. After feeling exploited by political or economic elites, they were just waiting for someone in power to finally take their side. Eventually, a cast of heroes stepped into play, headlined by President Trump on the right and Senator Sanders on the left. Both swore to fight the established political or economic elite, a mysterious enemy in the shadows, while defending the real citizens of their country, their supporters. Like a lot of political ideologies, it sounds good in a sentence, and in its desperation, this country bit down hard. But now we have a President who won an election on false and empty promises to desperate people, rather than good qualifications or well-developed policies. During this pandemic, we're all paying the price. One of the central tenets of Trump's populist platform, for instance, is draining the swamp. While he describes it as ridding the government of needless bureaucrats and political elites who are exploiting the American people, the reality is that he's ridding the government of important, experienced, and skilled civil servants, who are necessary to run a large government. Throughout his entire Presidency, Trump has left empty government positions go vacant, claiming that they are unnecessary. Unfortunately, the White House task force responsible for predicting and preventing epidemics counted among those positions. The entire office left two years ago, and Trump never replaced them. For the positions that Trump does choose to fill, in true populist fashion, he tends to prioritize loyalty over competency. Back in 2017, during the transition from the Obama administration to the Trump administration, Obama officials gave incoming Trump officials a training session on how to deal with a Pandemic nearly exactly like COVID-19. Those Obama officials reported that Trump cabinet members were dismissive of the training, and that the most important information likely never made it to the President. It even extends to those closest to him. While FDR's closest advisors were university professors, Trump's closest advisors are his daughter and his son-in-law. I know who I'd rather have in the President's ear during an unprecedented new crisis. But finally, and perhaps most evident now, populists, especially Trump, routinely seek to distort the truth for their own political popularity. After all, it doesn't matter when established authorities like the media or the press dispute what he says, because they're all part of the vast network of elites that are working against the people. If anything, it only reinforces his narrative. Experience has shown this works great in an election, but not in solving a real issue. Not in a pandemic. As late as early March, Trump insisted that the coronavirus was under control. This was a lie. Intelligence reports dating from January show that the government was well aware of the dangers of the coronavirus, as did the data the government was releasing. Trump even admitted last Tuesday that he knew the full extent of the dangers the coronavirus posed, but chose instead to lie and spin the situation as positive, because he wanted to be a "cheerleader" for the country. That's not what a good leader does. A good leader tells the country what they need to hear. A short-sighted populist tells them what they want to hear. But I mentioned a second contributor to our current crisis in addition to the populism that gave us Trump, and that's hubris, America has always had a profound sense of self-righteousness. So much so that it has its own name: American exceptionalism. It's the same confidence that once led us to invade Vietnam and Iraq, more recently led Americans to ignore social distancing recommendations and still travel to Florida to party for Spring Break. But this hubris started its work much earlier. This hubris made us feel so invincible that we dismiss the probability of a disaster happening and the need to responsibly prepare. I'm sure many of you have seen the now-viral Ted Talk that Bill Gates gave in 2015 on the Ebola outbreak. That was over five years ago now. Even then, it was glaringly obvious that we needed a better system to manage HI a potentially catastrophic pandemic. We didn't build it. Instead, we most recently began to dismantle it. There used to be a USAID program called PREDICT, which operated in China and other nations around the world to provide funding and resources to identify viruses, including coronaviruses, that could trigger a global pandemic, but its latest five-year funding cycle expired in September of last year, two months before the pandemic began, and was not renewed. If you don't think hubris is at fault, try comparing our experience in America to those nations who can't afford to be overconfident. South Korea, for example, a nation that has lived with the threat of destruction for nearly seventy years, had the best response to the coronavirus in the world. I suspect there's a connection. But there's another question that those future history textbooks will ask. What is all of this going to do? What's going to change. The only truthful answer is that we don't know anything yet for sure, but the signs are not good. Global deaths from the virus will likely be in the hundreds of thousands, if not millions. This catastrophic loss of life will likely stay in our collective psyche, changing the way we make decisions going forward. The economic damage is even harder to predict, but we know it will be bad. Worse, probably, than anything we've seen in modern history. Seventeen million Americans have already lost their jobs in just four weeks, and we're still only in the beginning. Hopefully, there is some good that can come out of this. Hopefully, we'll at least learn our lesson. Maybe we'll turn a more critical eye to politics, elect better leaders, and check our hubris, or maybe not. Only time will tell, but in the meantime, I think our work is clear. Seniors, many of us will be voting in our first election this fail and participating formally in the election process for the first time. We'll join the minority of the world who has a say in electing their leaders, so when you cast your ballot, take a moment to appreciate the power you have. And recognize that there is a responsibility that comes hand in hand with that power. Whatever course you take, just know that what you do will change the world, so try to write a history that will make those future students proud to read. Naomi Wilson Feelings of discomfort and danger are frequently experienced during discussions and other forms of discourse. For example, say there are two people, Skylar and Kevin, who are having a discussion about gender. Skylar starts off the conversation by saying "Lately I've seen a lot of social media posts about how gender is a spectrum. It's been scientifically proven at this point, and as a gender non-conforming person, I'm glad that more and more people are recognizing my identity". Kevin responds with "But there are only two genders and thus two sets of pronouns: he/him for males and she/her for females. I guess, technically speaking, anyone that neither female nor male is an 'it'. So those scientists are definitely wrong." As a bystander starts to refute Kevin's comment with "actually, as I have learned in my Gender in the Americas class, gender and sex are in fact on a spectrum...," Skylar exits the space. Most of us have heard of the Golden Rule: treat others how you want to be treated. This moral is found in virtually all world religions, and taught at an early age to children around the globe. The Golden Rule encourages us to treat others, regardless of their class, ethnicity, gender, and sexual orientation, with the same respect that we want to be treated with. Another highly-regarded principle is Freedom of Speech, a constitutional right that we are privileged to have. Not all governments allow their citizens to speak up in times of necessary change. With the possession of this right, it is crucial that we know the proper use of it. Free speech is one thing, hate speech is another entirely. Free speech is utilizing your voice to advocate for change and bettering the condition of the population and the world that we live in. Hate speech occurs when someone misuses their privilege and insists that they have the right to spew whatever crosses their mind, regardless of how offensive and how damaging it may be to others. Navigating the Golden Rule and Freedom of Speech can be boiled down to another concept that we learned as young children: If you don't have anything nice to say, don't say it at all. The safety of all always rules over the comfort of some, In other words, the right for everyone to be empathized with and respected as opposed to dehumanized has to be prioritized over someone's urge to express offensive and hurtful beliefs and opinions. Going back to the conversation mentioned earlier, Skylar's comment regarding the fact that gender is a spectrum challenges Kevin's opinion that gender is a binary, potentially leading to Kevin's ego being slightly bruised. However, Kevin still feels safe, as his identity as a cis-gendered male has not been invalidated. On the other hand, Kevin's comment made Skylar feel unsafe.
17 86 a spirit world, as the ball rolled right between his legs, and into the goal. I looked back at my bench to see coach Jenna Birch looking at me with her unimpressed smile. Although she never told me, I knew she was proud. The preceding story is incredibly important to me. It is an inspiring tale, one I hope to never forget, and it all happened as a result of a failure. Society wants us to believe that failure is a bad thing. They want us to believe that success is all or nothing, and that if you do not succeed in their eyes then you have failed. But that is so often not the case. So many of us live life as if every moment, every decision, every failure, is significant. We have become so obsessed with success that we have forgotten the value of failure. Failure offers a chance to learn, a chance to better yourself. You won't always learn from your mistakes, and you certainly won't fix your problems just by failing, I wasn't suddenly good at soccer after that goal, and to be honest, that was by far the highlight of my career, but failure in any way allows for introspection. Whiffing that shot allowed me to realize that I wasn't very good at soccer, but I played because I loved my team and it made me happy. Being fired from Target allowed me to discover myself in a way, I discovered that, yes, at a distance I may look like a failure, but in reality, I'm just learning. I recently got rehired at Showplace ICON, a movie theater that I had worked at for a year, before my brief stint at Target. During my unemployment, I realized how much I missed my job at the theater. I had made some really great friends there, and I truly missed them. This may not come as a surprise to you, but I felt like a failure. This time, I wanted to redeem myself, I would like to end this speech with an actual email I wrote to my boss at the theater: Dear Reid, Redemption (noun) D. an act of redeeming or atoning a fault, mistake, or failure, or the state of being redeemed. It took me some time to realize what I had lost. At first, I was fine but as the days shortened I started to notice it; not a sharp, discernible pain, but a subtle ache in my sub-conscience. I spent what felt like endless nights in deep meditation, allowing myself to be transported into a world beyond the physical, searching myself for the root of my vexation. I traversed the interior of my soul serenely, Reid, but none-the-less urgently. On my travels, I encountered a wise spirit-elk named Johannes. I'll never forget what Johannes told me; "Henrik, you cannot always change the world, but you can change how you see it. Choose to see the good in those around you. Remember those who care for you and keep them close. Do not allow your own ambitions to distract you from doing good for those who deserve it. Go back to the Showplace." I awoke from my meditation with a complete understanding of my own sorrows that once bewildered me. I missed my old friends, Reid. After being "terminated" from Target, I was left with two things: a paycheck greater than any I ever received from the Showplace, and a realization that money does not matter as much as my own belonging. Dear Mr. Henderson. Dear Reid, please take me back. Allow me to redeem myself. Pia Schultz It was the first day of Nordic practice my freshman year. Hot off the JV soccer bench, I self elected to run with the fast group. What a terrible decision this turned out to be. After three miles of agony, my group mates had finally given up on me. They peeled off, leaving me alone, with only the setting sun and my own tears to keep me company as I dragged myself up the Randolph hill. My face must have been one of pure misery, because as I started the incline, a man called out to me. He yelled, "if it was easy, everyone would be doing it." I wish I could tell you these words pushed me to finish my run strong, to sprint the last quarter mile, but to be honest I have no idea. I've blocked out a lot of my freshman year. But while this piece of advice had little to no effect on my pace that day, it began to bounce around in my head, and I started pulling it out when times got tough. When I came across a particularly long Strayer reading, or a math assignment with way too many problems that had parts A, B, C, D, E, and F and I started to feel the urge to just copy the answers from some sketchy website I found on page 2 of google results, I remembered this guy, and I realized that the hard parts of life are the most important, because they are opportunities to grow, and instead of shying away from this challenge, I should embrace it. But I left something out of that story. When you picture the man, who do you see? I imagine that most of you are picturing a white man, middle aged, balding on the top of the head but maybe still has some hair around the sides, possibly wearing cargo shorts. And if the exact details don't match, it's nevertheless likely that you pictured someone who was white. But that isn't accurate. The man was black. When I tell this story, I never know how to describe him. On one hand, I feel like his race shouldn't matter to my story, and I feel weird mentioning it. Usually, when people mention race in a story that doesn't have anything to do with it, it is to convey an underground bias. To say something without having to actually say it. But on the other hand, I know that in this community, SPA, St. Paul, Minnesota, the United States, the default is white, and it feels wrong to let him live on in your heads as a white man. So I am going to mention his race, because I think the first step to tackling this Normative Whiteness is to start talking about it. But that's not easy. Talking about race is not easy! I am uncomfortable up here, in front of 400 people, talking about something that I don't know much about. I don't think about it when I walk into a room, I don't have to worry about being stopped unfairly on the street, in my car, or at the airport, and I don't wonder whether my teacher is giving me extra help because of a stereotype, or just because of the look on my face when they ask if their explanation of derivatives is making sense to everyone. Instead, my Whiteness will help me get loans, jobs, and housing, because of absolutely nothing but my skin. I don't have to think about it and I don't. I just have to be white. And I think that is wrong. That's why I am up here, talking about something that makes me so uncomfortable. Whiteness is a system created by white people, perpetuated by white people, benefitting white people, and because of that, it is white people's responsibility to change it. To be uncomfortable, to listen to the ways that, in the same way Whiteness helps white people, it actively harms people of color. To notice policies, customs, or comments that are a product of the system, and instead of shying away from the conversation, to initiate it. The silence of white people lets it live on and I don't want it to continue so I'm talking about it. Do we all agree that racism is bad? I think so. I have to hope so. But I think there's a misunderstanding as to how and why it's so pervasive and persistent. Racism doesn't thrive because neo-Confederates march through Charlottesville, as outrageous as that is. It thrives because the majority of white people who watch Confederate flag-wavers chanting 'blood and soil' across an American campus frown, shake their heads, and then almost instantaneously move on. Because Whiteness is working for them! White people hold 90% of the nation's wealth, are 30% less likely to be pulled over, and get prison sentences that are, on average, 10% shorter for the same crimes committed by people of color. Whiteness puts pressure on white people to not talk- we don't want to talk about race, because it makes us uncomfortable. This isn't ill-intended silence, but whiteness doesn't need explicit racism to grow. It only needs silence, because silence supports the status quo, and the status quo privileges white skin at the expense of people of color. In the same way that white people are the default, Whiteness is as well. Unless we are actively working against it, whiteness will prosper. I can think of so many times I have chosen to stay silent when I could have contributed to a conversation, or interrupted a problematic one- and those are just the times that I'm conscious of. Everything I do that isn't actively anti-racist supports the status quo. By being white, I am constantly contributing to this system of inequality. So it is on me, on those of us who are white, to keep the conversation going. To take responsibility for the system created by white people for white people and dismantle it. It's not, in 2020, our fault that it exists, but if we believe it is wrong to benefit so much because of the color of our skin at the expense of those who do not share it, then it is our responsibility. It feels weird standing up here, as a white girl, talking to you about race, a topic I am not any more qualified to speak on than any other white person. While writing this speech, I wrote two others, because a voice in the back of my head kept telling me that this one was a bad idea. That it isn't my place to give a speech about race. That I would say something wrong, something polarizing, and people would scorn me for it. But as nervous as I feel giving this speech, I felt icky shying away from it. I know that by not saying this, I would be doing the very thing I am saying not to do. I would be staying silent in the face of discomfort. I don't have all the answers, I don't even have one answer. I'm not up here to solve racism. I'm here for the white audience- to share my experiences talking about race, and what I think we have to do better. It's not up to students of color to start this conversation, nor keep it going. 87
00 Looking back on the memory, I know I should have owned up to the mistake. But being accountable seems to be much easier said than done. It is difficult to own up to something you did on accident and it is even more difficult to own up to something you did purpose. But why is it important to be accountable if it's easier to avoid mistakes and make excuses? Whether you are a kid or an adult owning up to mistakes is important because avoiding a problem usually makes it worse. Also, avoiding the blame usually puts it on somebody else who does not deserve to take responsibility. Whether you are young or old, being accountable for mistakes is difficult because it's not easy to face problems, especially if we caused them. Like I said before, I am not the most accountable or responsible person in the world and I can think of many instances in my life where I have not owned up to my mistakes. But I think it is important to be aware of what you are accountable for because it is something that everyone can work on. So next time you put a fishing hook through someone's cheek, think about taking the blame instead of throwing someone else under the bus. Before I end this speech, I want to briefly thank some people I am grateful for. Mom, thanks for showing me how to be a good person and always helping me when I needed it most. Dad, thanks for having my back and showing me how to work hard. Joey, thanks for being a great brother even when I blame you for my mistakes. I want to thank all of my grandparents for always showing me support, even when I catch one of them with a fishing book. I want to thank my friends and teammates for making me into the person I am today, and finally, I want to thank my dogs, Roper and Bear for always showing me love. Thank you. Ayla Straub This past summer my soccer team was playing in the USA Cup, which is a soccer tournament where teams and referees come from many different countries. During a two-hour break between my team's semi-final game and our final match, I decided to go over to the referee station and thank the referee that had officiated our game. I could tell by the uniform that the referee was wearing that he was from China, giving me an opportunity to practice my Mandarine Chinese skills. The referee and I started to have a conversation in Chinese ranging from soccer to the similarities and differences between the United States and China. As the conversation continued, I noticed that another Chinese referee was having trouble communicating with a medic about an injury. I was soon introduced to both the referee and the medic and started to translate between the two of them, I was able to help the referee obtain the medical help that he needed, and because of my assistance in this situation, I was offered an interpreting position at the tournament. I helped communicate weather concerns, field changes, and other information to several of the referees. With each new interaction, the referees eagerly gave me their contact information, saying that they would be happy to help me make connections if I ever traveled through China again. Now I have a question for you: have you ever wondered what it would be like if everyone spoke the same language? If everyone did speak the same language, the referee would have had no trouble getting the medical help that he needed. But at the same time, I would never have met the people that I did that week. Language connects people. Think about the exchange trips that you have heard about or been a part of. If everyone spoke the same language, these trips would not exist, and you would not have met the people you did. If everyone spoke the same language. You could talk to people a lot easier and you could travel a lot easier, it would be a lot more convenient. But what would the downside be, and would it be worth it? I say the benefits do not outway the costs. You would lose a lot of the culture that comes with language, and just because it would be easier to talk to people around the world, does not in fact mean that you actually would talk to them. And I think it is the act of learning another language that prompts you to talk to more people, it's what converts a limitation into an invitation. Meeting new people is far from the only reason language that is important, but it is one of the most evident in our daily lives. The majority of you know a second language, don't be afraid to use it when you can, not just in class, you never know who you will meet, or what you will learn. You can do this by going on exchange trips, and meeting other students your age; if you like reading, you could read books in another language, building your vocabulary with words that aren't related to school; or you can simply be open to opportunities in your daily life when they show up. Language itself also illustrates a lot of culture. Think about the words that don't exist in different languages. One example that I can think of is a Chinese word,, which roughly translates to busy or lively. Think of the State Fair. There are a lot of people, all having a good time; this would be described as. Also, different languages have a different number of words for basic colors, changing the amount of description needed to describe a color. There are hundreds of other words like this, words that only exist in a few languages. Each language, having its own distinct vocabulary, changes the way that people communicate with each other, and this folds into the local culture. Learning a language is not only about the vocab, but it is also learning about the culture, and about the world. There are many languages and cultures around the world. In fact, there are 7.8 billion people in the world, and only around 1.5 billion people speak English, which is only 20% of the world population. You can choose to see this in one of two ways, a limitation or an invitation. You could choose to see this as a limitation on who you are able to communicate with or where you are able to travel easily. But I choose to see it as an invitation to learn another language. With every language that you learn, you are able to talk to even more people, opening the world to travel and to learning more about the many unique cultures that exist. Language connects people and includes culture, but the act of learning a language is also beneficial. Studies have shown a correlation between language learning and improvement in reading and standardized test scores. Obviously, language learning is not the only factor in these results, but it does show a way that learning a second language can be beneficial, even if you don't plan on traveling any time soon. Also, there are studies showing a connection between bilingualism and increased cognitive, memory, and problem-solving skills as well as a delay of age-related cognitive loss. These benefits are relevant even after you are done with school. I have talked a lot about the benefits of learning another language, and why it is important, but let's take a step back and ask: what is language? For some people, language is the words we speak to each other every day, or maybe you think about your world language classes where speaking is an important part of the class. Both of these have one very important similarity that limits our understanding of language: these examples revolve around a spoken language, leaving out languages such as sign language and even the written and cultural parts of spoken languages. Usually, when people talk about language, they are referring to a spoken language, but there are many sign languages that exist all over the world as well. Fun fact, sign language is not necessarily correlated to a spoken language. For example, the US and Britain both speak English, but American Sign Language and British Sign Language are not the same. And the differences are not minor like the difference between going on a vacation or on holiday, or between eating a cookie or a biscuit, where you can fairly easily figure out what the meaning of these words are through context. Instead, there are more major differences, such as American Sign Language only using one hand to sign the letters of the alphabet, whereas British Sign Language using both hands to sign the same letters. Language is an important tool, and each one of us has a different experience with it. Whether it's because you want to travel, want to see some educational or health benefits, or simply because you know that there is more to language than words on a page, I encourage all of you to take language learning seriously and have fun while learning. Ryan Strobel Optimism has always been a go-to in the Rolodex of American ideologies. Perhaps it's a hallmark of the relentless parable of the American Dream. Only in America can the poor transform their fortunes, right? A positive outlook is near-universally touted as a necessity for everyday living. Medical science, eager to back this up, has inundated us with hundreds of studies on the effects of positive thinking, each seeming to prove that which we already know. Optimism is a key part of stress management, looking on the bright side allows us to maintain hope, high levels of positivity correspond with better physical wellbeing, the list goes on. These attributes, however, belie a counterproductive and even dangerous force: The cult of positivity. Groupthink, a term coined in 1972, refers to a psychological phenomenon in which people strive for consensus within a group. Contrarians and pariahs notwithstanding, people tend to set aside their own personal beliefs or adopt the opinions of the rest of the group. At the risk of sounding like an embittered fringe theorist looking down smugly on the masses, I believe that much of our culture has been shaped around maintaining an air of positivity at all costs, if only for the sake of appearing positive. Self-Help books have exploded in popularity since the 90s, and a central tenet of the genre is that success is
04 and never will. Instead, it sits as a reminder that the walls are really just stepping stones that make what seems so impossible, in truth, the most possible. It isn't about what I couldn't do because of everything I wasn't, it's about everything I did because of everything I am. Anjali Tadavarthy I stand here right now, and to be honest with you, I am terrified. I am scared of what you are going to say, how you will perceive me, and what you are whispering to your friend right now. When I think about it rationally, there is nothing to be scared of. What's the worst you are going to do? Through a piece of rotten fruit? Probably not. Also, you might get in trouble for having food in the Huss Center. But I am scared, even if there is no basis for that fear. Some of that fear comes from the fact that I have always wanted to give a good speech. A speech that the audience would actually listen to. I watched in awe for years as the seniors stood on stage and said something important. However, over the years, my self imposed pressure to write a good speech has increased, and my confidence to give that speech has diminished. So I have decided not to write a life-altering speech but just to write a speech for myself. I grew up a really happy and confident kid. I wore pigtails every day, and my glasses were bright blue. I was not afraid to speak my mind, whether that meant telling everyone what I thought about anything or bullying all the boys in my grade to make them bend to my six-year-old will. I did things because they brought me joy. Dance was one of the many activities that gave me pure happiness. When I look back on the endless videos of performances I did for anyone that would watch, I cringe. The technique was horrible. I kind of looked like a floppy fish, but I felt like I was flying. But I did not dance because I was good at it, I danced because it made me happy. In school, I was not afraid to get the answer wrong, because everyone believed in me. My family and my teachers told me every day that I could be anything I wanted to be. It did not matter that my basic computation and reading skills were far below grade average; I could still become president of the United States if I wished and worked hard enough. And I truly believed them. There was nothing I could not accomplish if I put my mind to it. Despite the fact that I was behind my class in reading the year before, by 3rd grade, I started reading chapter books all by myself. I thought if I could do that, I could do anything, I kept that confidence with me for a long time. Longer than most young girls, I think. I know a lot of people hate middle school with a burning passion, but honestly, I kind of liked it. I still felt like I was good at things. I still believed that people believed in me. I could do basic research, I liked to read, and I still struggled with math, but I survived. I was confident because everything was still pretty easy. That is not to say I was totally self-assured in middle school- I mean that walk to lunch was the scariest experience of my day because there was a possibility that I could make eye contact with a frightening highschooler. But besides lunch, I pretty much thought I ruled the world. It was not until high school that that pigtailed little girl with glasses disappeared. I was still loud and opinionated. I think I will always be. I knew how to get my points across in Harkness discussions, and I learned how to write persuasively, but something was missing. There was something inside of me, constantly telling me that there was someone out there who was better at everything I wanted to do. The simple truth is that growing up in this world damaged my confidence and the confidence of everyone around me, although I think it just hit me a little later than some. As a ninth-grader, I was so scared of the high school that I didn't even want to walk down the aisles of the lunchroom. It was the same feeling that crept in in middle school, during the dreaded walk through the high school. It felt as if everyone was looking at me. I started hiding the things that made me the most me. I did not want to stand out in the halls because I thought I would be judged. I regretted having a floral backpack because it did not blend in with everyone else's black bags in the piles outside of the cafeteria. I turned off my music when anyone would get close enough to hear it because I thought I would get mocked for my love of Dolly Parton and the Dixie Chicks. The new negative voices in my head convinced me that I needed to be the best at everything I did, and the culture I perceived at this school made those voices louder. The message I heard from the competitive culture at this school was that there was only one person who was perfect. And it made sense to me. If we are supposed to change the world, we better be pretty good at what we do. But this culture has not made me better at anything that I love to do, and honestly, I think it has only made me more self-conscious about everything I have labeled myself as not good at. When I heard my peers talking about how easy math classes were, my confidence dropped. When I was told I was in honors classes, but the classes were made up of mostly 9th graders, my confidence dropped. I did not feel like I was talented at anything anymore. I was not confident in my choices, and I was even not confident in the subjects I loved the most. It did not matter that I was fascinated by women fighter pilots in history if I could not be the best at calculus. And as my self-confidence diminished, so did the joy that came along with the learning I used to love so much. But the decline of my confidence did not end with school. Even dancing, the thing that made me the happiest, lost its joy. I competed because it was a part of the activity I was supposed to love, but every night after a competition I would cry because I knew that my friends were winning more than I was, even if I worked harder. The few successes were fun, but the joy of winning a cheap plastic trophy never lasted as long as the inner nagging feeling that I was not good enough. I cannot pinpoint exactly what changed But I realized that I did have control over most of what was sapping my confidence, So instead of letting others dictate my decisions, I made choices about my life. The first big move I made altered my true passion, dance. After about eight years of weekends spent in fluorescently-lit convention centers, I finally drummed up enough courage to tell my coach that I did not want to compete anymore. I would continue to train, to perform, to teach, but that competition brought me absolutely no joy. As soon as I made that decision, the sport changed. I no longer dreaded classes each night. Dance felt more like it did when I was a second-grader. I finally danced because I loved it. I remembered how to fly. The next step was school. This year, I got to choose the classes I could take for the first time. So naturally, I elected to take five history classes and absolutely no science. And you should have seen the reactions of my peers. They all told me that I was making a mistake. Apparently, there would be too much reading and too many papers. The same nagging voice in my head told me that humanities were not worthwhile and that I should be focusing on STEM. However, I learned to push these ideas away. I knew deep down that I would rather read a book or write a paper than do a set of chem problems. I learned that unlike in middle school, what made me confident was not the easy tasks, but challenges I overcame. It was not the straightforward papers and conversations I enjoyed it was the ones that pushed me to think harder about what I knew. I made the choice to do what I loved instead of what others thought I needed to do. I am not saying that everything this year changed. I still feel inferior about my math abilities, and I still get self-conscious about my bright blue coat and my love for country music. But as I continued to think about this speech, I realized that I am supposed to be sharing something that I believe will be beneficial for the community at large, even if my intention was to write a speech for myself, Although I am telling you to be confident in who you are, it is not because I have everything figured out. I am still not completely self-assured, and I am not sure that I ever will be. But I have learned that we should be proud of our choices, be proud of what makes us happy, not what makes you better than everyone else. You do not have to be the best at something to enjoy it. So blast your country music and take as many history classes as your little heart desires. Don't let people make you feel inferior. And more importantly, don't let your inner voice tell you that you are not good enough. Sydney Therien Hello, everybody. Welcome to speeches. It's just one of the many cute and quirky traditions that makes SPA special and unique. I should know. I've been at this institution for twelve full years. Every day of my young life since kindergarten I have graced this school with my presence. I have grown and developed more than I ever thought was possible, thanks to the top notch technology and the supreme staff and the cafeteria lunches that are to die for. My heart and mind have become so shaped it's actually kind of dangerous how malleable they are. I owe much of this transformation to my six wonderful years at the Goodrich campus. There, I learned a whole lot about myself, and now you all are about to learn a whole lot about me as well. Travel with me now to the year 2007. The Great Recession was just beginning. Soulja Boy had just released his new hit single "Crank That." And most importantly, I was in kindergarten. I was a big girl now. I was in big girl school and enjoying every minute of it. I rolled up to KB with my ice cream bucket full of fresh school supplies ready for a fantastic year. It was only fitting that my openness to new experiences would be my downfall.
05 94 immediately important to us, or really anyone, it is an important life skill, especially in high school and presumably college classes, to be able to argue and discuss something that is not important to you. So, for those of you wondering, here is an example of what we talk about. Is chocolate syrup a jam? To consider chocolate syrup a jam, chocolate must be considered a fruit. To make chocolate, we first grind up the solid remains of fermented, dried, and roasted cocoa beans, which makes cocoa powder. That cocoa powder is then mixed with some other ingredients, making various types of chocolate. But what are cocoa beans actually? What we call "cocoa beans" come from a cocoa pod, grown on, surprisingly enough, the cocoa tree. They are technically a seed, which brings us to the important point, what defines a fruit? A fruit is defined as the seed bearing portion of a flowering plant, which means that the cocoa pod, which contains cocoa seeds, is, by definition, a fruit. However, this creates a slight problem. Chocolate is made by using the cocoa seeds not the cocoa pods. So, can we consider the seed close enough so that cocoa beans may also be considered a fruit? To answer that, we look to the pomegranate. The only edible part of the pomegranate is the seed and the seed covering known as the aril. However, eating a pomegranate is considered eating a fruit, despite throwing out the majority of the pomegranate. For my sake, this means that pomegranate seeds are close enough to the fruit to count. By that logic, the cocoa bean can also be considered a fruit, and therefore chocolate syrup could plausibly be classified as a jam. · Now that we agree that chocolate is a fruit, chocolate must also not be considered a candy or dessert. Unfortunately, chocolate is generally considered a candy for pretty obvious reasons. It can be full of sugar and milk, such as milk or white chocolate, neither of which I like, and neither of which would be considered healthy. However, in its purest form, dark chocolate, or cocoa, is not padded with extra sugars. In small amounts, it has been shown to fight cholesterol and lower diabetes, it can be good for your heart, and sometimes it can even increase blood flow to the brain, improving cognitive functions. These health benefits are only with small portions of chocolate, but they count nonetheless. Because dark chocolate, or cocoa, can be healthy in reasonable portions, chocolate syrup does not have to be written off as only a sweet or "cheat" food. However, some of you may be thinking something along the lines of, but chocolate syrup is just chocolate and sugar, and it is nothing like a jam. To respond to that, we must look at how jams and syrups are made. While cocoa may be healthy, in small amounts, does it qualify as a jam? A jam, defined by Merriam-Webster, is "a food made by boiling fruit and sugar to a thick consistency." Luckily for the chocolate syrup - jam debate, the addition of sugar means that even our chocolate jam doesn't have to be pure cocoa, which would be disgusting. In essence, the boiling down of fruit with sugar is the same method as making chocolate syrup. You take cocoa powder and sugar and you bring them to a boil in a saucepan. As it boils, it will start to thicken, just like jam. Once it reaches the desired consistency, you remove from the heat, and store in the refrigerator. The steps for making both jams and chocolate syrups are exactly the same, and therefore, chocolate syrup should be considered a jam. Now, many of you may be wondering why I have brought this debate to you. As much as I could try, I probably couldn't convince anyone that this discussion will impact you in any significant way. I would hope it wouldn't, because it is really dumb, but the point is more that I could still phrase my argument in a logical and rational way, and I could still talk about it. Even if you find something irrelevant, it may be critically important to someone else, and it is crucial to be able to discuss those ideas even if you do not personally care. For example, often those close to you have something that they really care about, that you don't understand or aren't interested in. Now, I couldn't find a way to say this that doesn't sound like I don't care about what my friends are talking about. That is definitely not true, and this is not meant to be rude at all. I really do care. But I might only care because my friends are interested in it, and engaging with them can be difficult, but it is still important. Whether it is in a class, talking about some political matter, or anything else, I have found that it is an incredibly valuable skill to be able for something you can find little meaning in. As many of you have undoubtedly experienced, you will have to write to argue essays or have discussions on topics that you find are not interested in. This is not in any way meant to excuse people from working hard and putting effort into classes, however, it is unreasonable to assume every class will be your favorite. This skill, of finding meaning in the mundane, can and will continue to serve me as I get older. Aside from allowing me and my friends to go crazy over stupid debates, it allows me to write decent essays about topics that I have little interest in. So, on that note, hope you all enjoy your chocolate jam on ice cream today. I Max Soll Today I am going to share a few details about a couple members of my extended family because I have learned some valuable lessons from their fringe beliefs. Everybody has experienced tension with peers because everyone views the world through their own lens. I recognize that I have critical views of my family member's beliefs and I understand that like them, I view my world through the lens that my heredity and environment have created for me. may I have a great aunt, my grandfather's sister, who has belonged to the Church of Scientology for the last forty years. You have heard of it from sensational T.V. reports or numerous books and documentaries that portray the secrecy of the organization as cult-like. You may even be familiar with it, perhaps you have a family member in it too or involved in a similarly demanding religion. Part of its secrecy includes cutting all ties with family. My family's experience has been unique in that we maintain some contact with her. Although I rarely see her, she is in contact with my family, which is fairly unheard of in Scientology. Much of this is due to my Grandfather's persistent efforts to not give up on his sister despite overwhelming obstacles. When he calls, if he is lucky enough to sweet talk the receptionist, who screens all incoming calls, he can actually speak with her. When he visits he is able to share a meal with her but has no idea where she lives because he can't go to her home. Many people would've given up on a family member in this situation, but he stayed committed. By seeing him persevere to stay connected to his sister, his unconditional love for her is apparent. By contrast, her other brother has had more difficulty accepting her choice because it clashes with the way he sees the world. He is a mathematician and a thoroughly rational man, so when he found out she joined Scientology he was appalled. He tried over and over to present her with facts and logic to pull her away from the church, but it only created a rift between them. Although like my grandfather, he acted out of love for his sister, he expressed it in a way that pushed her away because he invalidated her beliefs. Although his feeling that his sister had been wooed by a cult was reasonable and one I too share, he allowed it to undermine his relationship with her and ended up widening the gap between them. My personal experience with her has been limited as well. I have been fortunate enough to meet her twice and we have spoken on the phone. Although she is restricted by the organization she lives and works for, she still makes an effort to stay in touch with me and sends birthday cards. When I met her most recently, I asked about her work as if she held a traditional job and had what felt like a normal brunch together, minus the fact that when it was done, a driver whisked her away back to the church. My great aunt is not my only family member that has beliefs that challenge my own. My grandmother is a professional astrologer. Although astrology is better established than Scientology and dates back hundreds of years, it has no scientific basis. I find it completely irrational to attribute events in our daily lives to the positions of celestial bodies millions of miles away. Nonetheless, I respect that she is successful and highly regarded in her field even though I disagree with the philosophy. Despite the fact that we understand the world quite differently, I am able to look past some of her quirky ways and accept her beliefs in order to maintain a close relationship that is deeply important to me. I have seen her countless times and she has been there for me my entire life. She has helped raise me, for which I am grateful. These examples that I have presented are cases where I have interpreted the belief of my family members as illogical and flawed, but I have been able to look past it to see that my family members are truly good people. But what if it wasn't this way. What if the beliefs were in something that was undeniably wrong or evil? The right thing to do would still be to at least attempt to look past them, and see who the person behind it really is. And if your first assessment was accurate then the person's inherent nature will become clear, and only then will you be justified to disavow someone and their beliefs. The lesson that I have learned from these two family members is that when someone decides to believe something deeply and fully there is little that the people around them can do to change their mind. The way each person views the world is unique and people are not conscious of why they believe what they do. Belief occurs deep within the subconscious mind, so presenting overwhelming evidence against their cause is not helpful and only serves to drive the person away from, no matter 95
08 who you really are out of fear of letting it happen again. Instead of letting these define you just accept that we're all human and no human is perfect. In reality, everyone makes mistakes that they wish didn't happen. The best way to deal with it is to know that there's always tomorrow that you're gonna have to face no matter what. This comes with trying to have a good mindset. Notice the things that make you happy, whether it's a certain type of music or a group of people, it's important to have these things to feel good. Also, stop putting yourself in situations where you don't feel good. After all, it's inevitable that embarrassing moments will happen and looking back on them they are just funny moments that you can be happy about and you never know they could one day be good material for a speech. How we respond in the moment is the important part and you have to take the right mindset with you to do that. Like the great LeBron James said once said, "You have to be able to accept failure to get better." Kate Thomas For a while now, I've considered SPA to be pretty weird. This realization came to me suddenly, but, I still spent a few months freshman year wondering whether or not I was right. Why would this school be weird? Everything here seems so wholesome, some people here are practically the definition of normal. Over time, I realized that it was not the individual people, but the overall culture that makes SPA different. SPA truly encourages people to be themselves. Before coming here, I'd never been in an environment where being eccentric was a good thing. At SPA, it seemed that the more special you were, the better. We see each other as individuals; no group, with few exceptions, seems to me to be confined to a single stereotype. In short, we have more freedom to express ourselves than young people almost anywhere else. Coming from a school with a uniform, where your friend group defined how you wore it and how you acted, I was very confused. I didn't know it, but I liked the stability and routine I had in middle school. At SPA, I liked all my teachers, I loved my classes, and my classmates were incredibly nice and welcoming. But I wasn't comfortable here for a long time. SPA has a culture of hyperindividualism, along with all of the associated pros and cons. Individualism gives you the freedom to express yourself and determine the course of your own life. It fuels our democracy, facilitates acceptance, and it is undoubtedly a defining characteristic of our nation as a whole. Those who see people as individuals rather than representatives of some group can empathize with them far more deeply than those who see the world as a labyrinth of societal division, People who see people as individuals can do more without the restraints of community rules and expectations. They can have happier lives, accepting themselves fully and living freely. The cons to individualism are almost taboo here. We're not allowed to complain about how annoying it is when society has to accommodate each person's personal needs. We don't think too much about how it might be isolating to constantly celebrate differences rather than build similarity. And we don't consider that this isolation might be dangerous, and can leave young people lost and susceptible to the first person to offer them a purpose. Lastly, individualism is dangerous when it assigns too much value to personal independence. In 9th grade, I learned this last lesson the hard way. I made it through the first semester without meaningful connections or friends, all while a decent guise of internal stability. Soon enough though, I couldn't do it all, I ran into things that I couldn't handle, and I fell, and when I fell, I fell hard. That year I learned there was a reason why hyperindividualism isn't normal, and I didn't understand why at that point, but I'd figured out that I needed a real community, with standards and expectations and stability. Self-expression was great. But self-sufficiency was neither fun nor sustainable. By April, 2017, I had attended SPA just over six months, and I couldn't have cared less about being here. I went back to my middle school friends. Being with them meant conforming to their rather stiff expectations, but it was comforting. I understood their values and their beliefs, and I could trust them. In addition, I started tutoring at the Rondo library near my house and meeting people with completely different backgrounds than me. Most of the time, I would help Somali-American children with math and reading while their aunties supervised from the next table, and this, too, made more sense to me than SPA had. The children had to be good at English because their parents weren't. The aunties had to be there because otherwise the kids would be running around and playing Minecraft on the computers. I had to read over worksheets because I needed volunteer hours, but also, because who else would? I talked to adults about their lives while editing their essays. I saw how people were anchored in their backgrounds and communities, but pursuing individual hopes and dreams through education. Sophomore year, I took a big step out of my comfort zone, and went to mass and then to bible study with some friends. I worked one of the worst jobs possible for minimum wage, ended up on a mission trip to Guatemala and made plans to !!! study abroad. Junior year, I lived with family friends and went to an art school in Berlin. I talked to Germans, Turks, Syrians, and Marxists; whoever I could find. None of these people were like me, but they all made sense to me. They had their place in whatever community existed for them, or they didn't want one. The separate communities had their differences, but they were all quite different from SPA. Most of the world lives in communities formed out of common hardship; SPA on the other hand, is one of common privilege. We are united, in many ways, by the privilege of an education that will prepare us for college and success after college. This type of community is less common, and perhaps that is why, at the beginning of 9th Grade, I was so certain that SPA is weird. I think there is a divide between communities of hardship and those of privilege. We need to do our best to bridge that divide. I don't know how this will happen, but my experience tells me it starts with a step out of your comfort zone, and follows with a conversation. Assuming the motto of our school is true, we are the people who will change the world. Let's do so for the better. Henry Vlietstra After fifteen minutes of staring at my jawns, contemplating what to wear, I long for a simpler time. As a little kid, choosing an outfit was a basic matter of "dinosaur or the shark for today?". And then I'd always pick the shirt with the shark. Now each outfit is meticulously designed, tested, and fine-tuned before it sees the light of day. Once my fit is flawlessly composed and suited to its occasion, I'm ready to go. I flash a smile at my reflection in the mirror. "You're gonna be the flyest guy at Walgreens", I say. Looking at me now you might think I was a lifelong resident of drip town, but once upon a time I didn't even care about aesthetics, only consistency. For all of middle school, I was devoted to the monochrome. I wore a blue shirt every day without fail, even if it meant messing up class color day or sweating through my soccer or baseball game with a blue shirt under my jersey, so as to not lose my precious blue streak. In the all-blue days, things were easy. I'd throw on a blue shirt, basketball shorts and my trusty cookie monster snapback and that was it. I didn't think of myself as stylish and I didn't even really know what style was. If I had to guess, I'd have told you it meant dressing head to toe in J Crew, or whatever my parents told me was "presentable". It was eighth grade when I got my first taste of swag, I got a black peacoat from a brand called Superdry, and slowly developed a liking for that brand over the next couple of years. When I was a sophomore that broadened into an interest in clothes in general. Interest, however, does not equal proficiency. My fits were still trash, and my wardrobe revolved around swim my team shirt and my new north face graphic tee that I thought was the coolest thing ever. When I first wore it around my most stylish friend he said "did you get that at Urban Outfitters?" "No!" I snapped, astounded that he had known that so quickly, My eye for clothing was still very weak: at that point I couldn't even imagine buying something without a graphic or pattern. As I learned more about which brands were popular, I was intimidated by their steep prices, and it almost turned me away from style altogether, but instead I started thrifting. Buying second-hand is what really taught me how to dress. Thrift stores served as exactly the inexpensive testing ground that I needed to step up my game. With this new skill and Jeff Goldblum as my biggest inspiration I began to drip my way through junior year. What I didn't realize at the time was that my fashion sense leaned too heavily on a vague understanding of colors. My outfits followed a formula of two to three colors, all with high contrast to each other, matched at as many points in the fit as I could. Once the summer hit, however, I soon realized that you can't match colors as much, on account of you're wearing fewer clothes. This upended my formula and I'm really glad it did, as it forced me to learn more about shapes, which I now consider by far the most important part of an outfit. That summer also changed my style a lot in that I got to know more people through fashion, and they were much more into it than I was. Even in my eccentric garb, I found these high-fashion kids' practices bizarre. They wear only black. They spend their days browsing grailed, sending lowball offers for pre-2007 Raf Simons. Most people say to someone, "I like your shirt". These kids say "that's a nice piece, bro". They taught me about upper echelon designers who rarely make it into the mainstream conversation, like Yohji Yamamoto, Issey Miyake, and Carol Christian Poell. Learning about Carol Christian Poell's work was particularly impactful, as I found out that CCP garments are not only prohibitively expensive, but are also designed not to last and to be uncomfortable or even painful for the wearer. Fans of CCP would tell you that this reflects the beauty of impermanence and suffering, but for me it was a healthy wake up call that clothes are just clothes.
09 went to the hospital so often that I became friends with the doctor. I was short and skinny compared to my peers. I could not accept my physique, I thought I was not man enough. I started to play sports in my freshman year, hoping to get the strength and muscle mass of a man. Yet, I was hit by things I did not expect. Saying that I was not athletic would be an understatement. I tried many sports: cross-country, basketball, swimming, track and field. Apparently, I did not have much talent in any of them. I did not give up, as easy-to-give-up is not a trait that a man should have. I managed to continue, but I could not let go of the constant frustration with my incapability to be good at sports. Such frustration constantly reminded me that I am not man enough, and it distorted my mind. I hid my feelings, as I believed that a man should always stay strong. Yet as frustration accumulated, my mind was filled with negativity, and such negativity eventually turned into anger, harming both myself and the people around me. My pursuit of masculinity drove me to become the opposite of what I wanted to be. Many of you might know by now what I am going into, the question of toxic masculinity. What is toxic masculinity? Does it mean masculinity itself is toxic? Raewyn Connell, an Australian Sociologist, theorized that common masculine ideals such as social respect and physical strength, become problematic when they set unattainable standards. Falling short can make boys and men insecure and anxious, which might prompt them to use force in order to feel and be seen as dominant and in control. Male violence in this scenario doesn't emanate from something bad or toxic that has crept into the nature of masculinity itself. Rather, it comes from these men's social and political settings, the particularities of which set them up for inner conflicts over social expectations and male entitlement." Connell is right. I was influenced by the male characters from the stories I read and shaped by the Chinese patriarchal society. 1 set up a list of standards for myself since I was a kid. I used force to establish my dominance over other kids to make myself look more like a man. My anxiety built up as I failed to meet more and more expectations that I had made for myself pursuant to attainable standards. As I found myself more and more vulnerable and failing to become a man I wanted to be, I started to look up to my Dad more and more. He was kind and considerate, and he was always able to control his emotions, something I failed to do, but he did perfectly. I began to understand that he let others win the argument to protect their feelings and calm down the situation. He succeeded in protecting the vulnerability of emotional people. I found his deed heroic. For my Dad, being a man was not about having power and dominance; it was about taking responsibility and supporting people in need. Though he might not have the same physique or characteristics as the male heroes in the stories, he has similar personalities and his masculinity comes from his wisdom. I am his son, and we are indeed very alike. For so long, I tried to become a man that is not me. I forgot that I aspire to the hero not only for his power but more for his kind and just heart. Deep inside of me, I want to be a kind man, a man that others can rely upon. I was so distracted in trying to become a man that is not me that I eventually lost myself. I forgot what I actually wanted to have and do as a man. Toxic masculinity could be detrimental to society, but it certainly is to the individuals. The problem is not constrained to men. People of all gender are influenced by their own gender norms and they develop certain ideals of themself. People receive will get from different levels of negative emotions when they do not meet their ideals. There are a few things that I hope you this speech. First, accept who you are, whether you are big, small, tall, short, strong, weak, etc. Only when you accept who you of are can you move on to become who you wanted to be. Do not attempt to be a copy of your ideal, let that ideal reveal part you. Second, find your own way to be who you wanted to be. Masculinity is toxic to many people because it is singular. Many find certain traits necessary to be a man when there are many other precious ones that they already possess that can make them men in their own way. Third, find a bigger purpose that goes beyond yourself. My Dad put down his pride to support and comfort others, making him a good man and an extraordinary person. When you find a purpose that is not about yourself, you will be able to let go of your small imperfections and work towards the greater goods of others. Eric Zheng may Corona have cancelled many of the senior events that we were looking forward to: Last sports/competition scasons, prom, graduation, senior project, spending our last days together, talking about college results, the list goes on and on. All of that has been ripped from us, but even in this time, we should feel lucky for what we have. So far, as far as I'm aware, none of us nor our family members have gotten sick. Most families here have been at least OK financially during the shutdown. That isn't the case for so many people across the country, and I think we should all take time to be grateful for the things that we have and to count the blessings here and now in our lives. Ever since I came to this school last year, I have been consistently impressed by the great things my classmates accomplish. From athletics to academic competitions, SPA students are always demonstrating their capacity to succeed in any field they choose. First, I want to thank the entire class for being so welcoming. I once worried that I wouldn't fit in at a place so far from home, but my fears quickly dispersed as I began to immerse myself in the variety of activities offered here. In some sense, the amount of time we spend at school every day has turned it into a second home for many of us. Looking back, although we may not realize it now, high school is really a magical and unique time in our lives. While as seniors, many of us may be thinking about college and where we'll end up next fall, if it's not watching zoom lectures from home, it's important to reflect on the here and now. Never again will we be minors living relatively free of consequences, never again will we be stuck in a building with our friends for seven hours a day, five days a week for nine months. Never again will there exist a network of adults working tirelessly and often thanklessly just for our wellbeing. So, to all the faculty who have been a part of our lives for the past years, I thank you on behalf of the senior class. Some people might complain that we don't get to choose who we go to high school with, yet that has been part of the beauty of this whole experience. As we leave this institution, our families, and for some, our state or country, I encourage everyone to reflect on, if you have not begun to already, exactly how close you want to remain with the other individuals with whom you've shared this unique time in your life. I think that some of us have already begun to realize this special bond and value, whether it's through recalling memories of junior retreat or just a general sense of compassion in the past few months. Some of us have known each other for over a decade, starting in kindergarten or even before. Some of us may not have even known each others' names a few weeks ago. You may even feel closer to friends in other grades. Yet, try to envision how you will feel fifteen years, twenty-five years in the future. You may not remember those juniors you hung out with a few times during high school, but you will definitely remember the class you graduated with. The class you applied to college with, and the class watching this assembly in bed right now. When you talk to anyone about what they wish they could change about high school, I think few people say, "Oh, I wish I never got to know so and so, he caused my life irreparable harm." It's usually, and can really only be, "I really wish I had talked to them in high school, I can't believe we only truly conversed for the first time at our reunion." So, as we leave the safety of our parents' homes and protection to begin our adult lives, remember that childhood and by extension high school were not just periods of waiting in preparation for the bigger and better things you will all go on to accomplish, but meaningful times in and of themselves. I guess now is a good time to share some insights to the juniors and underclassmen. I'm not some sage on all senior-year affairs, just someone who's almost done. Any advice is helpful, right? Start your college essays early, Read books. These books don't have to be boring ones to make you seem cool. Sci-fi, old novels, books about cats, books are cool.
14 But for some reason, we turn away when there is just one victim. Or when it seems like there is only one. But abusers rarely stop at one, and silence is key for them to continue. We go through our own lives, unaffected by this tragedy. Maybe we just don't want to get involved. But no one can do this alone, we need to be able to lean on one another for the power of each other's voices when we may not have our own. As a teammate, we have a responsibility to be there for one another even if there is only one victim. It would be naive of me not to recognize the fact that sports are important, and a player-coach relationship is paramount in determining playing time, a coach's attitude towards the player, and the amount of fun an athlete has while playing. But I encourage you to stand up, your voice matters. Maybe just one ally is all the victim needs. If we don't strip abusers of their power, the behavior will only continue. Sometimes it is necessary to reach out to an adult or authority figure for help in a potentially abusive situation. There is a line. between tenacity or toughness and abuse, one that is blurred when it comes to athletics, but it is one that we truly need to watch out for. I know a lot of us would feel hesitant when bringing something like this to a teacher or parent, especially when so many of these abusive behaviors are ingrained in athletics. But it is imperative that we destigmatize this practice in order to prevent abuse and protect each other. Reaching out to an adult or authority figure can save someone's life. I encourage you to watch for signs of abuse in your own life. And to be there for your families, friends, and neighbors, we truly never know who is hurting. If you are suffering from any type of abuse-- I am so sorry, I believe you, and I'm here. Tina Wilkens I have been at SPA for 13 years. During those years, I have made irreplaceable friends, overcome seemingly insurmountable obstacles, and built myself into the person I am today. I am thankful for many things, too many to list in this speech. But one thing has stood out to me, one thing I am truly thankful for: Google Drive class folder archives. See, I don't have a great memory. Sure, I'm great at memorizing numbers, like 30 digits of pi or my aunt's social security number, but actual events seem to just fly by. So here's my problem: how am I supposed to write a senior speech about things I did in middle school if I can't remember any details from then? The solution: Google Drive. Over the summer, I prepared for my Drive being wiped by downloading all my schoolwork onto my computer so none of my antics will ever be forgotten by me, and now, by any of you. Let's begin with 7th grade geography. Now, geography was my favorite class that year. And while I was having so much fun learning about the world and capitalism and turtles, Mr. Minns and I learned a valuable lesson: Never let Sydney and I work together. We learned this lesson after our Wildfires presentation, in which I photoshopped three arms onto Sydney's body and called it the "tri-ulna syd-uis, wow I'm so humerus." At that point in my life I thought I would never hear a better bone pun. We also took the liberty to poorly photoshop Bigfoot into a forest fire and captioned it "Some arsonists thought it would be funny to light a forest on fire." And that is only what we presented to the class. In the background, our note-taking was phenomenal: Our recommendations on how to avoid wildfires was "Don't Smoke, Don't be a 'Donkus', and Don't run away from the firefighters." Our dear teacher Mr. Minns adored our thorough research, our wonderful presentation, and most of all, my self-evaluation. My response to "What skills did you use for this project?" was: "My brain power, my powerpoint power, and my sense of humor." Mr. Minns replied: "I understand the skills associated with putting Google Slides together. I'm not sure I understand what skills "my brain power" is referring to." Honestly, no mercy. Really tearing me apart there for putting in absolutely no effort. Seriously, my effort in both my presentation and that reflection were far beyond subpar and Mr. Minns was willing to put all that behind us and grade me on my actually completed work instead of my lack of completed work. Now, that was only one project. The biggest one we did that year, the Around the World Project, was one that I actually put some effort into. However, the amount of effort I put into something does not reduce the amount of nonsense I put into it too. I put a whole lot of nonsense in that project. Let me recreate my presentation for you: Before I show you where we're going on our trip around the world, I show you our method of transportation. It's a white van with no windows, with wings, driven by a skeleton. I tell you some facts about our first stop in Norway and then I show you some pictures. And what do you see in every picture, poorly hidden in some little corner? A crouton. The very crouton that is featured on crouton.net. After featuring each place on the trip, I talk about some issues. There is a slide about Global Warming, in which the Earth is on fire and all the oceans are red. The conclusion of my project is that I crashed the van into a tree and everyone that "went on the trip" with me is now dead. Oops! Google Drive isn't the only way that I can remember parts of Middle School. Some things are just so significant and memorable that you never forget them. I have one of those stories. Some of you may remember it, or have heard this story. This is the tale of the K Revolution. It all began when we had Lundy from Lower School come in to take our pictures. We got our photos taken and those were printed and glued onto half-sheets of colored cardstock to be laminated and put on our lockers. Our only task with these posters was to put our name on it. This was done during advisory, so I had the privilege to watch Sam Hanson put his name on his poster. This wouldn't be an issue if Max Zelle weren't there to convince Sam to put a lone 'K' at the end of his name. Well, for pretty obvious reasons, our advisor attempted to stop this from happening. At this point in the year, she was still hoping to have a normal, functional advisory. Unfortunately, we were just a little bit uncontrollable. Despite this, Sam put a big ol' K at the end of his name. Why not right? Since it was written in sharpie, our advisor couldn't get rid of the K. So she decided to tape a little square of cardstock over it. Reasonable, right? Anyway, as the justice-oriented children we were, our advisory took this to be censorship. We decided to simply write another K on top of the laminated poster. Foolproof. Absolutely no way anyone could continue to censor us! We thought it was our final move: that we had won. But we were shocked when we saw what our advisor had done. We walked into school that morning to see she had cut the entire corner containing the K out. What was left was Sam's poster, lacking a corner and lacking a K. This meant war. How absolutely dare she correct Sam's last name! This was not just mere censorship, this was betrayal, this was treason! And so, we began our final act of rebellion. Students lined the common area, carrying scissors and cutting the corners off everybody's posters. In solidarity, nearly three-quarters of the grade had the corners cut out of their posters. Despite not winning the K battle, we had won the war. We stood together against censorship, against betrayal. And the next morning, we sat together during a class meeting. Not a single locker had a poster on it. The teachers all put on their best disappointed face while all the students laughed about the whole thing. Turns out cutting the corners off locker posters counted as defacing school property. Who'd have thought? Turns out it also was disrespectful to completely ignore our advisor's pleas to just have a reasonable advisory. And that's the tale of the K Revolution. I didn't think I would have a lesson to this speech, but I do. First, cherish the moments you have in your classes. While you should always treat your teachers with respect and make their job easier for them, don't stop having fun just because you're learning. I've found that you can keep some nonsense in the classroom without sacrificing that. Second, cherish your freedom. While it may seem like your entire life is dictated by an oppressive ruling class, it often is! Revolutions rarely go unheard but they go unpunished even less. Your ability to mess around in school is always being restricted and eventually you're expected to grow up. Growing up sucks. Don't let it happen too fast. And finally, never forget Middle School. Some people say that you should take pictures so it lasts longer, but you can't go back in time so you might as well just look at all your old schoolwork. Think about all the nonsense you did as a middle schooler. Think about all those weird poems you wrote in English. If your school experience was anything like mine, you should seriously consider looking back on it. I'd highly recommend it. Liam Will To say that this isn't exactly how I imagined giving my senior speech would be a bit of an understatement. I was hoping for a slightly different venue, and the chance to get a haircut beforehand. But here we are, living through an unprecedented global crisis. For my classmates and I, most of whom were born after 9/11, this is already the most historic and influential moment of our lives. It feels weird to live through history, knowing that what we see and do from day to day will get recorded and
15 Have fun, you're going to school, but also living life after all. It's important to keep track of your responsibilities while also spending time with people you care about and experiencing your adolescence. These days, I've been writing everything I do in a journal to try and keep track of how I spend my time and to be more productive. For example, 6:30 AM - Took a shower, need to do this and that today. :
:45 PM - Finished calling friends and some work, will go rest. . 5:58 PM - Writing senior speech Be kind to those around you. : Wash your hands everyone and stay safe. ! SENIOR BRUNCH REMARKS Dear Class of 2020, gave It was an honor to speak at your senior brunch event this year. I am unable to provide you the script for the speech that I because I only spoke to you from a rough outline. I did tell you a story of unintended but profound advice that my father provided me after my senior year of high school. He explained that I should always dig a bit deeper in the McDonalds bag to find that extra french fry that always seems to be there. I took his message to heart and generously interpreted it to be more meaningful advice about how we all have a deep reservoir of potential and capability from which we can draw. While he only intended a literal desire for me to find my full allotment of french fries, his advice provided me meaning about digging deeper when challenged in life. My advice to you is to listen carefully to the trusted adults in your life. Whether they directly intend it or not, there is a great deal to be learned from listening to their wisdom, Sincerely, Ben Bollinger Danielson VALEDICTORY DINNER SPEECHES : Sydney Therien Hello Class of 2020, teachers, family and friends. I was going to open with a comment about how strange our graduation year has become, and to acknowledge the sense of loss we are feeling for all our different high school rites of passage. However, I first need to acknowledge the events of the last week with the murder of Mr. George Floyd and the sense of grief and loss being experienced by our whole community, especially for people of color. I am so saddened by the senseless loss of life and the institutional inequities that persist despite decades of attempts at reform. As we venture out into the world, I believe that the SPA Class of 2020, along with all the graduating seniors around the country, will be instrumental in creating a lasting change for our communities where all people share the same opportunities regardless of race. And with that, welcome, Class of 2020, to your unconventional yet no less important valedictory dinner! I don't even need to mention how... different this looks compared to what we had expected our final few weeks of senior year to look like. Recently though, I've had a lot of time to reflect on my three and three quarter years of physically being in high school. I was shocked at the things that I've found myself missing in the past two months. It's mostly the small stuff: hearing stories about Dr. Stading's kids, grabbing Poke House after human phys with The Boys, getting the bejesus scared out of me by Tricky Dick every time I went up to the fourth floor, and even just saying hi to people in the hall. It's strange to slowly realize what sticks in your memory from this school year and what doesn't. I don't remember how to do integration by parts, but I do remember how much fun I had drawing Peter Griffins on whiteboards with Stein. I don't remember which parallel General MacArthur crossed in Korea, but I do remember DP's sports metaphors and how his basketball coach only let him shoot from inside the lane. I don't really remember even having x periods, but I will never forget when The Boys cued up the 5th grade graduation video on the smart board of me, Tina, Meera, Alexandria, and Arie singing The Climb by Miley Cyrus in every key except the one it was supposed to be in (Arie actually sounded good though). Even though I won't have the memory of graduating on the podium with my class, I will instead remember when we all came together during the digitized version of Senior Retreat to relive all the injuries, embarrassments, and other special moments we've created together. My hope for the Class of 2020 is that we've gathered lots of memories like these, big and small, significant and trivial, formative and otherwise forgettable, to take with us as a reminder of how enjoyable high school was, despite all the things that got in our way. For all that I've mentioned and more, I'm extremely grateful, and I would encourage y'all to take some time as high school comes to a close to express that gratitude to the people who have made your high school experience something worth toasting. So now, I'd like to raise a glass to the Class of 2020, to all the memories that we'll take with us, and to all the people who have made our time here so special. Thank you!
02 a product of a positive attitude and determination. By maintaining a positive outlook, you can overcome all obstacles present within yourself. These books tout that pessimism has no place in improving the self, and that critics and cynicism should be avoided, lest they infect you with a negative mind-set. This ideology has seeped into the public's collective consciousness and, in the eternal pursuit of happiness, led people to drive away those who can't bring themselves to believe that everything will be altight. Those who embrace positivity culture will let you know it. Typically adorned in super-soft tri-blend t-shirts labeled "Good vibes only" in understated cursive, the air of moral superiority and implicit exclusion is unmistakable. Empathy appears to be a difficult concept to grasp for some of them. Expect any grievances to be met with a platitude such as "it could be worse", "If you put good stuff out there, good stuff comes back", or worst of all, "you need to adjust your attitude." The thin veneer of rapport that struggles to cover positivity culture doesn't disguise self-righteousness. Cliches like these serve only to minimize another's pain while insisting that the sufferer change their attitude and become more like oneself. Suggesting that such a simple fix will cure all ailments is nothing if not arrogant. In more extreme cases, you may encounter fierce judgmentalism and a puritanistic need to shun pessimists and the grouch. People who subscribe to that nonsense come off to me like false fronts; intentionally putting on a positive persona and telling you things they themselves don't even believe. But even the most well- intentioned advice proselytizing the power of positivity can easily become a stress-inducing pressure, cruelly setting up false standards and expectations no reasonable person could achieve. But I'm gonna go back to the topic of the American Dream for a bit. Americans tend to have a lot of faith in the concept. Social mobility is a realistic goal, so long as you keep your nose to the grindstone, right? This faith in the American meritocracy leads them to believe that people, both rich and poor, deserve their fate. On the other hand, citizens of France, Italy, and Sweden are way more pessimistic when it comes to the concept of social mobility, prompting them to support far more generous welfare policies. Ironically, the exemplary European welfare policies allow for far more intergenerational social mobility amongst the poverty-stricken than is possible in America, and America's relentlessly optimistic faith in a system has led to said system's ultimate failure. On its own, optimism is neither panacea nor poison, but something that requires a healthy dosc. If optimism is viewed as the only acceptable viewpoint, though, it can easily stifle change and halt progress. Obviously, this speech need not apply to 'all positivity', as that's too nebulous a concept to completely denigrate. I'm not here, attempting to argue that all happiness is useless. It's just this particular brand of positivity which is taking precedence over critical thinking and basic empathy. The idea of striving to be positive as a default state is unrealistic at best. In my experience, I find that happiness comes much more readily from authenticity, not some facsimile of what you think happiness should be like, Positive thinking doesn't have to be all pie in the sky, unattainable fairytales. It can be as simple as finding one or more things you did well in a day, while still acknowledging things that you could have handled better. Instead of the false hope of telling yourself that you can be perfect and will get everything you want in life, tell yourself that everyday you can try to work at being better and enjoy the things you've already been able to attain. Instead of making false promises to yourself about what is going to happen, what you will be and what you will have, take time to live in the moment and enjoy right now. This is how I battle my own myriad mental health issues. A little bit of mindfulness and trying not to be too hard on myself, while not a cure, is nothing if not a step in the right direction. Just like my wise old grandmother used to say, you won't find the secret ingredient to personal development in a kitschy t-shirt. Ashley Su Every little girl's dream was to become Clara in the Nutcracker. As a kid, my parents put me through every after-school activity possible in hopes I'd find something I liked. But one by one I quit them all. When I was in second grade, my mom signed me for my first ballet class like any other girl my age. Little did I know that this was the one thing that I ended up not quitting. up I started out hating it because I was the youngest and the worst. But as the years went on, I started growing into my disproportionate arms and legs. Ballet started to become my thing, and in middle school I started seriously studying it. I enrolled in a ballet academy and trained for hours on end. But I never thought it was too much, instead it became one of the most gratifying things in my life. All of those hours had gone into the notorious Nutcracker. For many families, it was a tradition to watch the Nutcracker as a celebration of the holiday season. And while many dancers would say that the Nutcracker season is the best part of every year, for me, it was bittersweet. My very first year of the Nutcracker was in sixth grade. The girls anticipated who would get casted as which part. And each year, as fall approached, the girls would gather in the dressing room and discuss who they think would get the lead, Clara, every girl secretly hoping they'd get the role themselves. I, too, hoped I'd hear my name among the crowd, but I doubted that the chances would be likely. The year that Clara was being selected from my level, two girls were chosen and I found my name next to the corps. I would be dancing with a large group as a background for Clara as she made her way through wonderland. A part of me saw this. coming. Clara, traditionally danced by a petite blonde haired girl with blue eyes, was everything I wasn't. But I was still disappointed. Angry and the fact that Clara, for me, was just too unrealistic and I hated everything about that. As the years went on, I started noticing that all the girls of colors slowly quit, until I was the only one left. All of a sudden, I started to wonder why I wasn't getting as many corrections in class like the other girls. On parent observation day, I was falling out of all my turns. My mind was too busy thinking that the reason all the parents were looking at me, was because I was the only girl who looked different, I started questioning whether the reason I wasn't getting solos was because I wasn't technically skilled enough, or because I didn't look the part. The stares, the self criticism, the unknown, they started to make me doubt the one thing I was so certain I loved. It started to make me resent my identity, and everything I was. I ended up spending the next two summers in Texas. For three weeks, I woke up at seven and danced until four. Three weeks of sore muscles as the teachers corrected my technique and three weeks of me trying to fix every little flaw I saw in my reflection in hopes that my race could play as little part as possible in the next casting decisions. In hopes that all that mattered was how good I was. How much artistry I had. Before I knew it, my last Nutcracker season rolled around and I assumed I'd be dancing in the background once again. But unexpectedly, my teacher pulled me aside and told me that I'd be in Opening of Act Two, a role typically danced by the professional members of the company. Then, I didn't realize what it meant for me to dance that part. I was just beginning the advanced levels, and there were plenty of girls with more experience and skill that could have been chosen. A few girls congratulated me, telling me how lucky I was to even be considered the role. But when I went home that night, the very first thing I thought was how this would look for the studio. An Asian, dancing a major role in the Nutcracker. I thought about whether families watching would think of it any different. When rehearsals began, I nervously stepped into the room knowing I would feel out of place. The rehearsals for Opening of Act Two were rough. Some days I left the studio near tears because I was so frustrated that I wasn't getting the steps. I'd go into rehearsals with sore feet and out feeling exhausted. After school, I'd head over to the studio for class, then rehearsals until ten, and finally I'd drive home, eat and start my homework. It was a lot. I remember not doing well in school those few months. And I had to think about my priorities, reminding myself once again that no matter how much time and effort I put into ballet, I would never be really be Clara, a soloist, or any lead role. When it came to performance week I remember getting ready in the dressing room during intermission, and I heard an alum from the company question the decision to cast me as this part. I avoided eye contact and quickly got ready to practice on the stage. The curtain began to rise and I started to see the faces behind the applause. During the dance, I made sure to engage every muscle I could trying to make my body float across the stage when all the weight of it was resting on my ten, blister covered toes. And in a few short minutes, I was off stage getting ready for my next part. Clara was once a role that I looked up to, dreamed about, but couldn't have ever achieved because of my race. For me, ballet was what I loved the most. What I put my sweat and tears into. Ballet was the one thing that I finally felt good about. The one thing I became ever so slightly confident at doing. And the idea that even then, my race built an invisible wall was a gutting punch in the stomach. It's the feeling of never being able to reach that dream even if you were the best. But what I didn't realize was that I proved not only the ballet world wrong, but myself. At the end of that performance day, I suddenly saw the value of being able to perform Opening of Act Two. I would have never been able to be the first of my level to dance that part if I let my skin color define what a dream is, or could be. When I look back at this, I don't think about the doubt, the fear, the things that made me insecure. Instead, I'm proud of myself for achieving all I did despite all the doubt, the fear, the insecurities. Though the ballet studio is just a small version of the daunting world, I realized that my identity no longer stands as just another burden on my shoulders. It never should have
95 45 44 I went into junior retreat not thinking I would open up to anybody or even have a good experience, but Charlie, I'm so glad we were in the same cabin. We went from good friends to brothers, and I couldn't be more thankful for that. Both of you guys mean the world to me, I know there's a part of each other that we all understand like nobody else does, and that we all will grow to be something much more than what we started as. Thank Mr. Heckman, Bdan, and Ms.Browne, for being not just amazing teachers, but for being people who showed me you love when I needed it most, and never giving up on me no matter how lost I was. And of course, Thank you mama. Without your love and your strength I would not have made it here today, I wouldn't have even gone to this school without your hard work and dedication. Not me, Ava, or Maggie will ever be able to repay you for everything you've done for us. I've been a student at SPA for 13 years. I did not think I would give my senior speech in my room. I am ready to be done. Thank you. Victoria Greeman The world is a cruel and unusual place. As teenagers and adults, it has become quite common and somewhat normal to hear about devastating plane crashes, bombings, and events similar to this. But what about children? Do you remember the first time you heard about a bombing in a country that wasn't yours? Do you remember how you felt? It was probably something along the lines of discomfort, hopefully, and having empathy for those who were hurt in that event. There are also smaller events of tragedy in life. Bullying, being one of them. Now as we're approaching adulthood, we have the tools to counter those who berate and degrade us. But, I ask again, what about children? As a child, I was bullied a lot, constantly being called out for being "anti social" or "different" from the other kids. Luckily, for most of my childhood, I was blind and deaf to the way that other kids treated me. But I wasn't blind or deaf to the way that people treated others. I have many accounts of these events throughout my childhood, but I'll only share two with you due to the constraints of time I have to speak. In the lower school, there was this boy in my homeroom with me. He had a hearing aid. I thought nothing of it, but I heard him being called names such as "cyborg" and "bat boy." This was the first time I had ever heard people be blatantly mean towards another human being, just because he had an impairment. I also noticed that he never sat with a lot of people at lunch. So, what was my response? I sat with him, and I got to know him, and he was a really cool kid. The second time I heard someone being called names on was on my swim team. She developed earlier than the other kids, and she didn't shave. Girls on the team proceeded to call her a "werewolf" behind her back. So, I again, in response to this, was as nice to her as possible, and she was a very kind person. Now, I don't tell you these stories to make me out to be a saint of any kind. I tell you these stories because this is how I was taught to be. I was taught to not judge others based on appearance or disability, not only by my parents, but by my childhood hero, Mr. Rogers. To be completely honest, he isn't a saint, either. He just treated people like equals. And, not only did he treat people like equals, he treated children like equals, which is something that many adults don't do. On his TV show Mr. Rogers' Neighborhood, he used the world of imagination in order to teach children about the world, and how they have the power to change it, just like adults. He only had one message in his show; to be kind towards others, and try to understand them before you make assumptions. He used his platform to spread these messages, and I'm glad he did. Because this is what I needed to be taught again later in life. In middle school, it finally became clear to me that people were bullying me. And I didn't understand why they did. Now, this isn't to make you feel bad for me. Any child that has been a victim of bullying has felt this way. But, unlike most children, I didn't look inside myself to see what was the matter with me. I looked outward, and became bitter towards other people, and essentially lost faith in those around me, I began to shut myself away to protect myself. But, Mr Rogers has a saying, "Look for the helpers. You will always find people who are helping." That is exactly what I did in high school. By joining GSA, I found the confidence that had been stripped away from me in middle school, the confidence that makes people capable of doing good in the world. I started making friends, more than I had anticipated, actually. And I began to be happy again. My therapist, Katrina, told me to start watching Mr. Rogers again during sophomore year. I didn't want to, but she's my therapist, so I did. I've begun to realize that she was right in making me watch mr. Rogers. By watching his show again, I've started to realize that there are more good people than bad people, and that if I'm kind enough, I can make a difference in this world. Mr. Rogers has a mantra that he delivers at the end of every show. He says "You are special, just the way you are." Now, some people might think that he's just making kids feel entitled by saying that. But he isn't. He's right. Everyone does bring something unique to the table, and it can either be used for good, or for bad. It just depends on how we treat that person that determines what they'll be. Because, "knowing that we can be loved exactly as we are gives us all the best opportunity for growing into the healthiest of people." And I believe that to be true. Now I may not be the kindest person ever, but I'm trying to better myself. I'm starting to forgive those who have wronged me, not for them, but for myself. Because," The only thing evil can't stand is forgiveness." I urge you, fellow peers, to do the same. The feeling is liberating, I assure you, and you will move on in happiness. To the SPA community: We are all neighbors. SPA itself is a neighborhood. So, let's take a lesson from Mr. Rogers, and be kind towards each other. Take a moment, before judging others, and figure out why you feel this way. And then, urge yourself to get to full perspective. We are only here for a couple more months, seniors, and then we're on our own in the world. SPA has shaped the minds and hearts of those who will change the world, I urge you to make it a kinder place, even for a day. Because I know someone out there needs a little kindness in there lives. Plus it'll give you a good feeling. To end this speech, I hope you'll sing or hum this song with me. Mr. Rogers sings it at the end of every episode. "It's such a good feeling To know you're alive It's such a happy feeling You're growing inside And when you wake up ready to say "I think I'll make a snappy new day" It's such a good feeling A very good feeling The feeling you know That I'll be back When the day is new. And I'll have more ideas for you. And you'll have things you'll want to talk about I Will Too." Jack Guinan As I look into the crowd in front of me, I realize one thing in particular. I don't even know you. Not just like I haven't ever talked to some of you guys, but in the case of a lot of underclassmen, I don't think I've ever even seen you in my entire life. I'm not trying to say that I hate you guys (although to be fair, I now see why the seniors didn't talk to me when I was a freshman), but I don't think I know enough about a lot of you to judge. Today though, I'm the one on stage, so I'm going to talk about myself and you all are free to judge me. I suppose I should start by telling you about my redeeming qualities. There's only two of them, so don't get too excited. The first is easy. I have the best memory of anybody I've ever met. As far as I can remember. I can still recall who looked up when 60 The first name selected was Tommy Allen. Tommy was quite cool in middle school when being fast was status. Tommy, I would like to let you know that even if you were slow, I would still be friends with you. We spend a lot of time together and if I had to choose 10 things to bring to a desert island I would consider you as one of them. I think we could have some great bonding time because I would also have 9 other things to bring so we will never get bored. You have been a great friend. The next person's name selected was Clark Waltz. Our names go nicely together. I also remember that you made me a clay model thing that was a head and shoulders. You came up to my locker in middle school and handed it to me. "I made this, I was trying to make it look like Miley Cyrus but it ended up looking like you." I still have this sculpture on my dresser and not in a creepy way. It is still there because I enjoy waking up in the morning and seeing greatness. I appreciate the time and effort you put into thinking about how I looked like your sculpture. Not everyone gets a custom clay model portrait. Thank you. The next person's name selected was Nina Smetana. We were in the same advisory a few years ago and your British accent while reading the blue sheet has been burned into my brain. Although at the time I found it unenjoyable, I think there are some admirable things about doing so. I believe you were new to the school that year and if I were you I would not have read the blue sheet in that fashion. When I first came to this school I was quiet and certainly lacked the confidence to do what did for advisory after advisory. Your confidence was impressive. you The next person's name selected was Josh Meitz. Josh punted a soccer ball into my face during freshman year and ultimately ended my soccer career. For those who frequented middle school soccer with the cement goal, you all know Josh had a boot on him. He is one of the most powerful kickers I have witnessed. It was my first day back from being sick. I hadn't played soccer in probably a week and I remember wheezing on the field. I entered the drill at center back. Josh played midfield. We were scrimmaging and I saw the ball fly up in the air. Nobody got it and it bounced. Then I saw Josh, if you have played soccer you know that when you were younger it is way easier to kick the ball harder if you catch it midair off of a bounce. Josh saw the ball midair and started salivating. He was within scoring range. He unleashed a powerful one and then I blacked out. The ball had gone directly into my forehead. Time slowed down a bit and I crumpled. That was my last time ever playing soccer. The next person's name selected was Richard Chang. We played middle school basketball together. You were ahead of your time because of your shot selection. Richard played the game in a similar style to the way it is played at the highest level. Also according to one of my close friends who no longer goes here, you taught him your grandmother's method to get rid of hiccups by taking a mouthful of water and swallowing it in 5 separate portions. Now I have no idea how true this story is but it could potentially be very useful for all of you. I would also like to take some time to thank everyone who is close to me. Whether you know it or not, I deeply care for all of you. It may not be obvious but the day to day people I see and connect with, mean the world to me. I believe you are shaped by those around you, the choice isn't who you become but who you surround yourself with. I have been lucky enough to have great people to put around myself. It feels like it was not long ago when I came here in 7th grade. I remember the first day, who I ate lunch with and almost everything about it. For me, high school has been great. I think this is in part because of my attitude. The way I see it we never have a reason to complain or be down. It is all too often that I hear complaints or bickering around me. For those of you who find yourselves in a feeling of dissatisfaction with where we are, I urge all of you to think a bit about why. We are given an opportunity that a minuscule portion of people have. We have a world-class education, a strong support system and more than almost any other student in the country. Be appreciative of what we are so lucky to have. None of us have time to be bogged down in negativity especially when it is completely irrational given the context. When having a conversation with someone, I realized that I never get sad. Of course, when something tragic happens I feel it, but in general, I am never moody. This makes it easy for me to tell all of this to you all but my mindset is rooted in knowing where I am. The little things have never fazed me. They realistically never hold you back and you will forget about them within the foreseeable future. If they get in the way of you having a good day, I think you can learn to not let them affect you. Back to thanking people. Thank you, mom and dad. You guys are the ultimate role models. What I value the most from you guys is the way you taught me to carry myself. You constantly preached kindness and lived by example. I have always admired you guys. I encourage all of you to take time and appreciate where we are, those around us, and what we are doing. Also, come to my basketball game today, 7 at home.
111111 Brennan Keogh The Zoo. It's a place that we all love and adore for a solid 30 minutes or at least until we have seen a bird squawk, watch a monkey shake a tree, and witness the occasional seal that lands flat on its face. After looking at an animal for a few seconds, it's safe to say we move on to the next exhibit. Sike - while all of you were nodding your heads in agreement, my story is a little bit different because I've gotten to know the Zoo up-close and personal. It all started for me at the young age of 4, living out my glory years with my golden locks of hair and my Nickelodeon slime- filled shoes. Taking a week-long summer day camp at the Minnesota Zoo, I became well acquainted with every kind of animal, from scaly to fluffy. Elated with the red carpet treatment a special little kid like myself ought to have, I was given VIP access to various locations, whether it was observing a shark feeding at the top of the aquarium, meeting the tigers up close just a few yards away, or preparing baboon food and cleaning up feces. While you may be thinking "Wait, you paid to get in a summer camp just to clean up camel poop and prepare food?" Yea wait why did I do that? While the majority of the time was spent snuggling up to chinchillas and other fluffy creatures - I soon outgrew the peak of my existence as summers flew by, and I entered highschool. Still loving the Zoo, I thought I might as well continue my career and become one of the famed, popular, totally rad and coveted Zoo Teens. Walking side by side with a Zoo Teen as a young child was the best. It made you top-dawg in your classes, and when you went home to sleep with your stuffed racoon, you dreamt about high fiving the random highschooler kid that had no idea what they were doing wearing a bright green Zoo Volunteer shirt at 8:36 in the morning as you were dropped off. So, when I was fifteen, having exhausted all of the different zoo classes, I became that super cool volunteer. - And oh god. I have one statement. Kids are crazy. Now mind you, walking into my first day as a volunteer, I was already extremely stressed. The Zoo takes this seriously - they actually interview you and put you through grueling training - whether it's learning how to small talk with children - like asking them their favorite color, or learning the trendiest kid games - like iSpy - you had to be dialed in. Luckily it was easy for me, considering I have the mentality of a 5 year old. But, marching from the monkey exhibits to the dolphin shows on my first day, it seemed as though the world was going to end - the "Zoo Campers" were bouncing out of their walking lines, sprinting out of the exhibits, and ignoring the animal demonstrations. As I attempted to scurry about, trying to handle all the chaos they were creating, I soon realized that my attempts were futile. The more I attempted to control them, the more they bounced around - attempting to keep fifteen kindergartners excited and intrigued for an entire day, I was way over my head. After coming home, completely exhausted from my first day of volunteering, I knew I had to try something else. I thought back to my previous experience in their teeny-tiny shoes, and thought about what made my Zoo Teens cool. And, I figured it out. As I armed myself with a dozen different games, including "Guess my animal" and an abundance of obscure animal riddles, I TOO WOULD BECOME THE FUN "ZOO TEEN." As I arrived the next day, my new plan was not to"regulate" the children, but instead to have fun with them. And guess what? I became the beloved zoo teen I had always dreamed of being. I was the center of attention - when I wanted to be. When I told them animal jokes and played Zoo-related games with them, they naturally shifted their focus to me, intent on guessing the answers. And when it came time to watch the animal demonstrations and I became excited to see the Zoo specialists, so did they - their eyes quickly shifting to the Zoo specialist like mine. As they noticed my deep fascination with the specific facts about the great-horned owl, or fischer, they also became intent on listening and learning. As you may have guessed - I became a professional. These past three years, whether it was hugging and caring for Quinn, the fluffy teenage llama with the hottest bangs around, or listening to the 7 year old gossiping about the impossibility of having more than one BFF, to building a canoe and subsequently falling into a murky lake filled with thousands of leeches - which, if you ask me, was not my fault, being a Zoo Teen has become a routine highlight of my summer. The zoo experience also taught me that when you're feeling overwhelmed in life, take a step back and look at different ways to approach a problem. So next time you encounter a problem or dread tackling one the bigger tasks on your long to-do list, look at it through a different lens. Instead, of becoming anxious, try to think of ways you can finish the task while having fun and enjoying the process. If I had attempted to constantly micromanage the little zoo campers, I would have eventually lost my mind. Instead, I changed my mindset and thought of a different way to engage with them so that both their time and my time at the zoo could be more fun. After doing that, I soon realized that volunteering at the zoo was fun and gratifying, and not an obligation. 61 50 I have a few crystal clear memories from when I was young, and my parents telling me about my diagnosis is one of them. I was in 2nd grade, and my parents called me into the living room. They told me that the doctor that I went to a few weeks ago found out why it was hard for me to spell and read. They explained to me that I had a learning disability called dyslexia. Before learning my diagnosis, I didn't understand why it seemed like I was behind my classmates. I would constantly come home ? lot of discouraged and not want to go back to school. I was devastated after hearing the diagnosis, but it also cleared confusion. up my For the first couple of years after my diagnosis, I was influenced by the notion that being dyslexic meant being unintelligent. This could be how you see it as well, and that perception is not uncommon. But this is not the case. There is a stigma that being different makes you lesser. But dyslexia is more common than you might think. Between 5-10% of American kids are estimated to have dyslexia, but only 4.5% of kids in public schools are actually diagnosed with a learning disability, which also includes diagnoses other than dyslexia. This means many students with dyslexia are not being diagnosed, and not getting the support that they need. Students who struggle with reading are more likely to drop out of school as well. It is true that people with dyslexia do need more assistance when they are young to learn fundamental skills, but it does not reflect on their intelligence in any way. In reality, dyslexia does make some things difficult, but other things come more easily as well. People with dyslexia are highly creative and are able to see the big picture. They are especially good at thinking out of the box and problem solving, My diagnosis has helped me and others around me develop creative tools. For example, when I was younger, my skating coach would stick different colored stickers on my skates to help me distinguish between my left and right. Upon learning that I had dyslexia I was initially unhappy, but I have come to realize that there are so many resources and benefits, and that in reality it's not a deficit but a difference. my There are so many tools to help, especially at a school like SPA. Let me tell you that spell check and Grammarly have become best friends throughout high school. I'm here to assure you that it is completely ok to ask for help! We all struggle differently and asking for help does not diminish you in any way. You truly are your biggest critic, and I wish that I had someone who clearly told me that at the start of my high school experience. And now here I am at the end of high school. I know that dyslexia and learning differences are common, and that struggling is universal. I know specifically that while dyslexia makes reading and spelling difficult, it also facilitates creativity, not just naturally in me; but how others respond to me. I also know that despite all of this new perspective, I still loathe public speaking. And I'm not alone in that either. Public speaking is America's second biggest fear, just behind spiders. Personally, it's my number one phobia. Yet here I am, someone with dyslexia reading out loud in front of 400 people. And if I make it back to the table, I will have finished my senior speech without puking, passing out, or even falling down. Sonja Henze In the last year, I have sat with my rowing team by my side at the funerals of two of the most influential people in my life. March 9th, 2017. Henry and I were driving to school, riding quietly in one of our routinely awkward silences. I had decided that today was finally going to be the day that I asked Henry if I could go to rowing with him. March 14th, 2017. Henry and I were almost to the boathouse for my first rowing practice. As we drew closer, I began to feel as though a bowling ball had taken up residence in my stomach. I wanted to say "umm you know what, I actually don't want to do this," jump out of the car, and run home. But it was too late. I walked into a small room crammed with sweaty teenagers on rowing machines. Henry said to the rowing coach "Miriam, I brought Sonja with me today" to which she responded with little more than a grunt and a nod. After about fifteen minutes of the girls team captain teaching me how to properly use the rowing machine, Miriam came over. Even though she was short, thin, and walked with a limp, she moved towards me with miraculous speed and I felt a solid wall closing in around me. I was surprised given the wrinkles around her face and the cane she walked with. "You weigh about 130 pounds, right?" I responded "Yeah, a little less." She nodded again and that was it. At the end of practice she asked me about my availability and when I would be able to attend practice next. Whether I wanted to keep rowing was irrelevant, it was decided for me. January 14th, 2019. I had just come home from rowing practice, something I now did six days a week, every week of the year. I was eating dinner when my phone buzzed on the counter beside me. My boyfriend's name popped up on the screen. I smiled, "Hello," I said. There was a long pause before he finally said "Sonja, Henry was in a car accident, he didn't make it." I was so shocked I just sat there, motionless. My limbs felt heavy, my head spun. I finally put my phone down, feeling numb, tears flying from my eyes. How could Henry have died in a car crash. I drove with him everyday, and I was never scared. He was one of the best drivers I knew. But no one can escape an oncoming truck that swerves into you. For awhile I was in denial, my body ached all over, but my brain was not ready to accept the reality. Seeing pictures of the car made me want to scream, cry, and throw up at the same time. The car I rode in everyday, beaten beyond recognition, Metal bent in the shape of betrayal. My heart thrashed against my chest, spreading its pain to the rest of my body as it fought to escape. A few hours after I heard the news about Henry I got a call from Miriam. She said "I don't know if you've heard about Henry." I responded "yeah" through my stuffy voice. Our conversation lead to silence. She said "well alright. I'll see you at practice tomorrow" and hung up. It was not the most comforting phone call I got that day, but it was nice to know that the world was still turning, and Miriam was still Miriam. On November 5th, 2019 I received a call from one of my teammates. His voice came through the phone thin and choked. He told me Miriam had died of a stroke. And so again I donned my black clothes and stuffed my pockets with tissues. November 11th was an unusually cold day and the bitter wind slapped against my face. I had to park two blocks away because the church parking lot was nowhere near big enough for even a tenth of the people Miriam Baer had impacted in her life. Sitting in the pews with some of my best friends that rowing brought me, I felt unbelievably grateful that Miriam had decided that I was going to row. A colleague and friend of hers said, "whether you liked Miriam or not, you respected her." This was one of the most true things said all day. Anywhere you go, all around the country, people respect Miriam Baer. As the service came to a close, we all walked together towards the reception, eyes brimming with rebellious tears. I couldn't help but think about the last time we did this together. Team bonding is not supposed to be going to funerals together. Standing amongst various trophies and newspaper articles, it was hard to know and is hard to know now, that I have lost both of them. These two people fundamentally changed my life. I cannot think of rowing or my life in general without thinking of Henry and Miriam. I have never met someone more deserving of a long, happy life than Henry. It is because of his generosity that I was able to row. He drove me to and from practice everyday, never asking for anything in return. He wasn't even mad when once he came to pick me up and I was dead asleep when he got to my house. Instead, he laughed at the situation and never held it against me. He introduced me to an amazing community where I met some of my best friends, became physically stronger, and found a lot of mental strength I didn't know that I had. He brought so much joy to my life and for that I will be forever grateful. He deserved everything from life and I wish I could have given back to him even half of what he gave to me. While it is no secret that I didn't always like Miriam's coaching style, my success is a direct product of her. It was her high standards and her constantly nagging me to fully commit to rowing that have made it possible for me to row in college. Towards the end of our time together, I had a hard time feeling gratitude towards her because I never felt good enough. I was constantly trying and being good 95% of the time. But, it seemed like that 5% was what always defined you in her 51 72 This story was my fantasy. I made it happen. At first, I was scared of the outcome, and worried that the past would come back to haunt me and at some points it does, but I've learned to ignore it and be happy. My discomfort in myself manifested into silence, it came from a negative experience but it relayed positive effects. It helped me understand that your self-worth isn't defined by others or how you look, and it coincides with my physical transformation but does not stem from it. It takes sunlight to grow. Now let's grow together instead of creating a hole in the moon: our heart to all suffering. "Yesterday was history and tomorrow's a mystery." You shouldn't be planning or reminiscing. You should be living because you never know what life's gonna throw at you. To my english teacher of the past two years. This speech is about climate change. I am an ember about to set the world on fire. Onto my last stanza. He never thought he would be here, but I am here. For the people who helped me love myself before I could love others, my friends, my family and my teachers: Paige, Grace, Isabel, Mia, Henry, Addie, Becca, Levi, Sara, Ford, Mr. Hoven, Ms. Schmidt, Mom, Dad and Ethan who wanted to discover me, but I never gave you the key so here it is; and he said, As I have gone silent for I ask you, to go you silent for me. "I love you" Peter Michel Air races through my hair. The moss covered rock I currently reside upon overlooks a lake that fades into the distance. As the water laps gently against the rock face I feel a sense of peace wash over me. I am alone in nature, and that's just the way that I like it. Ever since I was young I always loved the environment. Whether that be going up north into the boundary waters or simply enjoying the parks and nature around me, nature has always been a part of my life. One of the places that I attribute the most of my appreciation of the environment to has to be my camp. Every year without fail my family and I would head up north and spend a week relaxing in the north woods far away from civilization. I looked forward to these weeks all summer because there truly never was a dull hour. Even if the camp didn't have any activities there were always hikes and canoe trips to fill the time. Hikes were always my favorite as a kid because I could always count on the wildlife to entertain me. My hikes were pockmarked with picking wild raspberries, pointing out the different trees and shrubs to my family, and staring at mushrooms that I was too scared to go near. In the beginning these were just things to do to fuel my dwindling attention span but as I got older and the hikes got longer, these became things that I loved. Finding a mushroom with colors and patterns that I had never seen before filled me with more excitement than playing any video game. Picking raspberries turned from a sweet treat on the trail to a long term expedition to find the best bushes and collect the most raspberries possible. Another thing that changed over time was my opinion of canoe trips. When I was younger canoe trips meant one of two things. Either I was stuck in the middle of the canoe doing nothing, or the somehow worse option of sitting in the front and actually needing to exert physical effort. This got slightly better as I got older and acquired mass, but there was one problem with canoeing that I couldn't get over; there was nothing to look at. Water is pretty boring, not much to look at except when the weather's bad and you need to focus on not tipping. The forest on the banks are pretty cool but at that point you might as well go on a hike; you get a better view of the trees anyway. Of course this opinion changed one night when I was bullied by some friends to go on a twilight paddle. We launched our canoes at around eight when the sun was setting. After an hour of our laughs echoing across the lake we decided to head back. This was when we came up with the idea to paddle all the way back in complete silence. At first this sounded like a good way to ruin a fun time but after only a couple of minutes I started to enjoy it. The rhythmic splash of the paddle, the periodic call of a nearby loon, but most of all I enjoyed the calm that I felt when I focused on these things instead of anything else. Silently looking up into the star speckled sky not to analyse but just to appreciate. After that paddle I started looking at nature differently. I had always enjoyed being outside but I started noticing myself wanting more. This experience had transitioned from just being a paddle with my friends into being a lens shift for the way that I viewed the world. Once I got back to civilization and my access to unlimited nature was cut off, I started looking for new ways to lose myself in nature. Most of these ways turned out to be going on walks. I would walk down on the lakes by my house and I would walk around the bird sanctuary and rose gardens by my house. Walking helped to keep me grounded in the world. One particular day I decided to go on a walk in the bird sanctuary by my house. I had walked around there before but this time I thought that instead of listening to music as I walked, I would just walk in silence. As I entered the park I was immediately greeted by the sounds of birds. Every few seconds a bird would call out into the trees and would be met by another bird. This back and forth of bird calls would continue until some other birds drowned them out with their new call. As the birds songs blended together I found myself noticing more about my surroundings, the trees felt larger and the layers of green seemed more vibrant than before. The smell of dirt mixed with pine trees soothed my mind and for a moment I felt like I was back in the north woods. As I was about to leave the bird sanctuary a mushroom caught my eye. It was a small yellow mushroom with white dots. Looking at this mushroom took me back to my hikes as a kid. I was still appreciating the environment back then but only as an individual. As I stood back up and my view broadened, I saw the log that the mushroom was on, the leaves that scattered the ground and the animal tracks that lead deeper into the forest. I saw that in nature, everything is connected, and that's what makes it beautiful. Whether you are deep within the north woods or driving down the city street, nature is all around you, all you have to do is look. Abdelrahman Mokbel I travel a lot. Over the last 10 years, I have gone to school in three different countries. On top of that, every summer, I travel to my family's hometown of Alexandria, Egypt. Egypt is a very different place from Minnesota. For starters, most cars are manual and can barely reach 30 miles per hour, or rather, 48 kilometers per hour, because metric is better than imperial. Driving is a nightmare because there aren't any lines on the road and the direction of cars isn't defined anywhere so the entire road is one big two-way lane. On top of all that, all the roads and sidewalks are filled with rubble, trash, and debris so walking around isn't too pleasant either. Of course living in Egypt also has its benefits with large outdoor sporting clubs and with everything being within walking distance. I'm not bringing any of this up to argue about which is better, merely to illustrate that they are two very different places. Besides going to Egypt over the summer, I spent my entire sophomore year in Qatar. While school didn't feel too different, everything else did. The biggest difference was the heat. On my first day in Qatar, my phone stopped working because I walked outside with it for too long. Additionally, outdoor sports like soccer and tennis were considered winter sports because that was the only time of the year when it wasn't too hot to go outside. Besides school, Qatar was different in many ways such as the many skyscrapers in central Doha and the sea of sand across the horizon, which on a side note, sand duning is a really. big activity over there and it's actually quite fun. Egypt and Qatar have their differences from the United States but one of the more drastically different places that I've travelled to is Arusha, Tanzania. Arusha is one of the more impoverished regions of Tanzania; the place doesn't even have paved roads. Instead of cars, transportation is mostly motorcycles, but most people living there don't need to travel very far. I went to Arusha on a service trip to help with the construction of an elementary school. During my stay, I got to see a bunch of excited little kids running around and playing, which made me realize that even though life was so much harder where they were living and they didn't have as many modern innovations as we do, they still had a lot of fun every day. Another notable trip I went on was when I went to Costa Rica over the summer with the school, this school to be more specific. For the first part of the trip we were hosted by local families in a poorer region of Costa Rica and, again, I got to observe what life was like in a drastically different setting from my own home. Life was very different there than it is here, but I don't mean that in a bad way. Yeah, the region there was poorer but that doesn't mean that life there was any worse, and it most certainly doesn't mean that the people there are any less deserving of respect or consideration. The region lacked the same infrastructure that the United States has but that's not the people's fault and it doesn't make the people any less deserving of help than us. What I'm trying to say is that life was very different in Costa Rica, but that doesn't make it a bad place to live, and the people living there deserve as much acceptance as everyone else. I'm really trying to explain to all of you is that what's different about these places are the things in them, not the people, much less the worth of the people, 73 36 36 for a few weeks each spring, and so it was the perfect time to see them. I was intrigued, but didn't think the trip would be as eventful, amazing, or strange as it turned out to be. We decided to leave on Saturday, March 14th, so that we could see the cranes before the Audubon Center in Kearney closed and travel became more difficult. With a lot of sanitizing hands, snacks, and Nintendo Switch on my part, we eventually made it to our first stop - Mason City, Iowa, the inspiration for the town of "River City" in the musical "The Music Man." But when we arrived it didn't seem quite as charming or joyful as its musical counterpart. It was evening, and as we entered we saw nobody on the streets and just one person in the town square, mumbling to themself. We were one of few guests staying in a historic Frank Lloyd Wright hotel for the night. My mom kept pointing things out I hadn't noticed, like how a lot of the people working there had bad teeth. It hadn't occurred to me that in a small town like Mason City, working people like a hotel receptionist or a waiter might not have benefits like dental care. Come dinnertime, we talked to the waitress in the hotel's restaurant, and when we asked about Mason City she said something that stuck with us - "it's hard to keep a doctor in this town." It was then that something struck me. I realized this is what most of America looks like. It made me think even more about how much of a bubble that all of us, going to this school and living in the Twin Cities live in. It's not just the SPA bubble, it's the big city bubble, the middle and upper class bubble. Despite all of these challenges in their lives, people across America, in small towns and big cities, go on with theirs. This thought stayed with me as we went on with our trip, and it made me think more about the impacts of the virus on these towns. The next day, Sunday the 15th, it took about five hours to reach Grand Island, Nebraska. Our first sighting of the Cranes was along the highway, eating corn leftover from the fall's harvest. They had muted grey coats of plumage and bright streaks of red on their heads. After some complications booking the hotel, we had some dinner and prepared to watch the first Democratic debate between Sanders and Biden. When it came on air, it just showed how much the virus had changed things. They were standing in the CNN studio, not in a town hall and in front of CNN's interviewers, not an audience. Their podiums were at least eight feet apart, and at least half of the questions asked were about COVID-19. It really showed how much the virus had transformed not just travel and economy, but life as we knew it. The next day, it was finally time for the cranes. After getting up a little late, we arrived at the Audubon Crane center around 10:00 AM. The minute we stepped out of the car, their strange calls surrounded us, croaking coming from all directions. We couldn't see the cranes, but we could hear them. It was surreal. In the Audubon center, the mood was quiet, subdued. We talked to the guy at the desk inside, who told us that the mist and occasional drizzle of rain were keeping the cranes bound longer to the Platte River than usual, so we'd still be able to see them once the viewing trail opened. From the center we could see some cranes on the river from far away, but we wanted a better view. After a little waiting, texting, reading up on the Cranes, more hand sanitizer and hand washing, the walking trail was open to us. We hiked through the primordial mist and stopped by all of the viewing areas we could along the river. There we could see cranes, hundreds of them, in the shallow parts of the river, and hundreds more flying in the distance. I took loads of pictures and video with the actual camera I'd brought specifically for the trip. We couldn't stop gawking at them. After a while, they suddenly all took off at once, thousands of cranes lifting into the misty gloom, some flying right over us. Eventually, we headed back for our car, and drove to our next hotel in Kearney. Despite our incredible morning, we were still on edge. We checked in, both on low sleep, the coronavirus threat hanging like a black fog over any conversation we had. Tuesday was our "rush day," because we had to cover all of the ground we'd driven the past three days in one. We had a lot of driving ahead of us. But before we did that, we wanted to stop by the Audubon center one final time, to see if it was open and a better view of the cranes. When we got there, we saw it was closed due to COVID. We were grateful to have get seen anything at all, but it was still unfortunate. However, up the road we saw something incredible. There were cranes in the cornfields on both sides of the road - at least a thousand of them in all - eating corn, and thousands more flying in the distance. I stepped out of the car, my mom calling out to stay close so I wouldn't scare them. I took as many pictures and videos as I could of the cranes flying all around us. As I stood there recording, they all suddenly lifted into the air at once. I looked on in awe, as thousands soared above us, croaking and calling out, continuing their journey. It was amazing. Beyond words, really. Ironic, that after the center was closed I didn't think we would see anything, when we saw exactly what we had hoped to. We drove away, occasionally snapping pictures of the cranes we could see. Surprisingly, the day that could have been the worst ended up being one of the best, and in some ways amazing. On our way back in the car the news was flooded with news of illness spreading the globe, the paranoia heightening. We listened on the radio to a moving and tragic story about a doctor treating people in Italy. After almost nine hours of non-stop driving, we were home. I took everything upstairs, ate dinner, and then relaxed, after one of the strangest, shortest, and most unexpected trips I'd ever taken. During it I learned many things, including a message I'd like to share. Journeys are important, even difficult or unexpected ones. Let's go back to the Sandhill cranes. For millions of years, they've made the same journey, to some of the same locations, one of them an 80 mile stretch of Nebraska, south to north, and then back again, flying hundreds of miles a day. They do this because they have to. And it's not like it's a breeze. Aside from flying hundreds of miles in a single day, they have to worry about countless predators, like bobcats, eagles, bears, mountain lions, coyotes, wolves, and even alligators and snakes in their southeastern ranges. They can eat pesticides in fields, or be hunted by people in certain states, or just lose energy and fall behind. And they lay just two eggs each year. But in spite of all of this, they still carry on the journey as they have for thousands of years. In closing, just like the cranes we have to carry on life despite all of the challenges, despite this frightful period of our history, because it's our duty to do so, and we have to do it for ourselves, and for each other. So maybe Nebraska isn't for everyone... but for a couple of days, it was pretty amazing for me. Thank you. Annika Findlay I've been hurt. I've been hurt by the way we perceive what it looks like to have a mental illness. Growing up, mental illness wasn't really something I was exposed to. As I got older, people had very strict definitions of what it looked like to have a mental illness. Depression was isolation, crying all the time, and endless hours of sadness. Anxiety was being incapable of doing basic activities, again- isolation, and visible panic. OCD was always extreme, it was always about numbers, and it was constant. The universal theme was that having a mental illness was obvious from the outside. It was constant, and never lifted. I believed that in order to be diagnosed and have a "real" mental illness, you had to fit this picture. This perception of a mental illness as a box you have to fit in to made it hard for me to believe in myself, and trust my instincts. As a kid, I was happy, over-energetic, pretty introverted, and I LOVED school. When I say I loved school, I don't mean that I just kinda liked going to school. I mean, I literally cried when I broke my two almost three-year perfect attendance streak because I had lice. Like most kids, I also thought school was fun because I had the best group of friends, and they made the boring days worth it. I remember there was only one day I ever faked being sick at Seward, and I kinda just wanted to see what it was like. Boring. I thought it was boring. I happily would have gone through the rest of elementary school without changing a thing, but that's not reality. I ended up switching schools. I'll save you the pain and just say it wasn't a good fit. I hated school for all three years I was there, but I cracked in fifth grade. I got sick, once. I know that doesn't seem so bad... but you see, I never went back. I had constant stomach aches. Daily, debilitating, nauseating stomach aches. So, naturally I saw the doctor quite a few times, but the blood tests, physicals, and the constant check ins said nothing was wrong with me. This lack of medical explanation for my sickness was the end of the road for me, it was time to go back to school. Everyone knew I hated my school, so it wasn't too out of the realm of possibilities that I was just pretending to be sick. Except I wasn't, and I felt like crap. I was stuck, and no one had looked into mental illness for me. I was just so young. I got frustrated, really frustrated. I went through my angsty teen years at the young age of ten. I hated myself, my parents, my doctors, my school, just the world in general, and I was not afraid to tell you. I lost almost all of my friends. My inner turmoil and confusion made me a person I'm really not proud of today. It took me four more years to realize I had a mental illness, and do something about it. It took me an additional three months after that until I told someone. I didn't fit the picture I had grown up with, so I thought it was all in my head. My singular coping mechanism was to pretend it wasn't there so I had to prove to myself that it was. I developed a self harm habit, and it's like an addiction. I sought help, but unfortunately I didn't click with my therapist. I got worse, and my anxiety around germs and illnesses started impacting my life more dramatically. I developed issues with intimacy, going out of the house, and 37
0 Evan Barnes I don't know if everyone here knows this, but I really like rats. In fact many members of the current senior class really like rats. As a representation of our love of the animal and in order to express ourselves around January of last year, we created the rat wall. Now that last sentence might be confusing to you, because what on earth is a rat wall? Well, first of all it is not A rat wall it is THE rat wall, and it was an artistic expression of pure brilliance. Twenty three rats, drawn by the seniors. Each rat was unique, no two rats were the same. Many were very abstract like liquid rat or prism rat, but many were more standard, like dino rat or the rat king. It was a flawless works of art drawn by very professional artists like myself. However, one day, we found our hard work to be destroyed. Imagine our dismay as our creativity was squashed, dismantled for seemingly no purpose. There might have been an open house that night, but why should that matter, if anything it was a great demonstration of the students' ingenuity. We felt punished and betrayed by the school, and so the next day we rebuilt. We drew new rats, not better than the old rats, but different. This time there were only nine. There was Crystal Rat, Rat Satan, Sphere rat, and many more. We felt like we had gotten the last laugh. The next day we came to school once again to find the second great rat tragedy had occurred. The rats had once again been struck down. We had lost all our rats our perfect, perfect rats. Now you might be wondering, "Why rats? Rats are gross and Disgusting" and to that I would say that is a very ignorant thing to say. Rats are actually incredible creatures. MY personal rat obsession began with my two pet rats, but let me tell you why YOU should love them, as well as why they are 100% the coolest animal. Rats are very cute if you get to look at them. Rats are able to fit through almost any space. Rats can chew through many types of metal. Rats are very social creatures, even exhibiting peer pressure. Rats have the ability to shoot blood out of their eyes if they are in danger. Rats have very soft fur. Now if that was not enough to convince you that rats are the best animal it may be because of your preconceptions about rats. There are many animals which society has conditioned us to be afraid of, or just grossed out by. And while I personally will never be able to love an animal like a snake, rats are one of those animals that have been judged too harshly. Rats are more than just carriers of disease. Rats are beautiful, loyal, and overall lovely creatures that deserve more love than they get. Since I have assuredly convinced all of you that rats are the absolute best creature on the planet, allow me to transition to the logical next topic: Freedom of speech. Now pretend for a second that you only have to two brain cells, so that I may define freedom of speech for you. Google's first search result defines freedom of speech as "the right to express any opinions without censorship or restraint." What does this very easily worded sentence actually mean you might be wondering. Well, it means that you can believe whatever you want, and you can express those opinions however you want. Freedom of speech is a wonderful thing, it's how we are able to have disagreements. It is how we as a species are able to grow and evolve and not be incredibly boring. However, there is one very, very, very important aspect of freedom of speech that not many people seem to know of or understand. That is that everyone also has a right not to have to listen. No one deserves, or can expect to be given an audience or a platform. If they have a platform that is a gift, not a right. It is very important to realize that a platform to speak is a very rare opportunity that not many have, so don't take it for granted. In order to help get my point across I have a great example from my past, an example when I probably should have thought about this rule. The rat wall. I'm bringing it all back together. We thought that our rat mural was being censored unjustly. We thought that we had spent so much time on these rats that people deserved to see them. But what we didn't keep in mind was that many people didn't want to see them. If some people for some reason didn't like rats, I'm assuming because of their dreadful misconceptions about rats, they shouldn't be forced to look at them as they went to class. And on top of that, they school also didn't owe us the space to express ourselves, The school decided that they didn't want us to use their whiteboards to express our rats. All this said we still do have the freedom to talk about rats as well as the freedom to draw them. Just because we didn't have a platform then doesn't mean we can't have one now, as I clearly do since I am talking to you now. So if you want too when this speech is over go draw a rat. Make it the craziest most unique rat you can think of and give it a name. As in the theme of this speech you don't have to do it. If you listened to my speech, and my opinion, thank you. fff Helen Bartlett Hi, my name is Helen Bartlett and I like to talk. A Lot. Maybe it's because my parents neglect me at home, or because silence makes me uncomfortable, but regardless, I'll talk to anyone with ears. And yes, I may not be saying the most profound things at all times, but still, I find it interesting how little people actually engage with me when I speak. For those of you who have already tuned out, because I just undermined my authority as a speaker, please attempt to try to listen to me today and prove me wrong, as my dad would say: "show some effort." My interest with the theory of listening was piqued when I was reading a book last summer written by a psychologist named Julian Jaynes The Origin of Consciousness in the Breakdown of the Bicameral Mind. This summer read introduced me to theories about the development of human consciousness, but I was most enamored by a short digression Mr. Jaynes made in his 4th chapter regarding the development of language and the human ability to hear. Evolutionarily, we humans have developed complex systems to absorb information from the world surrounding us. Sound is one of the most influential inputs our system interprets, and people tend to carefully cultivate their personal environments of sound. We cover our ears and muffle the noises we wish to block, we formulate playlists of sounds that please us, and we consciously and unconsciously deem whether every input we listen to is valid enough to register in our minds. Humans have evolved to communicate uniquely, separating us from other primates and allowing diverse cultures to develop which are dependent on the sharing of detailed information. We pride ourselves on the culture of languages and the complex memes that determine the meaning and connotations of our words. Simply put, humans think we are special because we talk to each other in complicated ways. Language is placed on such a high pedestal that, Philosophers, linguists and neurologists combined have hypothesized that language is a necessary component of subjective consciousness. Human consciousness developed after language did, allowing for more abstract forms of thought. We spoke before we even had a perception of who we were. Anthropologically recorded stages of language and words have allowed us (as modern humans) to discover how every new stage of language created new perceptions and intentions, resulting in immeasurable cultural changes that have brought us to the power our words hold today. So, Language evolved with humans, allowing us to communicate in diverse ways. And maybe that is obvious to those of you who are still listening. If this is true, then why do we try so hard to limit what we hear? And inhibit what we listen to? And I don't just mean, oh why do we not listen to Helen because her speech is boring. I mean why, has it been found in studies that immediately after hearing lectures, college students only remember about 50% of what was said. Or why after 3 years, Mr. Lakin still has to draw the unit circle for me whenever I encounter a trig function. Mr. Jaynes would tell us that this is a result of a power dynamic created between a speaker and a listener, which I think translates into of the vulnerability and malleability of ourselves and our thoughts. If I am making any sense to you right now, good! let's jump to Latin! The English word Obey, presently is defined as "to carry out the commands of someone, submit to, to be ruled by." The etymology traces back to the Latin- "Obedire." Ob being "to" and audire being "listen, hear." Literally translating obey into, "to hear or listen." Listening is a form of obedience. And speaking to a listener creates a dynamic of power. To listen is to allow someone to influence and reach into your mind. To place their thoughts in yours. Our brains momentarily adopt their thought process while attempting to understand the language we perceive, consequently bending to obey the transmission of the speaker. Thus listening is an extremely vulnerable thing to do, as we lose momentarily our identity and assume someone else's. So naturally, we attempt to control this obedience, to maintain autonomy of our morals, our principles, and our minds. We tend to do this through personal hierarchies of place, Categorizing people is a way to control and regulate their influences over us, allowing us to deflect their position of power and protect our understanding of "self." Rationally this makes sense we want to maintain autonomy of our mind. Instinctively, every individual creates their own hierarchies in their minds holding or ranking people below them in their private scale of esteem. By automatically dismissing a person based on our internal power gradients, we protect ourselves from influence.
1 2 FIRST LINES 2020 My name is Lath Akpa... I've generally stayed out of trouble during high school... It's when I wake up and it's clear blue skies with the sun shining... I've been told many times throughout my life that the third times the charm... Four years... I don't know if everyone here knows this, but I really like rats... Hi, my name is Helen Bartlett and I like to talk... "La palabra del día es gofres," my dad announced to my family as we were cating breakfast one morning before school... I've decided that people should just stop saying things that don't need to be said..... I'd like to start by introducing you all to Tony... Wayne Gretzky, Sidney Crosby, and Thomas Kuriscak... It feels like I've been to an awful lot of funerals... Darkness had fallen over us... If you know me, you probably know that I'm a big listener to classical music... Before my speech, I'd like to do a little bit of stand up comedy... I forget, sometimes, that neither of us could drive when we were seven... When she arrived, she was crowned with a mop of dark, thick, full locks..... I've been thinking about this a lot lately... When I was six, I joined my first swim team at an outdoor pool about a mile away from my house... When I was about seven years old, my family decided to freshen up my bedroom..... Like many people in this audience, I find myself feeling stressed most days during school... 6, 4, 3, 1 down... Summer jobs for teenagers are not always the most fun, especially those that I have pursued... Did you know that Nebraska's state tourism motto is "Nebraska, it's not for everyone?"... I've been hurt... I hate Mondays, quote everyone...... I want all of you to take a moment and close your eyes... I never thought I'd get this far... I was fourteen years old, and I was forced to come to terms with the fact that my father had passed away... The world is a cruel and unusual place... As I look into the crowd in front of me, I realize one thing in particular... Some wonder what their cats do at home when they leave the house... Writing this speech was hard for me because I have always wanted to be remembered... There is no 'T' in 'team'..... In the last year, I have sat with my rowing team by my side at the funerals of two of the most influential people in my life.... Ever since I was just a child, sports and athletic competition have been an integral part of my upbringing... Let's face it, I'm perfect, and I have been since day one... As I sat down to write this senior speech I had no idea what to write about... We are born of the Earth... There is no middle ground... Life is hard and exhausting, and it won't stop being hard or exhausting just because you're stressing out about it... I decided to put every single senior's name into a random selector website and choose a few people to write a direct note to... The Zoo... You lay awake at night as his words ring in your head... Life can be stressful sometimes, especially as I am going on with my senior year, I have college right around the corner and school isn't getting any easier either... The year was 2009... Picture this... Soft smooth layers coat bones... Where are you from?....... It's crimson, steaming as if you boiled a bottle of cabernet... Once upon a time there lived a child... Air races through my hair.... I travel a lot... Am I a witch?... Halloween: the best day of the year... A few months ago, the thought of starting college was bittersweet... Throughout the 1900's the United States has witnessed the rise and fall of many large regimes..... In the summer of 7th grade I decided to sign up for a Model UN camp... I am perfect... I have a difficult confession to make... I hate traffic... I was not fired from Target... It was the first day of Nordic practice my freshman year... Hi, I'm Martha, and I have a lot of opinions... Two plus two is four... I take up too much space... An unnamed member of the SPA community who shares my house, birthdate, and my last name spoke on Tuesday... During lunch, my friends and I often discuss some of the strangest topics... Today I am going to share a few details about a couple members of my extended family because I have learned some valuable lessons from their fringe beliefs... Christmas is my favorite holiday and it has been ever since I can remember... Hello there... Ever since I started at SPA my freshmen year, the thought of writing a senior speech felt like a daunting task... This past summer my soccer team was playing in the USA Cup, which is a soccer tournament where teams and referees come from many different countries... Optimism has always been a go-to in the Rolodex of American ideologies... Every little girl's dream was to become Clara in the Nutcracker... I stand here right now, and to be honest with you, I am terrified... Hello, everybody... I recently became a legal adult... For a while now, I've considered SPA to be pretty weird... After fifteen minutes of staring at my jawns, contemplating what to wear, I long for a simpler time... Where do I begin?... Things tend to move at a sedated pace in a Minnesota suburb on a typical Sunday... She was just 17 when she moved out to Oregon... I have been at SPA for 13 years... To say that this isn't exactly how I imagined giving my senior speech would be a bit of an understatement... Feelings of discomfort and danger are frequently experienced during discussions and other forms of discourse... Growing up in the US, I have long been exposed to labels... When I was a kid, I dreamed about being a hero, a hero like the one that appeared in Chinese novels and movies... Corona may have cancelled many of the senior events that we were looking forward to....... H Lath Akpa My name is Lath Akpa. For most of my life, I have grown up not knowing what that truly meant. The only specific thing that I knew about my name was from a definition online. It read, "a thin flat strip of wood, especially one of a series forming a foundation for the plaster of a wall or the tiles of a roof." I guessed that this was not what my name meant to my parents when they decided on it, and I was right. Once belonging to my great uncle, my name tells the story of my father and his family. From when my father was a little boy, his uncle, Lath, raised and treated him like a son. Lath was a very respected and honored man. Being the last oral historian and medicine man of his village in the Ivory Coast, his name and reputation made him one of the most driven, selfless, yet tough individuals in his village. He and my father were inseparable. Eventually, as my father grew older, he moved on from his village to study in order to carry on Lath's legacy and become a pharmacist. Coming to America had always been a dream of my father's, and when he finally did, it changed his life in different ways. When my father found out that Lath had passed, his whole world seemed to stop. Knowing that he didn't get a proper goodbye filled his heart with guilt and regret. A couple weeks after hearing the news, my father received a letter from the Ivory Coast. It was the final letter that Lath wrote before he passed. In the letter, he told my father that he will have two children, and their names would be Lath and Meley, after him and his wife. And here I am today bearing the same name that meant so much to my father. But I live in a different world than that village in the Ivory Coast. I live in Minnesota. A place where the name "Lath" isn't celebrated or honored, or even recognised. Growing up in my community, my name had always felt like a burden and an inconvenience that I developed a distaste for. To begin with, my name is rarely pronounced right, even by some of my closest friends that I've known for over 10 years. I would always tell people, "it's not Late or Latte." But the one phrase that I have probably said most in my lifetime regarding my name is, "the H is silent." As my name is spelled L AT H, this confused many people. On average, I would probably say that phrase twice a day. Let's say that the first time that I said that phrase was at the age of 7. This would mean that the phrase, "the H is silent" has exited my mouth 7,300 times. It was never something that I liked to say but I accepted it. Many people have told me that it must feel so amazing to have such a unique name, but it took me almost 18 years to realize that they were all right. I struggled in elementary school as I had to learn how to cope with the guilt that my name brought on me. I never wanted to be the kid with the unique name. I wanted to be normal like all of my friends. As kids, many of us have had some of our best memories when substitute teachers filled in. It was the perfect opportunity for us to do all of the things that our teachers would get us in trouble for. But not for me. When I was young, I feared the days when substitute teachers had to come in, for one reason, the attendance sheet. When class would start, the substitute teacher would pick up the sheet and get ready to list off the names, but they didn't list off names. They would always just look at the top of it, seeing a name that they were unfamiliar with. I quickly learned that I could either let them try to pronounce my name and have my entire class laugh at their attempts or give them a little help and just say "Here." I choose the latter. The frustration with my name got to a point where I didn't care about it, nor the way that people pronounced it. I didn't see the importance in my name. As I began my first year of high school, I did what everyone else did. I got a job. With this new job, I found myself with a lot of extra money that I didn't know what to do with. Being the teen that I was, I decided to build up a Starbucks and Caribou Coffee addiction. I loved the endless options of sugary drinks that I could try. It was almost paradise. The only problem with these coffee shops was that at the end of every order taken, they would always ask for my name. This was something that I didn't want to get into with the baristas, so I created an alter ego. His name was Matt. Matt looked like Lath. Matt talked and had the same body language as Lath. But Matt was not Lath, because people recognized Matt's name and they never asked Matt how to pronounce it. When I first started using this alternate personality, it felt weird. Having a Barista call for Matt's order while making direct eye contact with me was startling at first, but I got used to it. Being Matt felt easy and made simple interactions with strangers a whole lot less stressful. The first time that my mother learned about this alter ego of mine was when we were shopping from some new clothes over the summer. My mother told me to go and try on some of the clothes while she looked for more. I went into the changing ??? 3 46 Sal said gullible was written on the ceiling in 6th grade (you know who you are), area codes from places I'll literally never visit but got a call from once, and random historical facts. A few of my favorites are: #1) In 1847, surgeon Robert Liston performed an amputation in 25 seconds, operating so quickly that he accidentally amputated his assistant's fingers as well, Both patient and assistant later died of sepsis, and a spectator reportedly died of shock, resulting in the only known surgical procedure with a 300% mortality rate. I think that Phil Swift, better known as flex seal guy, sums this one up pretty well with his famous quote, "Now that's a lot of damage." #2) Australian Prime Minister Harold Holt drowned while swimming and the country decided to commemorate him with the Harold Holt memorial swimming pool. Unfortunate. And finally, Karl Marx is buried at Highgate cemetery in London. Hundreds of thousands, if not millions of people visit every year to pay their respects to the communist visionary. His many visitors only have one thing in common. They all have to pay for a ticket. I'm not gonna lie. All three of those facts are completely useless and I can't even pretend that any of those will ever help you in any practical way, but we had to learn square dancing in fifth grade, so cut me some slack. The second, definitely more important quality about myself actually took me a long time to figure out, Simply put, I don't let anything stress me out anymore. I still care enough to put pants on before I go to school and to do my homework, but I think I'm finally at a point where I can say that it doesn't bother me at all to be myself in front of friends, classmates or even the entire school. Today, however, is an SPA requirement, and the more attentive members of the audience might have noticed that I have blinked "Please God just give me my diploma already" in morse code three times since the start of this speech. As an underclassman, I worried a lot about having more friends, more followers and about proving my social status to everyone around me. I'm not really sure why I did all this, but I think a lot of people, especially the underclassmen, are where I was only a few years ago. I want to stand here today and tell all of you guys who worry, that if you're fortunate enough to live without mental illness and in a home where your family cares about you, you don't have an excuse. Worrying never helps, and you should spend your mental energy on better things. Mine include activities such as blatantly disregarding my painfully basic house chores and staying up until 3 am watching the never ending spiral called YouTube autoplay. For me, the funniest part about it all is that the less I care, the better everything just works itself out. Everything I've ever worried about, everything I never knew if I had enough of, has gotten better literally every day since I started focusing on other things. Since I started not stressing it, I've gained more than 400 insta followers, 150 thousand more snap score, and my DMs are no longer dryer than the state of Arizona on an average July day or colder than the people of Arizona say they are when subjected to any temperature less than partly cloudy with a chance of heat stroke. My name is Jack, and I love video-games, cars, thinking I'm a lot funnier than I really am, and many other things that I'm not going to talk about right now because I would like to graduate. I'm also way more approachable than you might think. I love meeting new people and I could probably talk to anyone about anything. Most importantly, though, I always try my best to learn something new from everybody I meet. My grandpa told me two things when I was little. First, that everyone around you knows something you don't know, but that you would benefit by learning, and second, that old people are smart and that I should listen to him. That's just me though, and please, by all means, don't be me, that position is no longer hiring, I know I'm more than a handful and unfortunately, most people seem to only have a very limited number of hands. What I want you all to do is to be yourselves. Make your own list of things that you like to do and never give up on them even if everybody around you looks down on you for it. There's a lot of people out there, so chances are good that eventually you'll find a few who honestly appreciate you for who you are, not who you try to be. Stick with whatever you enjoy, because 10 years from now when you're having the time of your life you'll look back and say "Wow, that one guy from high-school was totally right. Gweenan, maybe?" Before I end this speech I wanted to share a short story. I needed a place to keep my USDA inspected Chicken Strip So I bought a wallet Now my legal tender is safe. Thank you. Sam Hanson Some wonder what their cats do at home when they leave the house. Do they climb into kitchen cabinets at will, saunter onto shelves crammed with antiques, or simply nap in hidden locations? Do they spend hours contemplating how to usher in your gruesome demise? Pretend for a moment that this house represents a mind. When the mind is conscious, its owner inhabits the house, but when it is unconscious, the cat is alone. This raises the question: wouldn't you be curious what your mind is doing when you're not watching? It may seem odd to address inner experiences in this way, but our internal monologues are at the heart of everyday interactions and provide us an intimate glimpse of the raw, unfiltered human being. The dialogues we have with ourselves seem to define personality-mediating information from the real world with our own beliefs, which are the architecture of this "house." However, what if the "house" you inhabit is nothing like what you assume it is, having more corridors and crawl-spaces than imagined, more unnoticed visitors. In other words, can we be mistaken about fundamental assumptions about our thoughts and personality? Take the example of a mirror. One simple look in the mirror can destroy a fantasy of a unified metaphysical self. Looking in the mirror can reveal gruesome things about yourself, like a speck of chocolate on your nose or spikey bed-shapen hair. Mirrors are also an object of despair and anxiety: a Chinese myth even warns that images from mirrors are actually demonic beings pretending to be our reflections, planning our deaths-just like cats may be. These myths suggest that mirrors are not simply reflections; they suggest the instability of the real and the metamorphosis of the self into the "other." Having a double self in the mirror also takes on a "devil's bargain" scenario, where your likeness is preserved as an immortal image, but could also detach and take up its own life. The production of such an idealized image connects to the modern usage of the internet and social media. On social media sites, the boundary between ourselves and our shadow selves is especially blurred. This tenuous relationship is apparent when one thinks about how difficult it is to destroy the reflected self online. On Facebook, according to a recent study from Big Data & Society, profiles of the deceased will eventually outnumber those of the living within the next 50 years, in which these shadow selves achieve a kind of immortality living a sad existence in the dusky underworld of Facebook code. But is it possible to reconcile with your shadow self? The Greek Eleusis mystery rites, a pre-Socratic tradition celebrating the cult of Demeter, offered a method to accept the inner "other," rather than attempt to escape it. In these rites, initiates would enter a visionary state to yield wordless comprehension of their "true" self. In Plato's Symposium, this process was detailed as a progression from experiencing particulars and learning laws, to the highest point of the trajectory, which is neither "reason or knowledge" but rather seeing the essence of a phenomenon. However, the everyday "self" had to be extinguished before the experience. According to Socrates' account of telestic madness, the individual, using methods of purification, could release their emotional baggage so long as they were "possessed and mad in a correct manner." The state of mind was crucial for the preparation as well: the initiate was neither an observer nor a conscious learner. To the Greeks, in order to become yourself one had to escape oneself first. One had to cleanse the house of your mind to see the true essence of things. Means of escaping oneself included purification rites of extreme pain and terror and the "stripping off" of the initiate's personality, as well as fasting and thirst during the twelve-mile march from Athens to Eleusis. From reported experiences, initiates appeared to stumble upon an "otherness"-a symbol of the self that is off-limits, the voice that speaks in occasionally vivid dreams, and is reclusively visionary, but distinctly you. Modern culture encourages cluttering the house in the endless struggle for more, without seeing the essence of things. To the Greeks, getting out of yourself and transcending distractions (such as mirrors), required work and mental turmoil, even physical hardship. Although not quite a mystic experience, sitting can be a good substitute: this simple act can be appreciated when you allow yourself to observe your mind working. After five minutes of sitting, you might not notice a difference, but after a few hours, you can become aware of thoughts popping into your mind for no apparent reason, and how life is simply a joyful delusion. Patiently sitting, though not in everyone's taste, is an activity that can't be taken away from you, even during a totalitarian takeover or environmental disaster. 47 68 you that you don't belong in. You walk its streets and see so many smiles. Smiles that catch onto your numb skin like hooks. You smile back but it's not real. It is in fact exactly like those commercials for depression medicine where those ladies are out with their girlfriends smiling and laughing but they are holding up a sign. A sign with a popsicle stick like base and a circle of a face smiling because behind the sign they are not. And if you are not too, that's ok. You're not crazy, or weird. Yes, you might need help but seriously everyone does. You deserve to know that you're rare. That you do have purpose in this world. So if need to start somewhere, start with telling your body that it's not a dumpyard. That your body is a garden, filled with an array of colorful flowers. The spot that marks your mind might have a collection of flowers wilting but unlike flowers, you can save yourself from their dehydration that is far too gone. And that beneath your mind your body is seriously so amazing. Even your mind, the human brain, is one of, if not the most complex organ in your body. Try to let your mind soak up this truth; it is a fact of science that you are amazing. Life and death are so very prominent in our society. Too big for our brain to understand all at once. And the way we cope with it changes over time and from person to person. Death is stupidly crazy-emotional and complicated. So while we are alive, even if you're in a slump, try to appreciate that your body is amazing. Even starting at the base, your skeletal system. 206 bones in the human body. All a matrix of inorganic components, calcium, and phosphate. Those bones connect to ligaments that allow your fingers to dance across the keyboard. Seriously, gaze in the mirror at your beautiful eyes instead of criticizing your body which is really a scientific miracle. I know it's hard trying to conform to the social norms of a perfect body but really your body knows it will grow and shrink throughout your life. Yes, it leaves scars but those scars are like river ways, they are beautiful. Think about all the lands that your legs have carried you through, all the yummy meals that your stomach has held, and all the hugs that your arms have embraced. Every single one of you is beautiful. And you may not acknowledge it but you have people who love you. Feel the way you are breathing, the way your feet tingle as they lose circulation. Appreciate the fact your heart is still thumping inside your chest pumping blood throughout your crazy, amazing, complicated, and beautiful body. You are alive, please love it, make the most of it, love others, and try (you'll get there) to love yourself. that Lori Li Where are you from? It was a simple question asked by many, but never had an answer that satisfied. Do they mean the state, city, or neighborhood that I come from or do they mean where I'm from that makes up the way that I speak to my parents, the way that I look, and how I act? "Where are you from?" was always a question I didn't know how to respond to because there wasn't a right or wrong answer. There wasn't an explanation complete enough that encapsulated every facet of my background, but at the same time, none simple enough for people to care about. I didn't know if the question was something that I should've taken offense to, or ignore in hopes I wouldn't be asked again. It was hard trying to come up with an answer to a question I didn't even know myself. Where did I come from? As a child, my life was separated into two non-intersecting pieces. A part of me grew up in a home filled with my mom's traditional home- made dishes, my favorite Chinese cartoon kids' shows, and the tireless hours of finishing my homework for the Chinese school I spent every Saturday at. The other part of me grew up in a school that consisted of peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, foursquare and the floor is lava, but I was surrounded by children my age who looked nothing like me. Growing up in a predominantly traditional household that spoke Chinese, I struggled to find the in-between of cultures of my life at home with my family and at school with my friends. For years, I thought my cultural identity was something I should've hid from the outside world. Instead of embracing the things I often associated myself with in the place I felt most comfortable and myself, I became embarrassed of that part of me because of the pressure I felt to fit in. Confused by myself and the people around me, I tried to learn how to disassociate an identity so essential to who I was, yet something I felt unjustifiably ashamed of. The day-to-day interactions I experienced at school and at home distorted my thoughts even more about who I was and which parts of me I wanted to represent. In 3rd grade, I remember the first feeling of anxiousness and fear because of the food that I ate. The fear of my friends thinking of the food I ate as "gross" or "weird" made me change the way I acted at home. Whenever they came over, I insisted on going out and buying food I thought they'd usually cat, not a pantry filled with the snacks I liked from the Asian market I always went to. Instead of asking my mom to make my favorite Chinese dishes, I asked her to cook the classic spaghetti and meatballs or order a pizza, getting mad if she incorporated Chinese-cuisine. I separated myself and my friends from my family when we ate, afraid of the weird looks my parents and I might get because of what was on their plate, My friends told me it was "rude" that my mom and I spoke Chinese to each other because they couldn't understand. I remember standing there in shock, not knowing what to say. They started to laugh and make it seem like it was a joke, so I laughed it off too. But I apologized. I apologized for speaking to my mom in her mother tongue because I thought that I had offended them, not the other way around. I started to believe that speaking Chinese was a barrier that restrained me from conforming to others' comfort and expectations. It gradually became something I viewed as a weakness and disadvantage, not a strength. hands I remember the ride back home on the school bus. It was loud and chaotic: children my age were screaming, laughing, and chanting all at once. Unaware of the commotion, I looked down the aisle and saw a boy standing up from his seat, shifting his attention in my direction. As our eyes met, I remained oblivious, staring back with only confusion. I watched him lift both his up to his face and pull back the corner of his eyes as he chanted: "Chinese, Japanese, look at these, money please". I felt the blood rush to my head, turning my face bright red, unable to discern my embarrassment from my anger. The rest of his friends around him started to laugh and imitate his movements, chanting along. They were no longer looking at me, but the mockery continued. Too paralyzed to even speak up, I sank down in my seat, pushing myself further into a hole of isolation, But, why did I feel that way? As I look back, my heart aches for what I had lost. I grieve for myself in the moments I felt ashamed or embarrassed to be myself or love the things I loved. I wish I had told myself that it wasn't my fault for thinking the way that I did, but at the same time something I shouldn't have even thought from the beginning. I put myself through a constant cycle of disassociation, denial, acceptance, and then humiliation that I didn't know how to stop. What would others think of me if even the smallest thing about me was different? I didn't feel comfortable in my own skin and convinced myself that if I neglected that part of me, the way that I looked and spoke would have less significance in affecting what others thought of me. Over and over again, I tried to avoid that reality, but it took me a while to understand that I could never escape a certain label or assumption. I've learned that from these experiences, I have encountered the good and the bad. From these experiences, I felt out of place because of who I was and the people and traditions that made up my identity. But thankfully, from these experiences, I have learned from my silence, from the humiliation brought about from others, and from my fears. Finding my identity meant confronting which parts of me I wanted others to see and why. The moments of disdain and taunting have taught me to be proud of and cherish my dark black hair, my mom's cooking, and my ability to speak Chinese, instead of to hide it. So, where are you from? I come from a place that is liminal: a place where I've found comfort and confidence in the in-between, a place where I can equally love both sides of who I am. This time I'm not hiding the parts that make me me, but appreciating and finding solidarity with them. This time, I can rectify and speak up against those who taunted me, whether intentional or not. But most importantly, this time, I can truly and entirely love myself. Meagan Massie It's crimson, steaming as if you boiled a bottle of cabernet. It's heavy like the weapon you've wielded from a young age - the one you've used to protect yourself. It can't hear you, nor can it see you, but you feel like you've bled from it. It's the thousands. of pins that prickle in your chest and the thickness that weighs against the lining of your stomach. The flames swallow your breath, your lungs gasp. The scarlet kisses the backs of your eyes, spreading red into white as sleep evades. The anxiety never falters. We all know the ideation of boy meets girl and the romanticism behind it. For me, it began with a face. A face on a picture that lived far away - seemingly close, yet just beyond my fingertips. Although we hadn't spoken, conversation flowed easily through the capacity of screens. It was so effortless to connect when you felt like you had been detached for years. His words entranced me as they lured me in to conversations that made me feel seen, heard, and understood. He wanted to know so much about me, but shared little about himself. He said that he cared, that he would never leave me, but now I wish he had. My loyalty was my undoing. It was the little unfaithful words that obstructed the meaning of a relationship. The words twisted and braided into lies upon lies that soon constricted the rest of my relationships, but mostly the one I had with myself. We would fight, and in retribution 69 62 Yona Ketema You lay awake at night as his words ring in your head. "It's crazy because you're black, but you don't seem like it, you know what I mean?" And you did. You knew exactly what he meant. You didn't know what it meant to "seem black", but you knew that even though there were a lot of other people like you in the world, you didn't feel like them. You were usually the only one that looked like you in pretty much any place you went. Your neighborhood, your school, the tennis court, work, even summer camp. You didn't look like you belonged there. At school, you did everything that everyone else was doing. You liked ice cream, spiderman, and you played outside. You learned tennis at the same pace as everyone else in your class. You smiled at your neighbors when they walked by. But summer camp was different. There were more people that you got to meet and learn from. They were more carefree at camp. You kept acting the same way as you acted at school, but even though you did, it didn't seem like it was as necessary when you were at camp. So you started talking more and engaging with the other kids at camp. And all the while, you start to discover some things that you actually enjoy doing. They played yu gi oh, told riddles and played camp games, things that you were never really familiar with before going to camp. But you were fascinated. As you continued camp, you learn riddles that you still haven't forgotten and you make friends that you will be in touch with for a very long time. By the end of summer, you had decided that camp was better than school. Camp was better than school simply because you could do more of what you wanted. It seemed like the people at camp were more like you. Not because camp did something special that school didn't; the people were just different. And at camp, no matter what you were doing, all that mattered was if you enjoyed it. It didn't matter who you were doing it with or who was watching. every When school starts, you stop seeing your camp friends until next year which you desperately await. Your new best friends are your cousins. Your cousins have always been your best friends, but especially when you are in school. You didn't realize it at the time, but when you were with your family, you feel refreshed. You are surrounded by familiar faces and with them, looking a certain way didn't mean anything. You could do anything and not worry about the context of the way you look. You grow up a few years in this cycle. You go to school, see your cousins on the weekends and your camp friends summer. But as you get older, you get to know yourself better. You will never know just how much you stand out to other people, but you think about it more. You realize that it's possible that the people you know very well could have had expectations of you before they met you, and even now that they know you. You wonder if those expectations were good, bad, if they went away after they got to know you or if they're still there even now. These thoughts of expectations of you and your opinions started to become more and more important in your head. Because in time, you come to learn that for a lot of people, all they need to do to form an opinion about you is just look at you. Especially you. Because the way you look makes you stand out. And as you grew up, you started to realize that it wasn't always a good thing. Even if it never really happened to you, you saw it happening everywhere around you. So you started thinking more. When you went somewhere, you noticed who the people in the room were and what they looked like. When you met someone new you question yourself, "Am I going to scare them?". You winced every time someone mentioned the way you look; even jokingly or in passing. It made you uncomfortable to even talk about it. So you ignored it and tried to see yourself as the same as everyone else, at work, at school; everywhere. But the same wasn't the answer. Because when you saw yourself as the same as everyone else, you stopped doing the things that made you happy, in place of things that everyone else was doing. You avoided the confrontation that way. No one could make you feel bad for who you were if you didn't show them who you were. But after years of this life, you grew tired. You were tired of walking into rooms and feeling out of place. You started losing interest in some of your favorite things because you felt that you just weren't supposed to do them. You cursed the world for being a place where people can form opinions based on appearance. Based on face value and based on what everyone else thought. They thought they could gather so much inferred knowledge from so little that comes from the void of societal expectations and reputations. And the world reminded you. It reminded you when she clutched her purse to her chest as your cousin went to ask her for directions. It reminded you when you saw people like you on the news being attacked by people who are supposed to protect .... them. But you assured yourself that those situations were just unlucky. That it just happened from time to time. Those people were just unlucky people in the wrong place at the wrong time and it couldn't be you. But the Central Park Five were five kids in a park. So being the way you were scared you. For many reasons. But what you don't realize is these reasons should not compel you to confirm. These reasons are not reasons to hide yourself under a mask. Because hiding yourself doesn't mean protecting yourself. If people are going to judge, then they have already made up their minds. Who you really are doesn't matter to them, because they think they already know. And you want to do whatever you want and not worry about what other people think, but why is it so hard for you? Don't other people feel judged? You look at the people in your life that inspire you to do everything that you do, and you wonder why it's so easy for them. And after a while, you find out that it's not. It's not easy for anyone. I say But something that makes it easier is authenticity. Because when you live your truth, no one can use your truth against you. So this to you now: Be yourself. Don't try to be someone else. You don't have time to waste being someone else. Rely and trust upon your own beliefs. It's ok if you are the only one on earth that believes what you believe. As long as you are happy. Be yourself and know that's good enough. Edward Krasny Life can be stressful sometimes, especially as I am going on with my senior year, I have college right around the corner and school isn't getting any easier either. School has always been something I struggled with especially when I was in middle school. My grades were pretty terrible and instead of trying to improve them I spent my time looking for an escape like video games or just listening to music for hours. This was obviously pretty counterproductive but some good came from it, too. Music has always been an important part of my life. But what music means to me has definitely changed over the years. As ? kid music amazed in the same way just about anything did when I was young. I loved learning new things about the world when I was a kid and listening to music was a great way to do this. Every song, while I didn't really understand the meaning of them at the time, fascinated me by how they could sound so different. My mom listened to a lot of different genres when I was growing up so I was exposed to a lot of different music. Ranging from 2000's punk rock bands to 90's hip hop and r&b, there was a lot of variety in the music I heard as a kid. When I was younger music would always make me happy for seemingly no reason. I just never had a bad time listening to music even though half the time I had no clue as to what they were saying. It just sounded so cool to me. As I got older around middle school I was able to appreciate music for more than just something that sounded cool. Being able to understand the lyrics and the deeper meaning behind each song made it a really good escape from all of the stress around me. Middle school was one of the tougher parts of my life. I was very awkward and shy and hated talking to new people, but music gave me a way to just get away from it all for as long as I needed. If I was ever stressed about a test or a big project, no problem, just pop in my ear buds for a while listening to some calming music and it was all good. Have a big game coming up, no problem, just listen to some heavy metal and now all my nervousness has turned to hype. However even though listening to music was a helpful short term solution, it never actually solved any of my problems. It just acted as a temporary distraction. Sure it was great for the smaller issues like being nervous before a game but in the long term it didn't really help. Even though it helped release some of the pressure I felt from school at the same time it just gave me a way to ignore my work. Overtime it turned from something helpful to just another way I would procrastinate and this needed to change.. At this point in my life I was still listening to a lot of the same music that my mom introduced me to as a kid. There were some differences, we both liked punk rock but I ventured on to listen to more heavy metal and some alt rock as well, but towards the end of eighth grade going into 9th I found rap I instantly fell in love with the genre, how could these artists think of all this clever word play and rhymes while also telling a meaningful story? Rap or rhythm and poetry was like nothing else I had heard before. Some songs have so much meaning in just a couple lines that songs from another genre couldn't match through a whole song. And I wondered how they did this until my sophomore year I thought to myself. "There's only one way to find out" So I started writing raps myself, and I found 63 Henry Burton Darkness had fallen over us. Kyle and I had fallen behind the group and were riding blind in the dark. Both of our headlights had burnt out. The only way to somewhat guide ourselves was to feel the texture of the road beneath our tires and pray that we weren't riding straight into a ditch. Visibility was not an option. Despite not being able to see, I tried to lighten the mood by chirping, "This isn't so bad!" before immediately riding into a metal "tractor crossing" sign. The timing of it was so perfect that despite going over the handlebars and being in notable amounts of pain, I began to laugh. Kyle later told me that all he heard was a loud clang, a meaty thump and then a long drawn out wheeze that he couldn't tell if it was laughter or crying. This was just one of many incidents that took up that particular summer. Between my freshman and sophomore year of highschool, I crossed the US. spanning 14 states and 4,000 thousand miles on just a bicycle. I started the ride with a team of six, but three dropped out from the physical strain of the ride. Being 15 at the time, I was the youngest member of the group by 3 years and I found out at the end of the trek that I was the youngest person to ever complete the across America ride. We started at Seaside, Oregon, and two months later ended in Coney Island. It was the most physically challenging thing I had ever done in my life, and it will stay that way unless I decide to climb Mt Everest. To put it into perspective, every day we biked the distance equivalent of 3 marathons. Despite being mentally and physically debilitating, I would do it again in a heartbeat. Being pushed so far out of my comfort zone was horribly uncomfortable, but I also met hundreds of inspiring people and learned more about myself than ever before. One thing that I didn't realize before the trip was the fact that we'd be alone for most of the day. Every morning our group would review the route for the day and set up rest stops every 20 miles or so. We'd meet up for lunch, but the rest of the time would be on our bike. Everyone moved at a different pace so it was inevitable that we'd get spread out. So there'd be days when I'd be alone on the road for hours. During this time I learned the skill of being content by myself. All that time riding, I had to be able to entertain myself. What I did was dive deep into a headspace. The best way to describe it was "productive daydreaming." I came up with a routine of asking myself a question in the morning, and spending the rest of that day trying to come up with an answer. Some notable internal debates I remember were "Where I find meaning in my life" "How I want to define myself as I grow older" "Why snowboarding is categorically better than skiing". Another reason this trip was so unique was because of how incredibly chaotic it was. There was no set route, no assistance, everything was on us. That freedom allowed us to do whatever we wanted. We took a 60 mile detour to see Mt. Rushmore because we felt like it. There was a time in Montana when Matt, one of my riding buddies, and I had stopped to readjust our gear. It was just after noon and we were keeping a good pace. As I was finishing up my bike, Matt elbowed me and pointed at a huge sign that just said "SEE GRIZZLY BEARS." We both looked at each other and paused. Why not? The total randomness of it was so funny to us that we were laughing hard enough that the attendant giving tickets looked genuinely concerned. We went through it and had a really good time. By our own initiative and willingness, stuff like that happened everyday. Rolling with the punches became our mindset. Sleep became our best friend. Any time we had an opportunity to nap, we took it. A patch of grass in some shade was like a five star feather bed. But this did lead us into some strange situations. On the West Coast where cycling on the interstate was legal, we would sleep underneath the guardrail of I-90, just 20 feet away from 18 wheelers screaming by at 70 miles an hour. Another time, I passed out inside of a gas station in Worthington, Minnesota and was promptly kicked out for quote, "disturbing the other customers with my snoring.' Biking through 3 different mountain ranges over the course of the ride, I became familiar with the soul-sucking, mind- numbing, thigh-destroying pain of climbing them, but also the elation of going down them. Being a bit of an adrenaline junkie, I was always pushing myself to see how fast I could get the bike to go. Now I thought for sure the Rockies would be my best bet to hit maximum velocity, but to my surprise the Appalachian mountains gave me the top speed of 50.2 miles an hour. This is blisteringly fast for a bike. At that point, there's no steering, I'm just along for the ride. It's like being on a rollercoaster and realizing right before the drop that you're not strapped into the harness. I white-knuckled the handlebars for dear life and prayed that I make it to the bottom of the hill alive. Now if it wasn't already obvious, this adventure changed my life. I could go on and on with stories of all the crazy things I saw and did, but really the main takeaway I gained from it was perspective. Perspective on how to live in the world. The things I saw and experienced reshaped the fundamental way I view the world and interact with people around me. There wasn't a single instance that made me change my personality, rather a culmination of events that presented me with ideas and I chose the ones that I believed could make me a better person. Everyone goes through this, it's just called life. As we gain more wisdom, we become more mature. For me, maturity is my attitude based on experience. It's the product of my familiarity and sensitivity to the circumstances of a situation. To be specific, it is to live in a way that recognizes that life is meaningful, in whatever shape or form that takes. Finally, I'll leave you with these words if you've gained nothing else. Ride like no one can see you, tell your mom you love her, and try to laugh when you crash into a metal "tractor crossing" sign. In the words of Albert Einstein, "Life is like riding a bicycle. To keep your balance, you must keep moving." Thank you. Richard Chang Tf you know me, you probably know that I'm a big listener to classical music. And if you didn't know before - now you know. This is because classical music, simply said, is the best genre of music on the market. Unfortunately, most people don't agree with me, and classical music, uhh, isn't really popular these days. In fact, the last time classical music was one of the ten most popular music genre was over 50 years ago, back in 1965. And guess what else was true in 1965? Minnesota sports teams were good, the Cleveland Browns just won the NFL Championship, and Mr. Boulger, the legendary former SPA math teacher and hall-of-fame math team coach, hadn't started teaching at SPA, Even worse, my "friends" don't share my fond interest in classical music, preferring to listen to songs from movies, some dude named Kanye West, or some other music that isn't classical music. They express this common sentiment that classical music is "boring," or "uninteresting," which frankly, I have no idea where they are getting this belief from. ? Despite this, I still trudge on, listening to all the best music that exists on this planet, such as Rachmaninoff's famous second piano concerto or the emotionally riveting sixth symphony of Tchaikovsky. I started listening to classical music when I was around five or six years old and started to, I mean, was forced to practice the piano. Although I didn't enjoy practicing the piano for most of my short life, I always seemed to like the music. F Back in the days when CDs were still relevant - a.k.a 2007 I'd put CD of piano music into the CD Player while practicing. And when asked why, I'd say I needed it for "background music". Although I currently don't cite my need for background music when I'm practicing the piano as an excuse to listen to classical music, I still frequently listen to it. I listen to it while I'm driving, I listen to it while I'm doing my homework, and I was probably listening to it as I was typing this speech. Enjoying classical music is just one of the, let's say unconventional viewpoints that I hold. Another one of my odder viewpoints is my bagel preference. I think that cinnamon raisin bagels -in my completely unbiased point of view are the clear-cut best type of bagel. Like have you tasted the sweetness of the raisin in the bagel as your teeth sink nicely into the bread? If you haven't, head to your local bagel store, whether that be Brueggers or Trader Joe's, as soon as possible and pick up some cinnamon raisin bagels. I promise you that you'll be enthralled. Heck, you don't even need to put cream cheese or jelly on the bagel to experience this delight! However, even though I enjoy cinnamon raisin bagels, the rest of the world doesn't seem to share my enjoyment. I know nobody else whose bagel of choice is a cinnamon raisin bagel. People often say that they prefer toroid-shaped pieces of white bread, also known as plain bagels, or even worse, they prefer blueberry bagels. In fact, an article published in June 2018 wrote that cinnamon raisin bagels are not even an acceptable bagel flavor. And in September 2018, the purchase of a cinnamon raisin bagel by a New York City political candidate stirred emotions across the city and divided New Yorkers, with one reporter describing the political candidate's consumption of a cinnamon raisin bagel as an "unforgivable crime against the bagel gods". 220 21 8 we became best friends. For all the good times we've had there have been a good amount of bad times as well. Such as the day I knocked out your tooth in knee hockey, or the day I had to send you to bed when I was pissed about how you were acting in front of my friends. Despite our differences, I know you will always be my best friend. One thing that we will never have in common is where we graduate from, and in a lot of ways it makes me sad that those aren't experiences that we're going to share. I wish we were playing on the same hockey team this year instead of being bitter rivals, but that's the way it is, so we have to make the best of it. Please just know that come February I'm not talking to you, and it isn't because I don't like you or anything like that. I know that soon high school will be over for me and none of that stuff will matter, but for now it does. It matters to me, I know it matters to you. But, soon it won't and we can go back to being brothers regardless of what happens. Unlike high school when it's time for you to pick a college, I hope that wherever I end up is high on your list as well, because I think it would be really cool for us to actually share an experience like that for once. Nonetheless, I know that you'll make the right decisions for yourselves and I will respect and support them until the end. I want to take my time up here on stage to tell you how grateful I am for all the times you have covered for my shenanigans as our mom calls them and for all the times you have cleaned the basement when I had work early in the morning. I truly am grateful to be able to call you my brother. I truly am grateful to call all three of you my brothers. You're the best that anyone could ask for and I hope you think the same about me, Now for the audience, find those people who you care about in your life and take the chance to tell them that. It doesn't need to be in front of your whole school, but telling people who you love that you love them really goes along way. Anyway, Roan Mac and Cy, thank you for being my brothers. Thomas Bagnoli Four years. Four years have gone by so quickly. Four years ago my classmates and I were freshmen. Everything was new to us; the pressure of grades, upperclassmen, making a specific team or organization, proving yourself to others, and just trying to fit in. Now, four years later, we are leaving with a long, memorable history of our time spent in high school. Long because of all the drama, mistakes, sleepless nights, early mornings, and anxiety borne from waiting for results, all kinds of results. Short because of the lasting relationships, memories, the short time given to complete athletic dreams, and the fleeting time we have while everything is so certain. Good or bad, long or short. I will always remember this school and the people who made it so much more than that. While I have spent four years here I can't say I've spent as many hours in these halls as some of us have, our teachers and faculty specifically. Our teachers spend an inhuman amount of time here, working, grading, organizing, all so that all of us can achieve more. I have been amazed at how genuinely every teacher cares about the growth of every one of their students, no matter their background or previous transgressions, in my case I have had a few. To look back on all this great place has given me, I would like to say thank you to the teachers and faculty that have made me, me. I would like to preface this by saying that you're all important to me, I just had a limited amount of time. First I would start by thanking Mr. Mcveety, one of the most wise, caring, and understanding teachers I have ever met. From teaching me the infamous tangent-intangent dance, to keeping me focused on what's most immediate, and reminding me that nothing is more important than my sleep. I think no one is more fundamentally important to St. Paul Academy's culture and values. Thank you Mr. McVeety for all you have done for me, as a student and as a person. Next, I would like to thank Mr. Bollinger Danielson or as he has been fondly nicknamed Bdann. Bdann is what my hockey teammates and I would call, "an absolute beautician" or "beauty" for short. He is the kind of guy who if you were to meet him for your first class on your first day of high school, you would immediately feel at home. Bdann's goofy yet also philosophical nature has been an instrumental part of my growth throughout High School. Thank you Bdann for challenging my thinking and better shaping my understanding of the world around me. ffff Lastly, I would like to thank Ms. Jt and Ms. Brooks, who have helped every single one of you at some point in your time at St. Paul Academy. They truly are the nicest and most genuine people you will meet. Their work throughout the library, with history papers, finding better sources, offering a pencil when you've lost your third one that day, goes a long way in displaying their care for you. You should all say Thank You to them today for all the hard work they do in keeping one of the largest spaces in our school organized, clean, and secure. While my teachers have played a large role in my growth my athletic participation has also shaped me into who I am today. First, the Boys Varsity Soccer Team. For the last four years I have played hard for the team as I participated in team bonding on Lang, ceremonial trips to Buca, training camp in Brainerd, playing in the rain, sneaking back out to practice in lightning even though Buzz would've killed me had he known, beating old rivals like Highland, Minnehaha, Humboldt, and St. Thomas Academy, and above all bonding with other guys who loved to play soccer. My coaches Max Lipset and Buzz Lagos have had an unbelievable impact on my character, and have helped me to become the student athlete that I am today. While the soccer team may have taken up the fleeting time I had in the fall, hockey season in Minnesota, is where I where I really felt most passionate. Most people don't understand the way in which hockey fastens itself onto you from an early age, and while I never wanted to make the stereotypical speech about hockey I would be remiss if I didn't include it in a speech with reference to the gratitude I feel for the people and pastimes that have shaped my identity throughout the last eighteen years. Hockey is the game I love. You lace up the skates, put on the gloves, strap on the helmet, and walk on to the ice and nothing else matters. It doesn't matter that you got your third straight C minus in precalc that day, or that you hear you might get suspended for a food fight you had earlier, or that you got a speeding ticket on the way there because you forgot what time practice started. For those two hours your world is absolutely perfect. Here's to all the early mornings, Saturday nights, cold showers, separated shoulders, blood, fights and ice. We skate through it all. Because we live off the adrenaline, because hockey frees our spirit, because the party in the locker room afterwards is worth it all. Above all else, I feel thankful for my family, my brother Michael, you are my best friend, my favorite opponent, the root to my beer, and the person I know will always have my back. I can't wait for Bagnoli Christmas' 30 years down the line where our kids are the biggest beauties ever. Thank you for always supporting me and understanding me, I know it couldn't have been easy. To my sister, Clara Ann, thank you so much for always keeping me and Michael even keeled during the hard parts of the year. It has been so awesome to see you grow through the exact same experiences I struggled with at Highland and hopefully next year at SPA. To my dad, thank you for your constant hand in keeping me on the right track these past 18 years. Thank you for the multiplication tables in the car, making literature drops fun, making fun of the phrases and faces I make, making sure I don't take myself too seriously or making sure I'm serious enough. You are who I aspire to be and are the most unique person I have met in my life. Thank you for all you have done for me, our family, and our home. I love you Finally, it is essential that I express gratitude to the most genuine, appreciative, important, and incredibly stubborn person in my life, my Mom. Thank you for shaping my life in teaching me the importance of thank you notes, dance parties, the power of Prince and Lizzo, funny political jokes, deep dish sausage and green olive pizza, and the power of prayer in moments of unrest. You are the reason I work so hard, the reason I play, the reason I have made so much of myself in the small time I've been alive. I could go on for a while but most sincerely I want to say thank you Mom for everything. I love you more than you know. To finish my speech I leave you with this advice. Make sure you're around when other people need someone to lean on. Being there is the only thing you can control and one of the best things you can do. They'll always remember your help and maybe even thank you for it. 9 4 my room and the assistant asked me for my name to write on the door. I told her that my name was Matt, When mother came back, the assistant said, "Matt is in the second stall on the left." My mother told her that she must have been confused because my mother's son's name was Lath, and not Matt. Sure enough, when my mother knocked on the second door on the left, it was me. Later that day, my mother and I talked about what happened with her and the assistant, and I told her about this Matt character. I asked her if I could start going by my middle name, "Augustin",which sounded more "American." She was hesitant about my request, but gave the choice to me. I initially thought that this would be a good idea, but before fully committing to this new plan, I decided to reach out to my father to learn more about my name and its importance to him. His words made me rethink how I should treat my name. After our conversation, I knew that the right decision was to keep my name. Choosing to have the opportunity to live up to the name "Lath" was one of the best decisions of my life. I still struggle when correcting people and educating them about my name, but throughout the last year, I have done it more and more. Although the name Lath means nothing in my community, it finally means something to me, which is all that really matters. Learning to fully embrace my name is a process that will take some time, but I am not worried, because I have finally realized how lucky I am to have received such a unique name. For everyone in the audience who is trying to conceal something about themselves to fit in, I challenge you to embrace that awkward or peculiar thing about yourself. Work towards accepting your differences, because you may not know it now, but you are lucky that you are unique. Thank you. Tommy Allen back I've generally stayed out of trouble during high school. In fact, the only time I've ever received detention was for failing to write this senior speech on time. But I've not always been such a model citizen. To prove my point, allow me to take you to one fateful overcast day in the spring of my 3rd grade year. After a long day of studying kickball strategy and the chemical properties of play-dough at Footprints Academy in Woodbury, my childhood best friend Jake Hosszu and I went to my house after school for a play date. When we got home, we walked over to a bus stop about a quarter-mile from my house to wait for a neighborhood friend named Antonio. While waiting for his school bus to arrive, Jake and I inevitably got bored. Being the sound-minded young men we were, we chose to pass the time by throwing rocks at cars that were driving by. We took turns throwing, but it was Jake who wound up hitting a car first. From less than 20 feet away, he had fired a rocket directly into the center of the passenger door of a seemingly brand new black SUV. The driver, a man in his late 30's, was pissed. He immediately slammed on his brakes, rolled down his window, and started yelling such profane things at us 9-year olds that I can't share them with you today. Then, as he drove away, he yelled at us that he was going to call the cops. Now, at that age, we could handle a little swearing, but the mention of the police scared the you-know-what out of us. Fueled by this kick of adrenaline, we took off in a dead sprint for my house. Our panic exploded and threw the whole thing out of proportion. In our mind, life as we knew it was over. We were now criminals, and we were going to jail. Desperate to elude the police and avoid this hypothetical fate, we contemplated changing our names and moving to a foreign country, but ultimately just changed our clothes. Summoning the necessary courage, we told my mom what had happened. She attempted to calm us down by saying that the man was just lying and wouldn't actually call the cops on a couple of 3rd graders. But sure enough, less than 10 minutes later, a Woodbury police officer was driving down my street. Despite our violent pleading, my mom took us out to talk to the police officer. The interaction was brief: he took our names, asked us what happened, and then we lied straight to his face, insisting that we were just trying to throw wood chips across the street, and some unfortunate timing caused us to hit the car. He then informed us that the man might press further charges and left. Luckily, nothing more came out of this, and we were able to move on. That's the nice thing about childhood; it affords us all the chance to make mistakes and learn from them. However, there are certain things due to time and/or circumstances that H you don't necessarily get a second chance to apply what you've learned. One of these things is high school. I've learned a lot during my time here, but with only two months left, my story is basically already written. But, in the hope of helping some of you avoid the same mistakes I've made, here are a couple of the most important things I've discovered while in high school. Number One: writing and giving a senior speech is not as bad as you think. In my estimation, there are two kinds of people when it comes to senior speeches: those who view it as an opportunity and those who view it as a graduation requirement. I can say pretty confidently that I'm a member of the latter. Even a year ago, the thought of giving my speech gave me a feeling close to that which I felt when I first saw the police car rolling down my street. I doubted my ability to come up with a good idea and write my speech, much less stand up in front of 400 people and give it. But for whatever reason, the majority of that fear went away. And my presence up here on stage today stands as a testament that giving your speech is indeed possible. So don't stress out over your speech like I did. You just have to trust in whatever higher power you believe in, along with the guidance of Mr. Shulow, that it will all work out in the end. And while I'm on the topic, don't wait until the week before to write your speech. Procrastinating is never good, but especially when it's on arguably one of the biggest things you'll write in your life, it's not fun - trust me, I know. Number Two: Don't be afraid to try things. Entering 9th grade, I was focused solely on sports and academics. But Mr. Boulger had other plans; he wanted me on the math team. He talked to my parents at conferences, and even called my phone and left me a voicemail trying to get me to join. Despite my initial reluctance, his perseverance paid off. I've been a member of the math team all four years of high school and have loved it. Looking back, I realize I got very lucky. Had it not been for all of Mr. Boulger's recruiting, it's unlikely I would have gone out of my comfort zone and joined, and I would have missed out on this awesome opportunity. So, be open to trying new things because you just might like them. I mean, the worst thing that could happen is you don't like it and quit, but if you don't try, you'll never know. I've tried to take this message to heart my senior year: I've gone on runs with the SPA adult running club headed B-Dan and de Sa, I went down to observe the Iowa caucuses, and I even attended a hockey captains practice even though I had never played the game before in my life. Finally, Number Three: make sure to enjoy your time in school. Here at SPA, we put a lot of emphasis on the future: setting our sights on prestigious universities and working hard to achieve the grades and test scores that are necessary to attend them, I fell into this mindset, too often prioritizing academic perfection ahead of having fun with my friends. While it's necessary to look ahead, I've come to realize it is also important to enjoy the here and now. While high school can definitely be difficult, if you think about it, it's a pretty special experience. As my cousin who graduated here six years ago affectionately describes it, high school is probably the only time in the rest of your life that you will be locked in a building for seven hours a day with your best friends. So remember to enjoy it. A recent event cemented my thinking on this. My grandfather passed away a couple weeks ago, and among other things I learned from that emotional experience, it was a sharp reminder that life is temporary, and it goes fast. So more generally, high school and beyond, it's important to have fun and do what you want to do because life is a gift, and you'll never know how much of it you get. That being said, by choosing to send us here, our parents are making considerable sacrifices to give us a great education. So I'm not advocating that having fun should become the sole focus, but rather there should be more of a balance. Try to remember it this way. During a dinner conversation in the world-renowned film Talladega Nights, Cal Naughton Jr, who is played by John C. Reilly, states, "I like to picture Jesus in a tuxedo T-shirt because it says I'm formal, but I'm also here to party." I think it's best to look at life in high school the same way Cal Naughton Jr envisions Jesus. Show up and do the work, but remember to have fun at the same time. I understand some of these messages may be slightly cliche, and that you've probably heard variations of them in other speeches, but consider that they are so for a reason. Other students have gone through high school and experienced what I have. However, during those speeches, I was either zoned out and didn't hear them at all, or I simply didn't believe the messages of my older peers. But I promise I've been sincere, and if you take some of these things to heart, hopefully your high school experience can be void of some of the same mistakes I've made along the way. 5 48 To return to the question of what my cats are doing when I leave home, they are probably sleeping in my dirty laundry. In their eyes, I imagine, they have transcended the image of Sisyphus and recognized the true ideals of silence and failure. Unlike myself, they are not trapped in someone else's order or within language, and have accepted the Greek concept of "nemo," the sense of futility and ephemerality in their existence. Through exploring how the self can transform into the other, I have found an inner home within myself, in which I can feel at home despite the chaos of my external situation. This inner self is not anything radical, just a process of homeostasis, like a monk surviving mountain blizzards simply through the deepening of the breath. Though I may be the map that draws itself into strange lands, I try to keep my house in order, never letting it overflow, but when it does, I go for a 15 mile run or sit for two hours: you should try it. Abby Hedberg Writing this speech was hard for me because I have always wanted to be remembered. After watching the first few rounds of speeches in ninth grade, I decided that when my time came to shine, I would stand up on the Huss stage (or I guess in my house) and deliver a moving speech. With that expectation sitting like a burden on my shoulders, I began to dread becoming a senior. Until recently, I did not consider that giving a revolutionary speech may not even be what I wanted, but rather what I thought others expected of me. After much deliberation, I decided that I was going to write to impress no one in this audience. Instead, my goal is to be honest, first and foremost with myself, and share my story. To that end, I am going to use my time up here to speak about a couple of things I have learned during my time at SPA, The first important lesson that I want to share with you all is that vulnerability is so important. I would go so far as to say that it is a cornerstone of individual progress. Brene Brown, a research professor at the University of Houston, defines vulnerability as emotional risk and exposure. Our culture teaches us to avoid identifying with these words because they have come to be associated with weakness. Technology has made it easy for us to avoid the perceived consequences of putting ourselves in a position of uncertainty. Why engage in an interaction and put oneself out there if we don't know what is going to happen? In truth, there are some things that we are never going to know, and that is okay. We have to take that leap anyway. I have had to come to terms with this truth in two main areas of my life. As a Christian, I have often found myself questioning God's will. When I look at the tragedies facing the world today, it can be hard to believe there is an all-knowing, loving power in control that has good intentions. Even though I am never going to have a face-to-face conversation with God while I am here on earth, I still have faith. That does not mean that I do not have questions or doubts, but rather that I continue to persevere through the difficult times and take small steps forward. Broadly speaking, I started to struggle with opening up to people in ninth grade. When I began to deal with depression and anxiety, I did not know what to do, so I buried it inside. I did not think that I deserved to have those emotions because of the privileged life that I have. I was ashamed. And shame needs three things to survive: secrecy, silence, and judgment. For the next few years of high school, I isolated my emotions and refused to address them. Once in a while, I would break down, but never in front of anybody. I would hold it together until it was safe, letting myself acknowledge my negative feelings until it was time to wrap them up neatly in a box. I learned how to push the hard stuff away by focusing on school and sports. became easy for me, honestly. There were times when I thought it would all go away by itself. The root of the problem was my skewed definition of strength. I believed strength to be defined by an individual's capacity to overcome hardship alonse and thus refused to accept help. I would reach out when I was near rock bottom as a temporary fix. I could not accept that to actively participate in my healing process I would have to be vulnerable. It However, a few months ago I took a leap of faith. Even though I did not know what was going to happen and I was nervous, I made an effort to take the advice of my therapist. I invited my parents to sit in on a session, and it went really well. I am not saying that it has become easy, because that is the furthest thing from the truth. But I have seen change, and that is what matters. My relationships have become stronger. More importantly, I am starting to see myself and my emotions as valid. The need we feel to protect ourselves and our loved ones stems from fear. Sometimes, that fear is logical. However, most of the time, it hinders our ability to connect on an authentic level. I am in no way saying that every person you meet in your life deserves to hear your story. I am merely stating the importance of being vulnerable with people you trust because it is essential for development and your mental health. I still struggle and by no means have all the answers. However, I wish I would have started to genuinely believe in the power of vulnerability at an earlier stage of my life. Another thing that I have learned is that there is a thin line between pushing yourself to do better and not being good enough. Ever since lower school, I have been a high achiever. I strive for greatness in every endeavor I pursue, whether academic or athletic. Somewhere along the way, I began to believe that my successes, or lack thereof, determined my self-worth. While attending SPA, I have realized how pervasive this mindset is amongst the student body. Many view productivity as an accurate measure of their value. I speak from experience when I say this mindset is incredibly harmful. Additionally, social media has had a significant influence on the way that I perceive myself. For most of high school, I allowed images on a screen to influence my self-esteem and dictate my mood. I believed that in order to be good enough, I had to look a certain way, act a certain way, be a certain way. I struggled to be happy with who I was and continually criticized myself for what I was lacking. If I am honest, it is still hard for me to prevent that negative voice from taking over. However, I have come to terms with the fact that I will never be perfect. More importantly, God loves me for who I am. He created me, and each of you, in his image. Sometimes, when I am feeling the weight of the world on my shoulders, I say to myself, "I am a child of God." If you are not religious, memorizing an uplifting quote can serve the same purpose. To wrap this speech up, I would like to remind the SPA community of the importance of taking time to check in with yourself and others, especially right now. If you are struggling to find joy for whatever reason, just take a small step forward. Facetime your friends! Talk with your family! Mention something simple, like what you did that day, and then allow the conversation to flow in its natural course. Remember, you are the only one who can change your life for the better. You don't have to do it alone, but the one person that does have to be on board in order for it to work is you. Sophia Heegaard There is no 'T' in 'team'......... Unless you're dyslexic, of course, then... there could also be a 'y.' Being dyslexic is a little like when you are taking a math test and you put 2 plus 2 into your calculator just to check that it's actually 4, except that you have to make sure that you are spelling simple words like "where" and "when" correctly. It gets tiring, to say the least. And it can make my least favorite things, which are public speaking and reading out loud, even worse, so you can imagine how thrilled I am to be in front of all of you right now. When the teacher would announce that we were going in a circle to take turns reading a passage or article, I would quickly count the people until my turn, then subsequently count the number of sentences in the reading 'til my turn. This was my tactic to make sure that I didn't embarrass myself in front of the class. But, there was always the one kid who loved to hear their own voice and would read TWO sentences, throwing off my whole plan. You know who you are, Pia. Aside from trying to plan ahead, one of my coping mechanisms has been surrounding myself with supportive people who have helped me to find the humor in my challenges. For example, at airports, bathrooms are normally marked with a big "M" or "W" well...those letters look very similar to me and flip in my head...this has led to a number of very uncomfortable encounters. Directions are also difficult, to say the least. I do not know my rights from lefts. It's fair to say that it normally takes me a couple of extra minutes to get places. My friends know this all too well. But, instead of feeling embarrassed, I am able to laugh with them. My family also takes a light-hearted approach. My dad has kept all of the letters that I wrote to him when I was younger, and looking back at the jumbled, almost indecipherable words, we are able to laugh and joke about them because I know it comes from a place of love, Most of the time I am able to find the humor in my situation but sometimes it is challenging. I have not always been this comfortable talking about this part of myself. When I was younger, I refused to tell my friends because I did not want them to look at me differently or pity me. 49 34 working over 60 hours a week in one of the most strenuous jobs, he makes time to call not just home, but me, individually, nearly every week. When he comes home, he continues to teach me. Now, though, it's not about baseball, it's about his job in finance, and he has helped me expand my knowledge on the economy, markets, and deep thinking. Harrisen, who is 23, teaches me to be strong in a different way. While Spencer taught me to lead and think differently, Harrisen taught me to be confident in myself. He shows me how personal security can lead to success and strength. I see a lot of myself in him, which excites me because I see where he is and I can only dream to achieve what he has and will. Now, out of the house and living in Boston, he still reaches out for fashion advice and to share his newest purchases. Emerson, the 20 year old, is my best friend. Honestly, he gave me my personality and my humor. Every phrase I've coined was once his, and I will forever react to his actions by simply saying "neeeeerd." or "hah, boom, roasted." Everyday, he sets an example that teaches me to be successful without taking life too seriously. He is fun, but works harder than anyone I know. Right now, he's in Dublin, studying business. While I'm proud of him, I really miss him, especially given that we spent the whole month of his winter break watching Harry Potter, every Marvel movie, Brooklyn 99, and Scooby-doo cartoons. But I'm proud to say that our texts still consist of 90% GIFs and stupid jokes. He has taught me so much about myself, happiness, and humor. My brothers are the most important part of my life, well beyond baseball. They are there for me, anytime, which is impressive given their busy schedules, but I've always been there for them, and we're here for each other. When Spencer got cleated, I was there. When Harrisen, a pitcher, got hit in the back of the head on the mound, I was there. When Spencer got Hematoma in his leg, I was there. I mean, barely, I mostly remember bawling in the yard as the ambulance pulled him inside, but, technically, I was there, When they won the state tournament, I was there. Every baseball memory that is theirs, is also mine, not in the same way, of course, but some of my most prominent childhood memories revolve around baseball, and nearly all of them revolve around my brothers. I may have thought that I had no life because my brothers play baseball, and I still wear that shirt religiously, but now, I know that I have a life because my brothers played baseball, and I will forever be grateful for their lessons, both on the field and off. 3 on, bases loaded. 2 down. Bottom of the ninth. Pitch, slider, swing, foul, dot above. Pitch, swing, outta the park. HR, walk off homerun. Andrew Ellis Summer jobs for teenagers are not always the most fun, especially those that I have pursued. My lack of work experience led me to stints as both a dishwasher and a house painter. Despite the unpleasant aspects of these engagements, they each caused me to reflect on the difference between what is on the surface and what lies beneath, After the end of my freshman year, my parents happily told me I needed a job. I was well aware that my years of summer bliss would eventually come to an end. I could no longer spend my summertime at camps, hanging out with my friends all day, or best of all, sleeping in. At this point in my life, I didn't know how to approach people professionally, let alone ask for a job. I looked to my dad for advice. He told me to walk to the restaurant around the corner and see if they were hiring. So the next day, I nervously walked into the crowded restaurant and asked for the owner. After a short, and somewhat awkward conversation, he firmly shook my sweaty hand and said: "see you tomorrow." I was so happy that I called my dad on the three- minute walk back to my house. I held on to that dishwasher job through the summer of my sophomore year. But it wasn't easy. The stifling hot kitchen was gross and unsettling. I spent my days scrubbing grease out of frying pans, wiping half-eaten pancakes into the trash, mopping kitchen floors, and scouring grime from the grills and backsplashes. The highlight of my days were seeing how fast I could clean the freezer, crack 400 eggs, or how many potatoes I could peel in five minutes. But despite my best efforts, it was next to impossible to keep up with the mess in the kitchen. Working in the kitchen wasn't all that bad though. I worked with many Mexican immigrants who told me about their immigration stories, culture, families, and hobbies. They always offered their jokes, and laughter, which brightened my days. Their hard work made me feel welcomed and my job more enjoyable. In stark contrast to the kitchen, the cafe owner and his ensemble of wait staff kept the front of the restaurant pristine. Well kept tables with flower arrangements and cloth napkins welcomed every customer. Judging by the long lines for a table each day, people enjoyed eating at the restaurant. To me, however, the restaurant perpetuated a falsehood. Immaculate table arrangements and spotless floors belied the reality of the dirty kitchen. As my junior year came to a close, I craved a change from the dishwasher's life. I could not go through another agonizing summer of scrubbing dishes and grease. Another awkward conversation later, I found myself trading in my sponge and apron for painter's tools. Every day last summer, I was patching cracks, painting trim, and hanging drywall for a local remodeling firm. The work that I traded dishes for was just as hard, if not harder, than the various tasks I completed at the cafe. The days were long, the work was more tiring and way more boring. A few days every month, I actually watched paint dry. At the end of every day, I left my worksites covered in an armor of paint and dust. On the first day of my new job, my boss told me that, "A wall is never perfectly flat or seamless and a line is never perfectly straight and crisp. Your work doesn't have to be perfect, but you have to convince the customer that it is." Of course, this was not an excuse for sloppy work, but like the dirty kitchen behind the immaculate dining room, there was an illusion at play. This practice of obscuring the truth made me think about my own presentation to the world-what I hid and what I freely shared about myself. When I was younger, each year in mid-December, my friends inevitably asked, "What are you doing for Christmas?" I found myself fabricating responses to the question. Each time, I would fumble my words and spit out a halfhearted, "going to my grandparents," or, "not much, really," and quickly change the subject. In my predominantly Lutheran neighborhood, deflecting became reflexive and was enough to satisfy my friends' curiosity about holiday plans. For some reason, I could never build up the courage to point out that I am Jewish. I dreaded the awkward moment of having to explain (or more accurately, feeling the need to explain), and I hated the idea of possibly embarrassing a friend who made an innocent assumption about me. So, for a long time, I was willing to trade transparency to satisfy my comfort. Gradually, this omission of convenience evolved into indifference towards Judaism. Over time, my indifference began to feel like rejection; that's when I began to question myself. I realized that my dishonesty was eroding my identity. Frustrated by the internal dissonance, I started to think more seriously about the piece of my identity that I hadn't even realized was missing. Reacquainting myself with Judaism wasn't easy at first. As I became older, I was more aware of antisemitism through the news and personal experiences. Events like Charlottesville and the Pittsburgh Synagogue shooting were ingrained into my mind. The effects of these events reverberated into the Jewish community around me. The synagogue I belonged to called for a meeting of the congregation to discuss new security measures to ensure everyone's safety. Even though these events act as the face of antisemitism, smaller-scale actions often go unnoticed. Antisemitic jokes and small scale vandalism only add fuel to the fire. It was difficult for me to comprehend why I can't go to services without seeing armed police officers. I questioned why the Jewish community center only miles from this school experienced bomb threats every year. But, accepting the existence of antisemitism was a barrier that I needed to get past. So I started slowly, first going to Shabbat services a few times a month, gradually reacquainting myself with the melodies and rhythms of the service. I then began to pull books off my parents' shelves and joined a Jewish affinity club at school. I have grown to appreciate the rich culture and traditions that I had long ignored. I would not describe myself as religious; I'm not a regular at my temple and don't pray often. But, I now realize that the lessons of Judaism--repairing the world; the insistence of debating and asking questions; and being resilient in the face of adversity-provide a framework for living a meaningful life. So unlike the spotless cafe with the dirty kitchen or the painted line that only gives the impression of being true, I with illusions, and everyone in this audience should be too. Peter Findell am done Did you know that Nebraska's state tourism motto is "Nebraska, it's not for everyone?" Well, for my spring break vacation, I went to there. No. Seriously. It wasn't exactly planned - I would have been in Germany for a student exchange trip - but because of the COVID-19 virus, the trip was canceled. However my mom had an idea - a road trip to Kearney, Nebraska, to see the migration of some 600,000 Sandhill Cranes. 80% of the world's population of cranes travel through central Nebraska 35 32 Minnesota means that there is never a lake very far away. During the fall and summer, I love to get on the open water fishing in my boat on a variety of lakes around the metro area. In the winter, there is nothing I like more than being on a frozen lake with my ice auger and flasher, searching for fish below the surface. There has always been something special about being outside to me. It is a place where I can truly do whatever I want and be myself. Having the freedom to be in nature is a special opportunity. I know I am lucky to have it. While nature is not too far away from a city like Minneapolis, my favorite place is our family's cabin in Northern Wisconsin. This is where I have learned a lot of lessons about being in nature. The cabin is a house on a dirt road, nestled in a grove of trees. There is a boardwalk leading from the house down to the sandy shores of Lake Superior. Across the road is a large forest, with trees stretching as far as you can see. When I was younger, I often escaped to these woods, sometimes with my sister Maya, sometimes alone, building forts and campfires to pass the time. I loved being back in these woods when the crisp winter air was beginning to set in. When I got older and got my driver's license and bought a fishing boat to pull behind the car, I began to venture a little further down the road to a small lake with a shoreline coated in thick brush and trees. This was one of the magical places where I developed my love of fishing. Upon arriving to the lake, I used to back my boat into the almost always empty boat launch, wasting no time before starting the boat's motor and heading out to the first fishing spot. As I kept going back to a few of the same lakes in this area, I learned a lot more about the lakes, the species of fish present, and the changing of the seasons. For me, fishing has always been about trying new things. I think the thing that keeps me going back is the fact that once you think you have a pattern figured out then the fish move and their behavior changes. Everything in a lake is constantly changing and you need to adjust and adapt in order to be successful. This is something that I try to carry into my life. I'm a person who loves routines but getting out of my comfort zone is something that helps me grow and is also a great stress reliever. Although it isn't easy at the moment to stretch yourself, after you've done something new or challenging you feel great. Being outside has taught me a variety of lessons that I carry through my day to day life. Lesson number one: I am just one small piece of the universe. When I am outdoors, I have a much easier time remembering that I am a small piece of a much larger picture. When camping, I notice all the other animals around me, the birds chirping, the squirrels rustling in the trees above me and the small bugs moving around on the log next to me. If I am near a lake, I know that hundreds of fish live in the lake and are swimming around doing their own thing. I know that bears and wolves live in the woods around me, and are much stronger than me. Without being outside in nature and out in the forest, it is hard to understand your position in the world. In the modern city-based world, humans are at the top of the food chain. And social media can make us imagine we are important, but can also make us feel really alienated from the bigger world around us. Lesson number two: the power of silence. In the modern world, there is so much noise and so little silence. And if you've met me you probably have realized that I don't say much. This is in part from being a fairly shy and quiet person but also I realize that it is not necessarily a bad thing to not say much. In school, students are expected to participate in class and in Harkness discussions. Silence usually results in a poor participation grade. So, outside of the classroom, it is really refreshing just to hear silence. In my opinion, silence can be calming. Silence can refresh my mind in a way that noise and busy-ness never will. One experience I have with real silence was in the Boundary Waters Canoe Area. What I mean by silence is no noise from humans and only the noise of animals, the wind and the water. One time, I was out in a canoe at dusk on a large lake, paddling with my best friends in front and behind me. We were fishing for anything that would bite. The sun had begun to set, and the sky was like a watercolor - reds and oranges streaked across the horizon. The light breeze which had been whistling through the pines suddenly subsided, and all we could hear was the light wash of the water against the hull of the boat. A loon called out in the distance, and the sound echoed off the steep rocky cliffs on the shoreline. Another loon responded in the distance, and then the night went silent. We continued fishing until it got too dark to see the mosquitoes that we could hear were swarming right in front of our faces. We paddled slowly back to the site and pulled the canoe up onto the rocks by our campsite. My dad and sister were sitting quietly in front of a large bonfire heating up dinner. The air was filled with the crackle of the fire and a thick layer of smoke drifting above the trees. The experience I had with silence that night stands out in my mind. Lesson number three: Thinking about nature is good for your health. "Research in a growing scientific field called ecotherapy has shown a strong connection between time spent in nature and reduced stress, anxiety, and depression."* And according to some of the research, even looking at certain pictures of nature or listening to natural sounds can trigger feelings of well- being. So I want everyone in the audience to remember that when you're stressed and overwhelmed, it's a good idea to try to imagine a moment when you were in nature and everything felt right. Imagine a moment in the woods or on a lake when you truly felt at peace. Imagine the people you were with, and the smells and what you could see. Whenever I get stressed or ? anxious about anything, I deliberately focus on how I felt in the silence of that evening in the Boundary Waters. This is just a small thing but it always helps me feel better. I hope you can use this and thank you for your time. Audrey Egly 6, 4, 3... 1 down. Strike, dot above. Ball, dot below. Bat on ball, foul, dot above. Strike --looking-- backwards K. 2 down. Strike, dot above, bat on ball, 7, 6, 3, error on 3. Runner on second. New batter. First ball, FO 8. Circle, 3 down. Inning over. "I have no life, my brothers play baseball." These bold black words read across my brand new tourist stand t-shirt. We were in Cooperstown for my brother's baseball tournament. I have three older brothers, so this trip was made numerous times. This time, I was 9 years old and I begged my mom to stop in the tourist shop so I could look at the bright shirts. Immediately, I was drawn to the tie-dye one. I read the letters and knew it was for me. The next day, I showed up to the field, proud to show off my new shirt to the parents. One of the moms read the words and remarked on the accuracy of the statement laid across it: I really had no life because my brothers played baseball. An example of my life-less existence occurred at the same Cooperstown field just four years prior. I remember it was 1 am and I was standing in the foggy cold waiting for my brother's game to start. Yes, you heard correctly: 1 AM, as in, the morning, waiting for my brother's game to START, i.e. it had not yet begun. There was a fog delay, rain delay, lightning delay, and just about any other delay you can imagine. Someone decided that it was okay to keep these 12 and 13 year olds at the field all night just to play baseball. More importantly, someone somehow decided it was okay to keep little 5 year old me there to watch baseball at one in the morning. I survived but, in actuality, this scenario was not uncommon for me. Sure, it was the only one am, foggy game I've ever watched, but I have been watching baseball ever since I was a baby. If it hadn't been February when I was born, and the Superbowl hadn't been on, I'm sure I would have come right out the womb and gone straight to a field. That's how consumed my life was with the sport. Especially in the summers. The Edina community baseball fields became my second home in the summers of my childhood. With three older brothers, there was some level of baseball happening nearly every night for months. Sometimes, I had one brother on field 1, one on field 3, and one on field 4. It was crazy. In my occasional boredom, I began looking for work. Sometimes I walked family's dogs around the park for a dollar towards concessions. When I wasn't walking dogs or playing with the little green or spikey caterpillars on the dugouts, I was sitting next to my dad, asking what happened, why it happened, and absorbing everything there was to know about baseball. Fast forward a decade, and one of my brothers, Harrisen, is in college, playing D1 baseball at Columbia. Each spring, every few weekends, my parents and I would go to New York and watch his games. I learned to say hi to parents, network a bit, and then get down to real business. And by business, I mean steal tailgate food, put chocolate covered pretzels in a red solo cup, and walk down to the stadium to find my perfect seat. My dad taught me how to score, so I always sat in the same spot and I would start setting up my book, writing down the lineups, game time, and other necessary information. In college, games are 9 innings, so theoretically, they should have been extra boring compared to the high school ones, and sometimes they were, but really, I have never had more fun watching baseball. I learned more about the game, practiced my scoring, and now, I can confidently say that I know more about baseball than some people who actually play baseball, and I'm a girl. Girls don't usually play baseball. Now, don't get me wrong, I don't want to play baseball, I am not here to argue that I should be able to. I mean, it's terrifying: a tiny ball thrown over 90 miles per hour just a few inches away from another person? Count me out. Instead, I'm just saying, one of the most important things in my life is something I don't even actively participate in and I'm not supposed to actively participate in. Yet, I can't imagine my life without it. I can't imagine not knowing how to score, or not spending nearly every waking minute of my young summers at Braemar watching baseball. And most importantly, I can't imagine not having my brothers. They made me who I am. They made me love baseball, yes, but it goes beyond that. Spencer, the oldest, is 24. He taught me to be a leader. I grew up with his voice constantly telling me not to follow the crowd. And, as I'm sure many of you know, I am extremely independent. This comes, in large part, from Spencer. Even now, as he's 33 80 members try and show everyone why they are right and their opposition is wrong. Instead, why don't we treat everyone as an individual rather than a part of a group. Just because you disagree on one thing doesn't mean you disagree on everything. So, let's return to our basic principle of individualism and do away with seeing people as just part of a group because when people are forced to think the same way, the individualism of our democracy is already lost. Noah Rice In the summer of 7th grade I decided to sign up for a Model UN camp. The camp organization was called MITY, which stands for the Minnesota Institute for Talented Youth. Just by the name, it sounded like nerd camp to me. Every summer before, I had gone to summer camps because I had a lot of energy and my parents didn't want to deal with me 24/7. So, in lower school I went to a Jewish day camp on Lake Minnetonka. As I said before, I was a hyper child, so the mandatory 45 minutes of menucha meaning rest in hebrew at my Jewish day camp really weren't my speed. When I got older, I began doing more sports camps at the University of Minnesota. There I played sports like lacrosse, football, ultimate, and rock climbing. However, the summer 7th grade I ended up at nerd camp. Now I had previously only really done "normal" fun summer camps so to me a two week camp on Model UN sounded like code for summer school. Going into the camp, I was sure it was going to be full of nerds who had brain processing speeds three times the speed of mine, and actually thought the International section of The New York Times was riveting. On the first day of camp it became painfully obvious that I was in fact surrounded by nerds. To make matters worse, the small campus of Macalester was also hosting a tech camp at the same time so the overall intimidation via nerds was in highgear. Because I had always done camps that required minimal brain effort, and mostly were based on athletic abilities, I found it really easy to make friends and socialize with like minded people who also signed up for those camps. Now you might be thinking, 'well Noah, you signed up for this model UN camp,' and you would be right. However at that moment in time, 7th grade me did not want to associate any percentage of my personality with nerds. And thus, the first day of camp, I learned about parliamentary procedure and ate lunch alone at Breadsmith and Jamba Juice. After the first day, we jumped right into a simulation and I was tasked with representing Japan. This meant I would have to read news articles and other sources to understand Japanese government and foreign relations. Most kids start reading the news with the comics section, but not me. No, my middle school friend and I would scavenge through the Star Tribune every morning looking for the local crime section to see who was murdered or robbed the night before and then at school we would discuss our findings. However, now all of a sudden, I saw a whole new world where countries were robbing each other. After all the researching, it was time to put my new knowledge to the test in the model UN simulation, forcing me to actually interact with these nerds. I had to give speeches stating Japan's position on various issues, and talk to the other delegates to make resolutions. From these interactions I got to know my classmates and saw how interesting and interested they were. In turn their confidence made me feel comfortable to show my interest in the topic too. So, by the third day, I graduated from the solo trips to Breadsmith to splitting chocolate babkas with the class. Now while this was all going on, and I was finding self confidence showing my interests in academics, I found that it was a confidence that was confined to the Macalester campus. Every morning I would go to practice, and see all my teammates. This social dynamic was by far where I felt most comfortable. We didn't care about what each other thought was interesting in school, we all just joked around. Because of this culture on the team, I never shared with them about how much fun I was having at this camp that I had to leave practice early for. As a result, I used humor to try and separate myself from the people at camp, calling it "nerd camp" when asked why I had to leave. I did MITY again the next summer and had an equally great experience. When I was looking at high schools, I remembered how it felt to be in an environment where I felt comfortable in owning my interests in an unfiltered way. This was the main reason why I chose to come to SPA. After watching students feel confident enough to engage in class discussions, I knew SPA was where I wanted to be. However, finding that same confidence was not the easiest. Here at SPA I am sure you all are very familiar with the biannual tradition of parent teacher conferences. Each year my parents would go talk to my teachers, but my history and English teachers always had the same things to say. It would start out with a teacher talking about how they enjoyed having me in class and that I am a "good listener," but hoped I would participate more
111 in big class discussions. For those of you who don't know, I came from a Quaker school. Now that means that I am possibly the most comfortable person when it comes to prolonged silence. Since kindergarten, every Wednesday the whole school would sit silently on the floor in the gym for thirty minutes. Yes you heard me correctly, thirty whole minutes of silence. That was only three seconds. So, when harkness discussions were first introduced to me, I saw no issue with three to five minute stretches of silence where that rest of you all shifted awkwardly in your seats and smiled at each other. However silence in discussion at SPA is not what gets you points. Now back at MITY, I would always participate, but here in class it felt harder. At the time I did not know why, but now it is clear. People who like reading books are nerds. of Going into senior year, I found that I had a new sense of enjoyment in the previously mundane. As I fell into the rhythms my first semester classes, I found that, unintentionally, three of my classes were in conversation with each other. I gained an interesting perspective of global politics as I studied refugees and migration, the literature about this subject, and then big picture ideas about the causes for such a chaotic world in which we live. All of this was happening at the same time that I was applying to college and in the end made me rethink what I want to do with my life. Before this year, and even at the beginning of this semester, I would have told you that I was sure I wanted to be an architect. I applied to architecture schools, but always planned on taking classes in the humanities for fun or as a minor. However this past semester pushed me to realize that I am not 100% sure that architecture will be the path for me. After a moment of freaking out over my uncertain future and a last minute application change, I began to realize that for where I am right now, it doesn't matter that I am now unsure where my path will lead. If not for the opportunity I have had to explore my interests in a space, and with the people around me who encouraged my growth overtime, I would have never found myself in this beautiful stage of fluidity. For many of you in this audience, the next major jump in life is fast approaching. You may have a concrete idea of what you wish to do with your life, or you may have none at all. This situation in which you find yourselves in may worry you as it did me. However, I hope that from this speech you will have seen that through my experience as just an average senior that as you follow your interests and passions in the moment, you will find the confidence in yourself to trust that your future will turn out exactly the way it should. Be open to the fact that your plans for yourself may change tomorrow, next week, or in years to come, and trust that will be ok. Also, nerds aren't always that bad. Ethan Richman I am perfect. You can laugh, that was a joke. As most of you know I am the furthest thing from perfect. I have made and continue to make thousands of mistakes which have in turn stripped me of my title of the perfect human being. But I'm ok with that because I know nobody else is perfect and everyone makes the same sort of mistakes that I do. Whether it is in math and accidentally adding something when there is clearly a subtraction sign. Or not realizing the teacher is standing over your shoulder watching you play games on your computer when you're supposed to be working on your paper. Some of you might be more responsible and not have made that last mistake but you get the point. Everybody makes mistakes. While most people seem to understand this concept, what they don't seem to understand is how to move on from these mistakes. There are two ways you can move on: the first is to not move on at all and dwell on your mistake, which leaves you more susceptible to making bigger mistakes;the other option is to accept your mistake and learn from it. Now because I can't end my speech here I'll give you some examples of some of my family's most traumatic mistakes. In kindergarten, I hated that every Monday I had to go to school while my little sister Becca got an extended weekend. So to try and get out of going to school I would come up with any possible sickness my young mind could think of. It worked the first few times but soon my parents caught on to the pattern of my stomach hurting every Monday morning. So they did what every smart set of parents would do and called my bluff. This plan seriously backfired one fateful day. I complained to my parents that morning that my stomach really hurt more than it ever had before but they still sent me to school thinking I was faking. My dad got a call later that day saying that I was throwing up all over the nurse's office and that he had to come pick me up. He was busy at work and left me sitting in the nurse's office until the end of the day. After finally picking me up I kept complaining about stomach pain but instead of taking me to the doctor we went home to relieve the nanny. Finally my dad listened to my complaints and took me to the ER. Turns out my appendix had exploded earlier that morning and I was rushed immediately into surgery to remove its poisonous remnants. 81 74 While all my experiences were different, they were all very enjoyable and I gained a lot from them. I learned about the many diverse cultures of the world and about everybody's different experiences. I gained a greater understanding of people's many different lifestyles and it has helped me recognize that even though there were a lot of differences, there were also many underlying similarities between cultures and peoples. Even though the streets in Egypt were extremely dirty and piled with trash, and the weather in Qatar was extremely hot, kids still went outside everyday to play and have fun. In particular I noticed that soccer, or football, was played by kids on the street everywhere I went. Moreover, the smiles on the kids' faces were the same everywhere I went, and even though all of the places were very different, the fun that people had was shared by everyone. Of course, these similarities aren't exclusive to the kids. The love and care that the parents showed towards their children was also shared by everyone everywhere. The reason I've brought up all these experiences is to show you how different the rest of the world is. I've travelled a lot and I've had a great time on all of my trips, but I've barely gotten a glimpse as to how diverse the entire world is. While it's important to recognize the difference between the many cultures of the world, it's equally important to realize the similarities. And the best way to understand the similarities is to travel and to learn about people's cultures from all around the world, I was fortunate enough to get to travel to all the wonderful places I did and if you ever get the opportunity to travel somewhere new, you should take it. Not just because it is fun, but also because you will gain a great understanding of the different cultures of the world and how underneath those differences, they are all very similar. In the end, we're all living in the same world and there are many global crises that affect everyone. The only way to solve global problems that affect the one world that we share is through teamwork and cooperation.. If everyone learned to accept differences and look past them to see the similarities, many global catastrophes and issues, such as climate change, could be solved. In fact, the only way to solve such issues is through teamwork, and in order to develop cooperation between nations, a deeper understanding of and compassion towards difference is required. It is perhaps ironic, but nevertheless true, that by learning about and respecting our differences, we will unlock our empathy and realize how much at our core we have in common, Ananya Narayan Am I a witch? When you look at me, do you think ugly or evil? Do you see a witch? When I was growing up, I didn't see a witch. I saw a princess. I saw a beautiful, dutiful, and graceful young lady. As children, we are force fed images of what a beautiful woman is supposed to be. But what sticks with us? For me, it was Cinderella. Oh, I wanted to be Cinderella so badly. Everything about her was perfect to me. But I'm getting ahead of myself. See that girl sitting at the far end of the Harkness table, right next to the teacher, with her hand raised high up in the air? That's me. Yeah, I started coming up with an answer to the teacher's question before they could even finish asking it. Throughout high school I've heard many iterations of lovely nicknames for me. Know-it-all, teacher's pet, overachiever, just to scratch the surface. Yeah that's about right. I've never been shy, so to speak. Not in the classroom, or anywhere else to be honest. In my 9th grade history class, one of my friends was complaining that they'd had points taken off for not talking enough in our recent Harkness discussion. I wasn't upset because I had gotten taken points off for not talking enough. No no, Ananya was upset because she got points taken off for talking too much. Who knew I had so much to say about Zoroastrianism and the Persian Empire? But honestly I wasn't too surprised. In fact I had started to notice that a trend was steadily forming. I was becoming the girl who everyone was annoyed by. I was always too loud, too opinionated, my voice grating against the silence of my classmates. I started to notice that I stuck out like a sore thumb from the rest of the girls in my grade after moving back to the United States after living across the world for six years. In Thailand there were girls who looked like me, who were beautiful in the same way as me. But at SPA, I would turn away from my friends in the locker room, trying to show as little of what I perceived as my imperfect body as I could as I changed out of my sweaty gym clothes, I begged my mom to buy me a pair of leggings, but was disappointed when they didn't fit me the way they fit my friends. I wasn't like them, not really. The way my bushy eyebrows met in the middle of my forehead behind my bright pink glasses. The way my thick, black, leg hair would show down at the ankles of my jeans. It had become ingrained in my mind that there was a standard of beauty that I was just not reaching. For me, that standard was still Cinderella even if I didn't know it. As women, we are taught that to be desirable
111 means to be quiet, agreeable, and sweet. That was Cinderella, but not me. It was hard to feel strong and beautiful at the same time, when I was too much of one thing, and not enough of the other. Flashback again many years. The little brown girl watching movies with her parents wanted more than anything to be Cinderella. She wanted the gown, the tiara, and the blonde hair that could magically be tied with one ribbon and a flick of the wrist. She wanted the fairytale. So when the time came for her to find her fairytale at her new school, she sang her heart out and auditioned for Cinderella. She imagined what the glass slippers would look like, how they would feel on her feet, and the standing ovation she might receive. All of the expectation and excitement faded away when to her dismay, her name was not next to Cinderella on the sheet of paper. She did not lose hope, however, and pushed on with determination. And somehow, the chance miraculously came about again! She worked and worked, and sang her heart out once again to audition for Into the Woods, where maybe just maybe she could play Cinderella. All of her friends assured her that she had nothing to worry about, of course she would be Cinderella. How could she not? She walked anxiously to her director's office that Wednesday afternoon, biting her nails all the way. When she finally made it past the crowd of people surrounding the door, her eyes searched the sheet of paper voraciously. Once again, her name was not next to the beautiful princess. Instead, she found a very different character next to her name. Witch. I stepped away from the group of excited theater kids all clamoring to catch a glimpse of the sheet of paper. All of my insecurities from forever ago rushed back to me. I was baffled. How was I a witch? Wasn't I beautiful, charming, and elegant? Wasn't I Cinderella? Why couldn't I be someone like that, even if it was just pretend? My friends started to become upset with me. How could I be disappointed with such a huge role, and in my junior year no less? And I couldn't face them, I couldn't put into words what it was that made me feel like I had failed. That night I went home and cried to my mom, my head buried in her shoulder, just as I had done three years before. She consoled me, but she also said something that hurt in the moment but I needed to hear it. "Let's put Cinderella to rest," she said. And she was right. As I began rehearsing as the Witch, I learned so much about her, and even more about myself. The Witch is strong, clever, and loving all at the same time which I found to be true about myself too. I am not dainty and I am not quiet. I do not have silky blonde hair and blue eyes. I have tough, thick Indian hair and intense and passionate eyes. And I've learned that I am beautiful not despite these qualities, but because of them. So what if I can't sing to birds? I can curse entire kingdoms on a whim! In Into the Woods, Cinderella sings the line, "Mother said be good, father said be nice, that was always their advice." See, that didn't resonate with me because my mother said be strong and my father said be persistent. I have had the privilege of being raised by the strongest, most passionate woman I know. She is beautiful. But as she reminds me over and over again, she is not sweet. In any way. She is hardworking, determined, and kind. But not sweet. She has taught me that being sweet doesn't make you beautiful. Honestly, thinking back on the story of Cinderella, I'm frustrated with myself for idolizing her! She has no character whatsoever. She is pretty, quiet, and sweet. But in no way is she a role model for impressionable young girls. She was created by men who thought they knew what a woman should be. But they didn't then, and they never will. When I was little, I would run around my grandparent's house with my hair a complete mess. My grandmother would laugh and call me a chudail, or witch in Hindi. My lovely Spanish teacher, sometimes likes to call me bruja which also means witch. Are you starting to sense a pattern? I've learned that rather than looking to princesses for inspiration, I need to look to women like mother. So yes, maybe my loud opinions and excited personality can seem annoying to some. But I'm learning to not let that affect my opinion of myself, Women are constantly told that to be accepted as beautiful we need to do this, to be accepted as smart we need to do that. But we don't need to do or be anything. This speech is for all the girls who feel like they're not enough. Who feel like they have to give up a part of themselves to be beautiful, and who feel like they have to fit some Disney princess mold. Because hear me when I say, being resilient and proud is so beautiful. I think we should all try and find our inner witch. She is loud, she is strong, and she is beautiful. She's really quite amazing and I'm honored that I got to meet mine. 75
Vivian Johnson I don't remember the first time I ever used a camera. I only know this because my grandpa sent me a photo of myself on a Florida beach taking a picture of my mom and dad when I was 3. It now hangs above my desk. My first memory that I have of using a camera was around age 7 in my hometown of Dover, New Hampshire. It was a clear spring morning and I was chasing my brother around the yard with my parents' silver digital camera. I still have prints of the photos that I took of myself with my missing front teeth and my brother with his mop of blond curly hair. Later that year, my family moved to a small town in Connecticut for my father's job. I was devastated; and as a second grader, it was very hard to make friends. At my new elementary school, I became invested in my art class as a way to occupy my time and distract from my loneliness. I eventually made friends but my interest in art continued to grow. My parents took notice of these interests and for my 12th birthday, I was gifted a small blue digital camera of my own. I used it to take photos around my house; mostly of flowers and critters I encountered in the yard. With those photos, I entered my first photography contest at the Durham County Fair. I won an assortment of ribbons in the junior nature photography category. Mostly second and third place but I got first place for a photo of a frog in our pond and a special honors ribbon for a photo of a string of pink, heart-shaped flowers. I used this success to propel me into my newly discovered passion for photography. My family moved again, this time to Minnesota in the summer before my eighth grade year. I was sent to SPA, the private school that my dad graduated from, as I hadn't been academically challenged in my previous public school. It was a completely different school environment; even as eighth graders, there was a lot of pressure to be academically successful. My grades went from being straight A's to all B's and C's. Socially, the year started out well. I made a few friends in the first week of school. But they stopped hanging out with me a few months later in February and I became the loner new kid. In between classes, being alone didn't bother me because it allowed me ample time to read, but sitting by myself at lunch ruined what little self-esteem I had. Like before, I turned to art to escape my ordeal and I expanded my 2 practice from mandatory art class to include an elective ceramics class. Working with a new medium was a nice, temporary distraction but I was still miserable. So much so that before the year was even over, I begged my parents to let me attend the public high school by our house. The option was thoroughly explored but by the time August came around, I was still enrolled at SPA against my wishes. High school was fast approaching; I developed depression and my previously diagnosed anxiety worsened. As a way to cope, I signed up for my first photography class. It wasn't until then that the artist in me really took off. I slowly but surely started to accelerate ahead of my classmates and realized that I had a true passion and talent for photography. The months went by and then turned into years. Semester after semester, I kept taking photography classes. In that time, my style of photography changed and expanded. I went from mediocre landscape pictures to painting colors and patterns on black and white photo prints. Even though I have moved on to more complex and captivating pieces, portraits have always been my favorite kind of photo to take. Getting to work with my subject and interact with them on a personal level fulfills my desire for the human connection that I was lacking in my childhood. After a while, I was challenged to take my work further and conceptualize my ideas into themes and write them down in the form of an artist statement. It was only then that I realized I seek validation through others' opinions of my work. Until now, I had never wanted to share my art. When my family would ask to see what I had made that day, I would find a way around it. Even if I made a piece that I knew I was proud of, I would keep it hidden away in my room. But now, I would jump at any opportunity to show off my work. I make my work because I enjoy it; and I want other people to do the same. Art is one of the only things in my life that I feel truly confident about. Creating things has helped me overcome mental and emotional walls that I never could have broken down on my own. To elementary and middle school me, you might not have many friends, but just know that things will get better. Remember, you are valid, you are talented, you are an artist. Grayson Emilio Whitaker-Castaneda Way back in the summer when Mama Mia! Here We Go Again came out, I visited my grandparents in Southern California, and we went to see a movie: Mama Mia 2: Mama Mia! Here We Go Again. The only important thing to know about that movie is that it features Cher. On the way home, my grandparents were talking about Cher, then with no apparent segue they were explaining to me that Cher's son Chaz Bono hadn't always been Cher's son. A trait that I share with my grandparents is a love of dispensing information about a subject purely for information's sake with no ulterior motive. A trait I share with Chaz Bono is being trans. Something I hadn't exactly told my grandparents at the time. So I, the closeted little trans boy sitting in the back seat, was losing my mind because I could not for the life of me tell if my grandparents had shifted into telling me about Cher's son because they had somehow picked up on my trans vibes, or because it was just an interesting fact. I'm starting with that story because I think it's funny and I adore my grandparents, also because it establishes that I'm trans for people in the audience who don't know me. Whenever I visit my grandparents in Los Angeles, we go to this restaurant, one of my favorite restaurants, I call it phillipes (fill-e-pays). I call it phillipes because that's what my grandmother calls it. Now my grandmother is argentine, has an argentine accent, and I found out about a year ago after many many years of eating there, that the restaurant my Grandma calls Phillipes, the restaurant I have called Phillipes in front of many many people in my life, the rest of LA calls Phillipes (fill-leaps). I'm telling you this because it's funny, I love my grandma, and it establishes that I am Latino. These identities are important to me, and have shaped significant portions of my life, but I've found that at SPA they are hard things for me to express and inhabit. Trying to talk about any thoughts I have born out of my experience being trans or latino outside of my friends who share those identities and affinity spaces ends in anxiety, my hands trembling and my breathing struggling to be even. I'm afraid to bring attention to the things that make me different, I'm afraid that in a group or a classroom where there are little to no other people like me I will become an ambassador for my identities rather than a person. I'm not eloquent enough to get all five hundred plus of you in the audience to understand the experience of being othered in five minutes. Even so I don't think the experiences of marginalized students, or at the very least my experience as a marginalized student at SPA should go unexamined. We spend a lot of time talking about what SPA can do better in assemblies and guided advisory conversations. Specifically what the SPA community can do better. To me, if we as a community, a collection of individuals coming together, want to do better we need to start talking about SPA as an institution. What makes me feel othered here isn't the words or actions of individuals. Oppression, and particularly the way SPA contributes to it, isn't a group of people scheming in a darkly lit conference room, it's a collection of assumptions, expectations, and traditions that perpetuate themselves within this organization. And it doesn't matter if the people within the institution agree with the institution, it doesn't need us to buy into it as long as we don't challenge those norms directly. SPA assumes its students are white, assumes its students are cisgender. It makes these assumptions for any number of identities, these are just two I can speak to. These assumptions become part of the culture. They create a 'default' and by creating a 'default' also create an 'other'. The question of what the SPA community can do better, specifically when we ask in the context of racial justice, to me implies that the SPA community is white and operating from a place of white guilt. But our community has white and non-white students, every single one an individual with a voice. It's the institution of SPA that is white. It is the SPA institution that is asking what it can do better to maintain an image of progressivism. And it is the institution of SPA that drowns out the voices of the people in our community. I don't believe I've met a single person at this school who wants to see me not succeed on account of who I am, so when I say SPA I don't mean you, I mean the system. Everything implicit that holds up these halls and has become such a natural backdrop to our lives that we don't challenge it. Such a natural backdrop to our lives that for me and other marginalized students I know it has crept into our self worth. I get anxious talking about being latino and trans because there is a near constant subtext that my voice, my identity, my experience is not valuable. I am not valuable. It's taken time and an understanding of where that subtext comes from for me to remember my worth. I'm invested in seeing change here. When we 'ask what can the SPA community do better' I want us to come up with answers. Because the community can do better when we make a point to challenge what we've been made to believe an SPA student looks like, acts like, and thinks like. The curated illusion of our school's progressivism doesn't mean much to me. At the end of the day, I can't stop being trans, can't stop being latino, I exist outside of special assemblies and diversity statements. What means something to me is when people in this community push past the image of SPA challenge what we've learned to consider normal. This is not a comprehensive look into marginalization I know, but I'm only seventeen and my ability to articulate these ideas is imperfect. Take what I'm saying not as a conclusion but as a starting point. I spent a long time thinking about whether or not I should try and give this speech. The fear I feel talking about being trans and latino in a classroom is worse when I'm standing alone on a stage. And a part of me still believes my voice doesn't matter here. I stressed over writing this because for the academically inclined I know I can't give any proof beyond my own experience. I worried, and still do, that I'll mess this up. But it was more important to me that I put this out there, and if I've done a good enough job, maybe you'll consider what I've said, or have a conversation about it even, and that can be a starting point.
Will Anderson This school's proclamation cannot be faulted for a lack of ambition. Shaping the hearts and the minds of the people who will change the world - in essence, implying that going here blesses us with a divine mandate to lead the world into some radiant future. Inspiring, isn't it? But like all great works of literature, its meaning cannot be encompassed by a single, obvious interpretation. So I am obligated to propose another. What if this school's students were positioned to change the world anyways? Tuition at this school is around $30,000 per year, per student. A quarter receive financial aid, usually covering half of tuition. However, upwards of three quarters of that financial aid goes to households making in excess of $100,000 per year, approximately the lower limit of the top quartile of household incomes in the state. Overall, for all but the upper middle class and above, tuition and transportation approach impossibility. I happen to know that limit because I fall near it. Even at just a third of standard tuition, I was only supposed to stay through eighth grade, and even that wasn't simple or easy. That I was able to attend at all was a minor miracle; that I am still here, four years past scheduled date of departure, is another. I have the hardworking and considerate financial aid office as well as a remarkably generous family to thank for a fantastic and enlightening experience. And for a while, I saw no faults within. But not forever. The clue was a conspicuous absence - one in four of you receive financial aid, but I only know of a total of three other such students, and only one directly. It's never discussed - not by students, and anecdotally, not by all parents either. What's the point? Everyone's rich here, even if they aren't. Because as much as we pretend it doesn't matter, wealth is everything here, forming the gilded core of this school's administrative and social structures. There's nothing 2 wrong with wealth. The problem emerges when it mixes with an excess of power. And that mixing happens here. The issue is one of incentive. Everyone here benefits from the flaws of the world as it stands today. We, or at least our parents, are the ones who have won. We made it to the top. Our way of life, the only way of life we have ever known, is directly contingent on the very global inequalities we've been taught to fix. Our relentless consumerism directly causes the exploitation, oppression, enslavement, and untimely death of millions, both across the world and unnervingly close to home. Isn't it odd that we, the ones with the strongest incentives to change nothing, walk out of here with a mandate to change everything? We are the ones with the world-class education, even though we have no obvious reason to use it responsibly short of the goodness of our hearts. Helping the world is expensive and difficult, and personal profit is the default option. You are, for the most part, good people. But making this world a better place will require you to radically alter your own way of life in ways too large and numerous to elaborate. And I'm not inclined to count on a miracle. The slogan is still true, really. But only in a yet more twisted way - no one ever explicitly said that change had to be for the better. But wait. Hold on. That's all wrong! We're progressive here! Of course we'll make the sacrifice. Everyone will. That's what we tell ourselves. That's what we've been taught to think. And maybe it's true. Miracles happen, from time to time. But when in all of history has a problem caused by an excess of power been solved by giving more power to those that already have too much? To my knowledge, it never has, and to my understanding, it never will. And yet, that is exactly what this school claims to do. 3 In truth, it takes the children of the current generation of local elite, dunks them into a vat of homework, stirs them around for 13 years, then dumps them out eyebrow-raisingly well prepared to go off and rule the world, ensuring that the wealthy retain power, the masses remain contained, and the old order remains sacrosanct. Of course, we can't admit any of this. Societal domineering doesn't play well with our sense of empathy - if we fully appreciated the consequences of our future selfish actions, we would not so readily undertake them. But most of us will, eventually, and we have to reconcile that contradiction somehow. So, inadvertently, we teach ourselves to lie - about everything we believe, about everything we do, about everything we are, to the world, to each other, and to ourselves. We weave a veil of feigned intellectualism, compassion and progressivism to hide the fact that, deep down, beneath the acquired sympathy and social expectations, the only change we want is the kind that benefits us. If you look hard enough, you can see it already. You can see that the school paints a gorgeous picture of inclusion while silently fighting any and all substantive change to make it better for anyone not already at the top of whatever particular hierarchy one might choose to analyze. And when they do concede, they do it in flashy but unsubstantial ways, avoiding underlying problems at all cost. Think posters, not progress. You can see today's progressive passion replaced by tomorrows as we leave whatever it is we thought we cared about yesterday behind in the name of a few more likes on today's instagram post. Never mind the absence of any real change. Can't be behind the times, now can we? The game's up if the image cracks, and its mirror shine reveals its emptiness. You can see that such illusions of wealthy progressivism always meet their untimely end on tax day. 4 You can see that any pretext of substantive discussion ends the moment it leaves abstraction behind. Instead, we put a bunch of rich people in a room, cower behind bizarrely abstract discussion aids, create an air of mutual respect by all agreeing that "we need change," and walk out of that room secretly relieved. Why? Because on some level, we all know that our virtuous self-affirmation exercise amounted to absolutely nothing of significance, and our position at the top of the hierarchy remains blissfully unchallenged. We embrace others' discomfort, but never our own. You can see that when discussion ends and push finally comes to shove, far too many of us can't even be bothered to give a nudge. We just walk away. Head held high, of course, with some intricate rationalization for our ponderous inaction. I'm as guilty of this one as anyone. There is a good argument to be made that this school is a net harm for society as a whole. That this school is little more than an agent of plutocracy. That this school and all others of its kind just...shouldn't exist. But of course, I can't make that argument. Because I choose to go here. Because it is a wonderful school with a wonderful community full of good people with fascinating ideas. I can dispassionately observe trends of selfishness and pretense among you all day, but I also happen to know you. We're all so close to the right path. What a waste it would be to tear it all asunder. I can't credibly claim that discussing an issue will make it go away, but open and honest discourse about the fundamental and unavoidable inequity of this type of school is a necessary first step, either towards fixing it or, more cynically, towards proving that it cannot be fixed. Vehemently disagree, if you will. But for the love of all you cherish, don't stay silent. The administration can step in as well, and to their credit, they've started. The school's curriculum does handle issues of class and inequality, albeit in disconnected ways. And the 5 existing financial aid program is nothing to sneeze at, limited though it may be. But for this school to truly fulfill its mission statement, not just some cynical buffoon's sarcastic interpretation thereof, both of these efforts must go further. We don't need more people like me here. We need those students whose perspectives are currently present only in collective imagination, those with the personal experience required to bring our abstract discussions down to tangible benefits for those who need them most. These internal solutions will mitigate the deeper problem of educational inequity. But they will not solve it. Power corrupts, and schools of this kind will always grant their students an excess. So we're back where we started, and the best we can do is hope for a miracle. And while I'm not inclined to count on a miracle, I think that a glimmer of hope may yet be justified. If you look hard enough, you can see it already. You can see the genuine potential and passion and thoughtfulness that runs through this community just waiting to be focused towards something that matters. You can see, even in just a few years, that the school has made significant headway towards a better, more diverse community. You can see a small but significant minority of students who, unlike me and most of you, do put greater things before themselves and their immediate surroundings, people who've been on the right path since well before I even knew it existed. What little progress has been made in our educational citadel is thanks to them. And I believe that any one of us can become one of them, if we so choose, even if most won't. So for the rest of us, most of you, those that feel in any way that this speech might apply to them, and quite a few that would deny it as if your lives depended on doing so, those who haven't decided, those who thus far have failed demonstrate any capacity to make this world better, and not worse, for you I have but one request: Prove me wrong. Sam Zelazo Think back to the beginning of February, 2020. It was before the pandemic so it might feel like forever ago for you, but I'm sure you have some vague sense of what you were doing around that time. For me, I had just gotten on a bus full of people and teachers I barely knew, ready to take a four hour bus ride to Iowa for the democratic caucus. Now this trip was largely for the Government and Citizenship class to observe government in action, but it had been opened to the broader school community if anyone wanted to come, so as Dr. Hodges, my advisor, read out the blue sheet announcement inviting students to come along on this once in a lifetime trip, I found myself saying "Hey, why not". So tenth grade me, whose experience with politics consisted of one semester of congressional debate, was suddenly taking three days out of my life to throw myself about as far into the heart of political engagement as a sophomore could go without committing voter fraud. Not only was the experience totally new to me, but almost all of the people were as well. Despite having attended SPA since kindergarten, I can confidently say that as a sophomore I was able to count the number of seniors I knew personally on one hand and, as luck would have it, the class going on the trip was almost entirely seniors. For so many firsts and unfamiliar situations flying at me all at once, I should have been terrified, and for the most part I was. Questions like "What if I don't have anyone to talk to?", "Is it okay that I don't know how a caucus works?", "What if my roommates don't like me?" were all rushing through my head and as excited as I was to go on a trip, I could barely keep how nervous I was in check. I spent nearly 30 minutes that morning deciding on what to wear just so I didn't make a fool of myself in front of the seniors. I know, that's not a long time for many of you, but as someone who often wears the first complimentary shirt and pants I find in my closet each day, it was a lot of effort. There were so many things on that trip that could go wrong or be overwhelming and yet, I showed up at
0:45 that Sunday morning, ready to face whatever might come of it, good or bad. And surprisingly, the trip turned into easily one of the best trips I've ever been on. No, I did not get along with my roomates, consisting of three sporty senior boys who insisted on having the hotel TV on and streaming football games at all hours of the day, but what I learned from that is that sharing a room with someone doesn't mean you have to spend all of your time with them (and that there are a lot more football games in a day than I ever thought possible). And yes, I did accidentally leave over half of the clothes I was planning on bringing at home on my bed, but through that I was able to expand my repertoire of uses for a good sweater. No, not everything went according to plan, even down to the caucus itself, where Democratic Party leaders decided that using an untested app to track all of the votes in Iowa was a good idea, and yet I was able to enjoy the trip. I ate good pizza, I talked with campaign coordinators and activists, I learned about Dr. Peterson's hyper-exclusive Nordic dance troupe, and most of all I learned just how much I love political science. For me, the trip was a chance to explore something entirely new, not as part of a grade or some quota I need to meet, but as an opportunity to live life to the fullest, to talk to people I might never give a passing thought to otherwise. Nowhere is better than a caucus to dive into rich discussions of politics, riddled with points and counterpoints and no real right answer, discussions that captivate me so dearly, and yet it is a world that I would never have known without that one, spontaneous decision to tag along on the trip. Despite my nervousness and hesitations that I wouldn't be able to adapt to just how new the experience was, I was able to go along with the flow and follow my heart, and I was rewarded with an enjoyable, enlightening trip and a moral to follow: That we, as humans, are meant to adapt to our circumstances, so no matter how terrifying or out-of-my depth a change may seem, I'll almost always be able to make the best of it. This idea has served as a touchstone for me over the last two years, especially as an almost incalculable number of decisions are bearing down upon me, bringing with them the full weight of my transition to college and beyond. So as I think back to the last night of the trip, all of us huddled around the TV, waiting for the votes to come in, equal parts irritated and amused at the lack of conclusive results, I can't help but smile. Smile at the stories I got a chance to hear and the people I got a chance to know and the little pieces of myself that I discovered amidst it all. And in that smile, there's no hint of the stress or nervousness, no second-guessing or hesitation - only the memory of a time I let life take the lead, and the amazing experience I had because of it. And while it may take you one year or five, or perhaps you've already had it yourself, I hope that each and every one of you can understand that feeling for yourself, that you can each share that same smile. I know that this is probably something all of you have heard a million times but I truly encourage you to just go with the flow sometime and see where it takes you, especially for us seniors, who have an almost incalculable amount of decisions to make and steps to take as we decide on life after high school. So as I think back to that Sunday morning bus ride, filled with questions and fears of what was to come, what I remember is the joy, excitement, and newfound interests that came instead. Zelda Harmoning Written stories are vessels for memories, which we remember in order to write them. They carry all the emotions from the moment which we are remembering. It is similar to oral history, and we know that these forms of carrying moments, written and oral, are important from history courses. I find that when I write down my moments and the feelings embedded within them, I give myself the gift of remembering for myself. Throughout this speech, I will tell you many snapshots of my life and share the feelings from moments that I don't think a lot of people see of me all the time. For me, these memories serve as reminders of life's temporal moments, my growth, and that good times are always around the corner. Like my grandpa, Arlen would say these, collectively, are reminders that "this too shall pass." So... I suffer but I prefer the word evolve from or survive depression. I want to share with you what it feels like: My perspective and memories of floating through life. Here are some poems, quotes, and excerpts I have stacked up in my notes app, journals, and documents over the years. These notes have helped me piece my head together. They are unrevised memories of this part of me. Note 1: The word was "float," because I didn't feel crammed into a box nor surrounded or uncomfortable - I felt like there wasn't a ledge for my fingertips to grasp, my toes to curl over, my shoulders to swing atop like the pool at the YMCA when I didn't feel so incredibly, hopelessly empty. Note 2: It's constantly battling the worth of your potential Note 3: It was the limpness of my body that greeted me every sunrise and the way my alarm tugged my eyelids apart, only to realize I was stuck in the lens of slow motion. Note 4: What I feared more was how I could advertise self-love so adamantly without even practicing it Note 5: Loaned into the moment Note 6: I think if I lose one more piece I might just shatter Note 7: Living in the past to find meaning and looking to the future to find meaning means two completely different things. There is likely no perfect happy ending with a completely infinitely linear progression of happiness but I am learning to find comfort in the pursuit. Because I have proof that they too shall pass. So on that note, here's my take on the meaning of life and it has everything to do with memories, including the ones I have just shared with you. The meaning of life for me is to forget. Because... I can then get the gift of remembering and unwrapping who I was and who I am becoming. I write them down so I can receive this gift of remembering. I say forgetting is the meaning and not remembering because if we did not forget it would not make remembering so special. This perspective may be controversial to some but this is how I see it. Say, sometimes there are things I am probably thankful I simply forgot. So again, I live to forget so I may remember. I live to forget because I am about to share with you the gems that bring me joy, I remember these moments alongside the others that show me how strong and resilient I am: I am thankful I remember I was craving conversation, bored, and in quarantine. Obviously, I ended up talking to strangers online. Lane had torn his ACL and was mellow on bedrest. We shared five songs: one made me feel like I was in a dark alley walking around a corner, navigating a growing beat, about to find a secret rock concert, another made me feel like I played guitar on the edge of the earth, my favorite made me feel like a dancer dancing for nobody with my eyes closed and the last one like running and spinning on grass. I am thankful I remember One day a group of us gathered at my grandparent's house. We walked to the park and below the oak trees, we would beg for shelter from the rain on the way back. They provided no shelter and we ran down the road in accumulating puddles. Some swung their sweatshirts over their heads, a few skipped and others were desperate to outrun the droplets. I think I was running in the slow-mo cause that's always how it replays in my mind. I am thankful I remember We rolled into the parking lot. The overhead lights were dimmed and the pavement glowed a deep yellow. We found ourselves situated on the roof and the front glass of the Acura, eventually, two of us sat inside and started the car while my friend and I lay on the hood. They started the car and drove while we navigated through the faint stars. As you may now see from this speech I love tangent-filled narratives and adjectives that help me describe my memories. They are the words that slow me down in a fleet of emotions, good and bad, happy and sad. It all seems to end up in poetry and stories, my word paintings of memories. Someday when I am forgotten someone might remember me from these. But for now, I will write of my good times to help me remember them during bad times and jot my memory of what it feels like to be sad in my sad times to keep me aware of how far I have come in the good times. On a lighter note, I am not just thankful for forgetting in order to remember again although I really do think memory is the foundation or purpose of life. But I also love being present. Specifically with people. Thank you to my amazing friends, new and old. Honestly, all of you in this room have added to my life and will always hold memories for me. To Lulu and Amara who put up with my random naps, aggressive texts, and chaotic attitude I am so thankful I found you both this year, love you both, and thanks for making my senior year so memorable. Thank you to my family. To my grandparents, Grandpa Arlen and Sally for being my biggest sports fans and introducing me to Perkins hot chocolate. My Bubbe for investing in my Jewish identity. My Nana for always validating my emotions and organizing all my medical appointments, and my Papa for always believing in my potential. To my Bama for all the car rides, doughnuts, sing-a-longs, stock lectures, and great hand-me-downs. And of course, helping me revise this speech. To Starr for reminding me how strong girls are, and on a similar note Rene for also teaching me how tough girls are after taking me to Krav Maga classes, in spite of getting punched in the face by a ballerina. To my Dad for being the best listener and never judging me. To my mama for showing me the power I have. For motivating me to do my best and cocooning me when I could not. Lastly to my Siblings. Most everyone in the crowd knows I have an intense sibling loyalty and even if they think I have a billion friends they will always be my first and my best. To Tristyn for reminding me I'm a girl boss and Mackenzie for showing me what a girl boss looks like. To Charlotte for allowing me to see childhood again through her eyes. Bobby, you have truly made me feel safe in my emotions. You will always be my little buddy. And Eli, you never fail to lighten mine or anyone's mood. Thanks for the dark humor and for bringing me a glass of water after I cry. Gabby, you believe in me, take care of me, yell at me when needed, and I will always cherish when you called me strong mentally and physically in your senior speech. I love you guys. You are all the people who help me through, allowing me to forget and eventually honor my bad times as well as create and keepsake my beautiful moments. So whatever you are going through, be present with your people. Capture your evolution and gems. Remember you'll probably forget for some unknown amount of time whatever you're going through right now. It too shall pass. To be forgotten and perhaps remembered. Or not. Sarina Charpentier Okay guys I'm here. I did it. I made it to senior year despite saying I was gonna be a hobo and drop out, and if you're close to me, you'll know I've said that a lot. One of the things I was putting a lot of pressure on myself for writing this speech was: How do I deliver something that showcases everything about myself to the audience? I was telling myself that because most people don't know me, when they heard this speech it had to be something eloquently written, undoubtedly political, a heartsob, or give off highly-researched-essay vibes. Since eighth grade it felt like this speech was the pillar of my high school career that was going to define me. Now I won't deny that there are numerous aspects of my life that are essential to how I live, which is in the middle. I'm half white half Japanese, my bisexuality prefers both sexes, I am a scientist yet an artist, I live with my stepfamily simultaneously balancing my chaotic biological family, and to top it all off, I'm a middle child. So naturally, I thought I would devote this speech to my struggles. Yet, when I sat down and started drafting, it felt wrong. After focusing the majority of my college application essays on my intersectionality I burnt out and honestly did not want to write about one more drop of it. More importantly, I realized that although these aspects of me are valid I don't always want to be the spokesperson for sexism, racism, homophobia, and more because of my experiences with them. So I sat down and stared at my computer until I got bored and started working on my other homework. I decided to snapchat an old friend of mine for homework help and the conversation led to a small nostalgic remembrance of our past and where things have led with life now. I scratched everything I had for this speech and started writing what you're listening to right now. Classic movie scene where the main character throws away their notes to speak to the audience from the heart. But seriously, I started to reminisce on all of my most significant connections with people at this school and how I've grown from each and every one of them. I've realized that it's so easy to fall into a mindset of deficit until you're not really living for yourself anymore. Although all my struggles are necessary, I wanted to bring to light how much I do have. I go to a very prestigious school, I have family and friends who care about me, I live a stable life with clothes, food, and shelter, and I have the freedom to choose. These privileges have not always been present in my life and are not for many others in the world. That's why it's essential that I stop and make the decision to highlight if my glass is half empty or half full and decide how I want to respond to that. With that, I want to devote the rest of this speech with gratitude for the handful of amazing people I've met in this class even if we've parted ways. Zelda Harmoning: I am so grateful that you took me under your wing in 8th grade. Your infectious aura taught me how to be the most proud and confident version of myself when I was not. Thank you for supporting me and showing me the beauty and boundaries within family. I won't forget our late night drives to the middle of nowhere screaming our favorite songs, mocking at the lake, clucking at people in public, riding on the hood of the car, dance parties with your sisters, our adventures at pismo beach, or that one time when your nana made us what felt like 10 pounds of bacon. Don't ask how much I ate. I was laughing remembering that one time when we tried to double ride one bike and we couldn't get more than 3 feet. I'm proud of you and thank you. Henry Wertkin: You were one of my first true friends at SPA. You never failed to show me kindness and generosity when I needed it whether that be with homework or someone to lean on. I had so much fun doing random things with your neighborhood friends, going to the juice world concert, watching big mouth until way too late, eating a concerning amount of takis, and I still have that bracelet you gave me. I probably can't count how many miles of walking I had in total walking to your house back when I couldn't drive. Nina Starchook: Summer 2019 with you was the highlight of my year. From smearing makeup all over our body to swimming across White Bear Lake with nothing but a floaty, I can count on you to make the strangest yet most memorable decisions. I remember when we woke up laughing for hours about explorer 3,000 (which is an inflatable raft from Costco) and dragging our friend along the lake with it in the morning at 0.5 miles an hour. I would also argue that we spent at least one third of our summer inside playing crazy eights on Game Pigeon. Isaiah Eby: When I came to SPA I never thought we would become friends, but I'm so glad we did. In the most turmoiled point of high school dealing with my father you connected with me and made me feel not alone. I still haven't recovered from when you and Addy made me lick your dog's food bowl and I smile thinking about when I forced you to do yoga in the middle of nickelodeon universe, or when me, judah, zelda and you got kicked out of sephora for doing your guyses makeup. Thank you for the numerous handshakes lost in time and for not judging me when I show up to your house unannounced to hang out with your sister. Lulu Priede: How many times did I bike the 30 minutes to your house last year? I just wanted to say that the swing in your backyard is superior and I valued every time we sat around the fire talking about camping, jewelry, and music with your dad. Plus, his food is gas. You really are an angel of a person and I admire your strength and resilience with all that comes your way. Whenever we walked around the neighborhood, got ice cream, slept in a tent, went to the beach, or had a picnic it made me forget about all my stress. Your talents and genuinity will take you far in the future and I can't wait to see it. Ellie Dawson Moore: Yes, you taught me how to make eggs. I didn't know before. By being your authentically colorful self, you've inspired me to do the same. From Y2K goddess to informed intellectual in debate and language, you challenge the status quo and I love you for it. Even if you don't know it, you've been like a big sister to me with my sexuality throughout the years and I admire how hardworking you are. When I look back to when we first hung out at the state fair in middle school, we look like babies. I'm so lucky to have seen you grow since eighth grades lilpieceofbubblegum (you should switch your instagram name back to that) and I've appreciated every random shopping spree around the city. Thank you for being you. Mukeil Rizvi: To the most recent and surprising addition to my life, thank you for accepting every karaoke night, picture of my pets, laughing fits, sudden urges to scream, and for giving me the emotional space I need. You're actually one of the nicest people I know and you make me want to be a better person with how much kindness you spread. I enjoy our TV level food analysis, sharing of culture, attempts at basketball, our artistic ventures in pumpkin carving, two car driving trips, facetimes with your mom, and our interesting convos with my siblings. You make me so happy and I'm excited to see what's in store ahead. To the rest of you in this audience whom I've had fleeting moments with, cracked jokes in the classroom, or been invited to your houses here and there, and to the teachers who have shaped my mind and growth, I appreciate you as well. One of my goals for my senior year was to talk to as many people as I could and take my last opportunities to get to know you guys before we all leave for college and I've accomplished that thanks to you. As our high school experience comes to a close I want to remind you all that it's going to be okay. Some of you are going to follow your goals of curing cancer to living out your dream van life and I can't wait to see it all unfold. From being with the class of 2022 in the past five years, you have proven to me that every single one of you has the capabilities for greatness and you all truly deserve to be happy. There are probably some of you who are also racking your brain trying to figure out what to say in this senior speech, Ben Hanson, this is not for you, and for those of you who are: don't confine yourself to judgment and expectations. My speech may be casual and present different importances in my life than I thought, but it's right and enough for me. Remember that this experience is for you and nothing's as serious as it seems. You have to do whatever you want unapologetically and appreciate what you have now because before you know it, time will be up. Boden Strafelda The World Around You For those of you who know me, you probably think I'm going to talk about sports, right? Well, technically, you are right. I will be mentioning sports, yes, but in the context of mental health. One in five students between the ages of 12 and 18 suffer from one treatable mental health disorder including depression, anxiety or ADHD and approximately 50% of all lifetime cases of mental illness will develop before the age of seventeen. Unfortunately, teen mental health issues are often overlooked or written off as "typical teen angst" that will go away on its own. It doesn't. I watch too many of us struggle every day. It is difficult to point to one singular cause responsible for the stark decline in teen mental health as there is not a "one cause fits all." However, a couple common factors have been found to contribute to mental health difficulties in almost every case. BUSY SCHEDULES AND PRESSURE TO SUCCEED Teens today are under significantly higher pressure to perform academically and in extra curricular settings. School work and other activities such as sports, theater, arts, etc. can be a huge source of stress and lead to mental health problems. I am sure many of you can relate to a morning conversation like this. "Right after school, please don't dilly dally at your locker or chat with friends. We need to leave school at 3:04pm to get you to baseball practice by 3:26pm so you have time to walk inside and get your gear. And after baseball practice, I will pick you up and we can grab food on our way to hockey practice but again, hustle out to the car because we don't have much time." Of course when hockey practice ended, it was time for homework, a shower and then bed. The rest of the week would be the same with a few changes. And when I heard my parents say how tired they were running me all over, I wanted to yell, "um,, try living my life for one week." While my days consisted of practices and games, many of you had different activities but I know they were just as demanding. Another factor is Social Media. A 2015 Common Sense survey found that teenagers may spend as much as 9 hours of each day online. Many of these individuals are themselves concerned that they spend too much time browsing social networks. This wave of concern suggests that social media could affect the mental health of its users. The researchers behind a 2017 Canadian study confirmed this finding. They noted that students who use social media for more than 2 hours daily are considerably more likely to rate their mental health as fair or poor than occasional users. Social media may also trigger mental health struggles by exposing individuals to cyberbullying. In a 2020 survey of more than 6,000 individuals aged 10-18 years, researchers found that about half of them had experienced cyberbullying. One of the downsides of social media platforms is that they give individuals the opportunity to start or spread harmful rumors and use abusive words that can leave people with lasting emotional scars. We all know how easy it is to say terrible things when you can hide behind a screen. Words hurt and they matter. And If those two factors weren't enough, let's throw in COVID. The only thing I will say about COVID is it sucked. We all have stories and real life struggles during the past 20 months but when you add that on top of the pressures of being a teen today, it can feel unbearable. I;ve loved baseball for as long as I can remember and it was clear at a young age that this was something I wanted to do after highschool.This sport that I love to play has also become unbearable for me at time. When I played youth sports, I was able to play three sports and still be able to be a kid. Once I reached the age of 12 that all changed. It was time to join a club team because we were told if you don't, you will be left behind. The days of three sport athletes in high school are disappearing at a phenomenal rate. For those of you who still play three sports, I applaud you. On average, I spend probably 400-500 hours a year on baseball whether it's practices, games, tournaments, seminars or visualization exercises. Leading up to last spring, I would say a third of those hours were spent questioning whether or not I was good enough to play baseball. Baseball is one of the most mentally challenging sports there is. It's all about stats, averages, integers, making adjustments, pitch count, base running, etc. But with all of these stats comes a game of failure. In school, we consider anything below a 60% an F but in baseball, that 60% would make you millions of dollars. In one day you could have the game of your life and then follow it up with a game so bad you question what you should do with your gear. Should I put it on Poshmark, sideline swap, eBay, Facebook, anything just to get rid of it. I go home those nights frustrated and embarrassed because failing feels awful and when you fail, you start to question yourself. In all honesty, I wish that I had been brave enough to say STOP, it's too much! Or, I need help and need to talk to someone.Unfortunately, there is a stigma that surrounds mental health so I said nothing. It can't be seen like a broken leg or a cut and too many of us suffer in silence. I am one of the five who suffer from a mental health disorder but I was also part of the 50% who did not seek treatment. Why? I was afraid. Afraid I would be told to suck it up and I would be ok. Afraid my family would think I failed. It is not lost on me the sacrifices my parents and family members have made for me to be able to play baseball in college so I also said nothing because I didn't want to disappoint them. But, I was mainly afraid nobody would believe me. Many of us spend hundreds of hours outside of school every year, honing our crafts or studying. We are dedicated athletes, actors, musicians, performers and students and want to become better at what we do. To us, it's not just one bad test, or game, or concert or performance. To everyone in this auditorium who is struggling mentally, you are not alone. But know that it's ok to say something. I finally did before last spring. I knew I would fail at times, but I knew how to work through my frustration and setbacks. We all need to take care of each other. Notice your friends and say something. Be supportive and listen. Don't be the silent observer. Let's support each other. If you are an athlete, go to a play or concert. If you are an actor, musician or artist, go to an athletic game or match. We want the adult members to support all our disciplines as well. We notice when you are there and feel the support but we also notice when you are not there. It's a very different world we live in and it's hard. We need to address mental health disorders head on and we can start right here in our own community. I know we can do this together. Thank you! Georgianna "Nan" Besse There is no greater joy than the life that explodes from the tip of a pencil. First come their faces, distinguished and unique; then come their stories, hidden beneath practiced smiles. They spring from behind the canvas, stretching their etched limbs towards you, and although they're mere marks on a page you embrace them because they are you. Those stories -- those faces -- they tell your story even long after the pencil has been retired. I've never been the most outgoing of people. My childhood involved countless hours of reading, drawing, and playing pretend. Not the typical experience, but not for nothing: In solitude, I discovered imagination; in imagination, I found courage. Courage to create anything, be anything, travel anywhere. Over the years, I've visited Hogwarts, Halloweentown, Neverland, and everywhere in between, becoming a time traveler, for whom the likes of Marty McFly or the Doctor could never compete with. I've created my own worlds too, from the dystopian amusement park on one of Seoul's many floating islands, to the haunted funeral parlor run by an Addams family-esque group of morticians. These worlds all have one thing in common: They all began with a drawing of a face. Everyone's face is different. From their skin to the curl of their lips, to the way their eyes fold, but to me, that's what makes them so beautiful. Each face tells a story -- sometimes a story of love, other times a story of loss. The incomplete, the vulnerable. And sometimes still, it's a story not yet defined by words. When I was younger, I disliked faces that wouldn't -- by my standards -- pass as beautiful. That included my own. My older sister and I were both adopted from China and raised in an all-white family. When we stand next to our family, we practically look like strangers. When people saw me holding my grandma's hand, or hugging my mom in public, I always felt that somehow I was a spectacle to them. Because of that, I learned to hate my dark hair and almond eyes. I hated them because of what they made people assume. Whenever I felt down, I turned to books, movies, and television shows -- only to find that the majority of them were filled with the same lifeless cardboard characters: the noble hero, the wise mentor, maybe a dragon or two, and the blonde princess, whose face represented everything I once wanted to be. As I got older, I continued searching for stories that reflected the person I had become, but often came up empty-handed. I became frustrated, but I realized that if no one was writing the kinds of stories that I wanted to see, then I would. I believe that every story, no matter how small or insignificant it may seem, has power over us and shapes who we become. From the bedtime stories my mom read to me: Esio Trot, Olivia the Pig, The Paper Bag Princess. The Seven Chinese Sisters, to the ones my grandpa and I would read every night after school: Hoot, Cinder Edna, The Crows of Pearblossom, those stories are a constant reminder that I am made up of the words from those who came before me and those who will come after. When I was younger, I remember our teachers asking us what we wanted to be when we grew up. Most of the other kids wanted to be astronauts, firefighters, policemen. I wanted to be an artist. Back then, I couldn't really explain why. I used to think it was just because I liked the way the pencil felt in my hand. Like an ancient wand or an elvish sword. It just made sense. Now that I'm older, but not necessarily wiser, I realize that I finally have the words to explain to my childhood self why I wanted to be an artist. A storyteller. It's because I want to inspire others and give them a space where they get to see themselves as the main character, even if it's just for a short while. I want to create a world where people of every background, regardless of their race, religion, ability, gender, sexuality, nationality or age, can exist together - - in a way that I hope our world eventually can as well. I think it's about time that I told you about my passion project, my love letter to the past, present, and future. It has no name yet but began as a series of scribbled drawings that eventually expanded into a collection of short stories that details the lives of ten ghosts living together in a gaudy 1970s L.A. shopping mall -- my equivalent of the afterlife. Each of these ghosts were written to reflect a different historical time period or event, such as the Edo Period, the Bolshevik Revolution, the Chicano Movement, and 1890s Eritrea. Once a year, they return to their final resting places and reflect upon the things that made their lives truly worth living, whether that was a loved one, a city, a dream -- they each tell a story of want and belonging that reflects the time during which they lived. The reason why these characters are so meaningful to me is because they, like the rest of the world, are not tied with some big beautiful bow. Many of their faces are dark, their bodies not as strong. Some are wrinkled while others are still young. Innocent. Their pockets not yet brimming with gold but instead hold secrets that only they know. I love this story, not only because it conceals hidden details about my own life, but because it sheds light on those from other walks of life and tells their stories in a way that I never saw mine being told. That's why I set out on this journey in the first place: to give others a space to find confidence to be fully, and unapologetically themselves. So, if anyone ever asks what I want to be remembered for, tell them this: I want to be remembered for helping to create a new generation of time travelers; people like me who share my energy and passion for both creativity and this terrifying, yet beautiful world. Our world. After all, what is the point of a storyteller if not to tell the stories of those right beside us? Per Johnson My first instrument was a plastic yellow rake. It probably came from a sandbox kit, complete with a tiny pail and shovel, but the rake, in particular, was of great interest to my 3- year-old self. Countless pictures and stories detail my rise to musical stardom, performing first at a local gig in my living room, working my way all the way up to a coveted spot at my preschool show and tell. Whether I hummed music or just thought about it as I wailed away on my rake, I can't recall - though I'd like to think everyone watching sat there in silence as I composed on the spot what could only be considered lost masterpieces. My parents took my interest in music, combined with my inspiration from the delightful novel "Little Rat Makes Music", in which a concerningly intellectual rodent develops the ability to play the violin, as a sign that I should begin taking lessons on a "more conventional instrument" as soon as I could. I walked into my first lesson nervous, unsure of what to expect. I was only 4, and the imposing tan walls of the small church in Edina were enough to make me want to turn right around. Inside, other kids, some as young as I was, some as old as 18, tuned and warmed up on their instruments. My mom walked me into a side room, where I met my first instructor: Helina Pakola. Helina was a character, loud, brash, and unafraid to intimidate her young students. Although my first lesson was just plinking along on a xylophone while the other kids played their violins, I soon learned that my violin training would be rigorous and breakneck. On my sixth lesson, she smashed her fists on the piano she was accompanying me with and screamed "GARBAGE" at my incapability. I worked a little harder after that. My first concert was that winter, where we played a few simplified Finnish folk songs and some Christmas carols. A moment I will never forget, Helina told us to "show them what we're made of" in a rousing pre-game speech before we walked on stage in our knitted elf hats with a jingle bell on the top. Her intensity was terrifying, but it certainly inspired me to practice. An MPR interview with Pakola a few years after I switched instructors perfectly demonstrated her personality: "Oh, I only think there's one way to live your life. You have to demand. From yourself as well as anyone else." From a certain lack of motivation at the ripe age of 5, I decided this program was perhaps not well suited for my musical interests. I began lessons under another teacher, Ellen Kim, alongside kids closer to my age. My skills developed, and after a few years of practicing Suzuki, I became more proficient and more engaged with the instrument. I went to a wedding for the first time in fourth grade. My cousin was marrying her long time boyfriend, and I was asked to accompany another violinist, a family friend. I accepted, learned the piece, and practiced it a few times with the other musician, Colin. During the rehearsal the night before, Colin was running 30 minutes late, and the bride's family was growing impatient. My mom told me to play something on the violin to cheer everyone up, but I didn't know what song to choose. When I asked, she simply said "anything!" I picked up my violin and started to play the main theme of Star Wars, one of my favorite movies as a nine-year-old. The familiar booming melody echoed through the halls of the church, and despite being made for a 100 person orchestra, my ferocity on my tiny half-size violin still made everyone laugh. It was then I realized what music could do. As I grew older, life became more complicated. I've heard a lot of people justifiably complain about the years 2020 and 2021, but for my family, we got a fun test run of what a disaster-year looked like in 2018. I lost 3 grandparents, and my mom was in and out of the hospital throughout the year, undergoing multiple surgeries for a variety of unexpected medical issues. It was 2:30 in the morning, and I was lying awake, wide-eyed and terrified, in my bed, looking at Find My Friends on my phone. My mom had been feeling very unwell, so my dad rushed her back to the hospital, where she'd just been discharged after her kidney stone surgery a few days prior. Tears streamed down the side of my face and the phone screen blurred as my shoulders shook silently. My dad had texted me an hour earlier saying they'd be spending the night, but other than that I was in the dark. Tracking the pulsing blue dot that was my mom's phone, I tried to piece together what was happening. They were at Regions Hospital, moving between wings for reasons unknown to me. At one point, it looked as though they crossed into the neighboring Ramsey Medical Examiner's Office, and my heart stopped, fearing the worst. But eventually, the dot moved back into the hospital, and I started to breathe again, realizing it was probably just a glitch in the software. I realized I'd never been truly scared before that night. I put my earbuds in, turned on Tchaikovsky, and let the familiar opener of his first violin concerto put me to sleep. Enter 2020. Similar in ways to 2018, different in others, 2020 brought about a deep and swallowing loneliness. What can you do when the people you love most get sucked away from you and there is nothing you can do about it? How are you supposed to feel when you have hours and days and months to yourself, and only your thoughts to keep you company? My parents would say they understood, and they did their best to support me. They didn't understand. Even I didn't truly understand. I just wanted things to be back to normal, to hug my friends, to sit down on a couch crowded with way too many people and watch a crappy comedy on a Friday night at 9, just like I had used to. But I couldn't. I needed a way to feel whole again. And so I turned to music. I'd played the violin for 12 years, and still took lessons, but it didn't interest me anymore. I wanted more from music. I started taking virtual guitar lessons on Saturdays. I spent hours in my room with the door closed, practicing fingerpicking and how to get my hand to do a b minor bar chord, and I loved it. I started playing the mandolin, which I hung on my wall. I added electric guitars to the rack by my door. I tried out the theremin, even though I'm the only one in my house who likes the mosquito-y sound it makes. I took a music theory and history class, and tripled my understanding of music in just a few months. I read about the clinical benefits of music, how it affects the nucleus accumbens, the same part of your brain that can addict you to hard drugs and creates dopamine. In a way, I know that I'm addicted for life. I make music, and music keeps me sane. A year later, things have gotten better. The added responsibilities of being a senior make practicing music harder, but I try to find the time. My interest in the violin has recently been rekindled, in part because I can play in ensembles and with friends again. I don't plan on going to college for music, but I will certainly bring music with me. Dealing with life can be incredibly painful, in ways that are hard to express. But in my experience, finding something to be passionate about, to channel all the frustrations and distresses and excruciations that you'll experience along the way can help to create purpose. So go and find your plastic rake, and start strumming. Alex Moore In first grade, I embarked on a remarkable project. I spent an entire week competing with Jack Hlavka to write the best Halloween story possible - except the only criteria for quality was length. And what better time to hear that than right now? This story is called "The four-horned, double hatted, three-toothed, two-feathered business man." I've made some edits for clarity because the only punctuation mark in the entire thing is a period after the first sentence. The four-horned double-hatted three-toothed two-feathered business man is very friendly. But every person who saw it never ever got close to it because if they did, it would jump at them because they might rip his pink shirt. Business shirt. And the people would run away from the four-horned double hatted three toothed two feathered business man, but still he is very friendly and nice so everybody likes him, even though he has all that stuff. He has a pink shirt, bent nose, and one short leg so he couldn't walk very well and that was a problem for him. He only eats pea soup, steak, noodles, broccoli, and sometimes even milk. There are no creatures anything like him. Almost no one has seen it because it only lives in alleys, and is sort of invisible, and can change what it looks like so no one knows if they found it. So only it knows if someone has found it. And it never stays in place for more than twenty-five minutes. The four-horned double-hatted three-toothed two-feathered businessman is the rarest creature in the Halloween world. It can do almost everything, except for one thing, which is walk on a tightrope. Because of his short leg he can not take one step at a time he has to hop everywhere he goes which is a disadvantage for him. But even though he has to hop everywhere he goes over the years he has gotten better at hopping around everywhere he goes. He always wishes he had two legs of the same length. He is still ok hopping around everywhere he goes. Even though he is lonely he finds ways to pass the time like eat, say boo! to people, turn himself into someone else and play hide and go seek with shadows. He is almost always happy. He is not dangerous at all. He gets anything he wants. He gets more candy than anybody. He is very polite to some people but not to others. That's it! That's the whole story. Now let's put on our English student critical lens hats and figure out what 7-year-old me was really driving at. Let's begin with our main character's name. He is the four horned double hatted three toothed two feathered business man. Why the four-two-three-two ordering? Like any good student, I took off my critical lens hat and turned to Google to find the answer. There, I discovered that this number, 4232, is not only the last portion of my social security number but also the number of a Sesame Street episode titled "Veggies Revolt," in which Abby Cadabby sings the famous "Broccoli Hurrah Hurrah," and Elmo proceeds to quote "open his closet door to reveal shelves full of chattering teeth, which all fall on top of him." Moving on. The business man is also a psychological mystery, full of contradictions. He is so worried about people ripping his shirt that he scares them away, and so friendly that he gets more candy than everyone else. He is always happy, but so lonely that he entertains himself by playing games with shadows. He eats pea soup and steak, yet is not dangerous at all. I know what you're wondering: how could this all be true?! As is often the case, we need to use the Marxist literary lens. You see, our main character is a businessman. His friendliness is a ploy to increase his candy supply so he can convert it into ten-year treasury notes. His wealth keeps him happy, but by selling candy for bonds he sells his soul to the Devil and becomes a social outcast, lonely in the shadows of his piles of cash. More importantly, we discovered that there is somehow only one thing that he cannot do! And that thing is tight roping, because he has one short leg. Now, I can't tightrope either, but I don't usually hop around on one leg. My fellow historians here know that we must examine the historical context to understand why, at age 7, I made this unusual literary decision. Looking into the past, we can see without a doubt that the short length of his leg refers to the shortage of gas that led to massive protests in France just days before I wrote this story in 2010. There's still one thing I haven't mentioned: what's up with the super long and weird name? Well, in first grade, writing that name out took almost half a page. And don't forget that I was competing to write the longest story - this name was very helpful in extending that 400 word story to an unbelievable 14 pages. In the months after I wrote that story, I learned to write more concisely. In fact, some of my writing became so short it didn't even make sense. To close this speech, I want to share one of those stories, one so short it doesn't even have a title. Once upon a time, there was a little girl. She asked her mom if she could go to the bakery. Her mom said: "No." She said "We can't. You would be shaking and shivering the whole time." "Well if we can't do that let's skate!" "Ok but first let's have some cornflakes and grated cheese." But on the way, there was a snake, and her mom hit the brakes, the car vibrated, and a crazy person skateboarding in the bike lane. The end. Three months ago, a story about one Gabrielle Petito made headlines for several weeks as people all over the country invested themselves in her tragic disappearance and death. Ms. Petito was 22. She posted on Instagram about her van, and she was visiting a well known national park. Her fiance was, for most people, the clear culprit as the search unfolded. Two weeks ago, the deaths of eight people at Travis Scott's Astroworld festival made headlines for days as people pointed fingers and mourned the dead and injured. Scott has a huge popular following. He seemed clearly responsible. The victims were the same age as many of us. In Ethiopia right now, there is a civil war going on, with thousands of casualties and many more likely to come. Likely, few of us here today are aware of that. You probably don't know about the people who are suffering, or the country they lived in. Understanding who is responsible requires significant historical understanding. What I'm getting at is something you're all already familiar with: it's called psychological numbing, and its essence is that our compassion quickly runs out at scale. The suffering of millions means nothing, but a single person's suffering can be gripping. This feels strange. Various shootings this past year have received nearly as much attention as the surge of Covid in India this past summer that killed millions of people. And it's not just media: people I know are much more shaken by these shootings than the news of deaths on a scale one million times greater. Research shows that people feel less compassion for the suffering of two people than one. As we add still more people, soon we don't care at all. This idea is usually reduced to numbers: the more people hurt, the less we are concerned. But I think it's more complicated than that. First, we get numb when we can't relate to the suffering: The more distant, physically and culturally, suffering people are, the less we care Second, we get numb when the suffering lasts: With Covid as many other things, ongoing crises fade into the background and we stop caring Third, we get numb when it's hard to understand what's causing suffering: with climate change and the war in Ethiopia, among other things, the cause is not concrete, so we care less Last, we get numb when we feel there's nothing we could have done: deaths from a preventable blackout in Texas last winter elicited a dramatic response, but people hardly noticed when thousands of Haitians died in an earthquake this fall. Is it an issue that we don't care about mass suffering as much as isolated incidents? I think yes. That doesn't mean it's our fault. Nor does it mean we can't or shouldn't do anything about it. So... what should we do? I think there are two phases to this. The first is communication. The news media should not show us the same headlines about ongoing tragedies every day - it would be depressing, unhelpful, and they would lose all their business. If you felt a thousand times as sad every day when you read the Covid death toll as you did when you heard about Astroworld, you would not be helping yourself at all. Instead, the media can communicate the devastation of distant, ongoing tragedies with images of individuals, stories about specific people who suffer. And this is exactly what the media does. The next phase is figuring out what we do with that information. Some of this has to do with news too: it would not be interesting to read a newspaper that headlines every day with "1 million new cases of malaria! Thousands of covid casualties!" And so they don't tell us that. News organizations make a good effort to challenge psychic numbing by reporting on the specific within the vast: dramatic pictures of immigrants dead or being attacked, stories about individuals lost to the pandemic. But what can we do once we hear about this? One person says the first step is becoming aware... yes Idea of building in methods to force ourselves to take action (anti-genocide pacts with teeth, for example, as with climate change) Shed light on things that are actually solutions to apparently impossible problems There are single digit numbers of people who have really analyzed this phenomenon that we all engage with, all the time. Should I attempt to propose a solution Don't try to discount your sadness about individual events: there is nothing wrong with it. But try to supplement this with action on larger, ongoing etc. issues There are ways to solve the communication side: present imagery, present solutions, make them seem accessible, relate us to the people suffering But the goal is not just to make us feel sad - the goal must be to stop these things Yes, I think the first step is awareness. Is the next step to prevent yourself from ignoring? Call for your governments to impose requirements on itself that it must meet, no matter how it feels about things in the future Alice Duncan Everyone feels lonely. Often, it's from new situations, or when you are around people you don't know. It passes, sometimes pretty quickly. I find that usually, the best cure for loneliness is being around the people I care about and doing activities I love. This fall, though, that didn't really work for me. I was convinced that none of my friends wanted me around. They probably wouldn't want me to come to lunch, so I ate by myself or didn't go at all. I cared so much but felt so unwanted that when I tried to start conversations or arrange time to spend around friends, I pretty viciously talked myself down. I told myself things like, "I bother people," "My friends don't like me," "No one will ever want to care about me," and "They've found better people to be around because I'm a bad friend." Brief moments of loneliness are awful, but they'd always passed and this was new. I found out that constant loneliness is unbearable. I felt like I had brief flashes of happiness in otherwise overwhelming sadness. Whenever I wasn't directly interacting with another person, I felt alone. Even when I was surrounded by others in classes, at lunch, or at assemblies. When tough emotions and thoughts appear, it's so easy to get caught up in them. Many people agree that they are their own worst enemy and use seemingly logical reasoning to tear themselves down. The process for me goes something like: 'I feel alone and disconnected' to 'My friends and classmates are nice people' to 'If I feel unwanted by such nice people, I must have done something wrong' and finally 'I'm awful, and it makes sense that my friends don't want me.' I can see now that those are some pretty big jumps to take. Those are things you would never say to someone you care about. I've realized that a lot of the time, I don't see myself as someone worth being taken care of, especially by myself. I don't deserve to treat myself like a friend. My therapist is the one who started teaching me about self-compassion. When she heard that's what I was planning on writing my speech on, she was super excited and recommended this book called The Mindful Self-Compassion Workbook. My initial thoughts were that it would be somewhat cheesy based on the title combined with the serene picture of a bridge on the cover. In some ways, I think I was right, and I admit I skipped the actual "workbook" parts because I thought it was silly and just read the explanation sections. It did help me understand what self-compassion is, though. Before I read this, I thought of self-compassion as treating yourself how you treat others or a friend. And that is definitely a huge element of it, but just saying those words doesn't explain how to be compassionate. I didn't know how to give compassion to myself, so even during times when I recognized that I wasn't helping my loneliness with the worst-case scenario "everyone hates me" thoughts, I couldn't move off that path. I read about three main elements of self-compassion: common humanity, mindfulness, and self-kindness. Common humanity just means recognizing that other people have gone through the pain you're facing. I think senior speeches are really helpful for this, and there have been times where a speech reminds me that I'm not the only one. I hope this speech can be that for some of you, as well. But, bringing it back to learning from my kind of cheesy self-compassion book, the feeling of not being alone with what I'm facing hit me right on the first page. It said, "In the blink of an eye, we can go from 'I don't like this feeling' to 'I don't want this feeling' to 'Something is wrong with me for having this feeling' to 'I'm bad.'" Seeing my exact thought process on the first page of a book confirmed that I wasn't alone. And that helped me go through the rest of the book excited to learn. When I think of mindfulness, my first reaction is always negative. It brings to mind being instructed to sit still, close my eyes, and breathe in kindness and stuff like that. But the concept of mindfulness is to just be aware, open, and accepting of what you're feeling and why. Taking a step back to examine and name what I'm feeling has been so helpful because in the moment, it usually makes me feel calmer. Sometimes, I find that fantastic, and other times it throws me into a spiral of "oh no, I'm making everything up for attention." But I've realized that no matter what feelings come after the calmness, I succeeded in acknowledging my feelings. Even if I can't hold on to the calm, it's ok because it will come back eventually. Being kind to yourself is sort of self-explanatory. I'd always thought it only meant "don't be mean to yourself." Stopping having thoughts isn't really possible, though. I find that unfortunate because I would love to have complete control over what I'm feeling and thinking so that I wouldn't have to go through any pain. But that's not how things work. Luckily, even if you can't change how you think at the drop of a hat, you can react with kindness. I started writing down little things in a notebook like 'This really hurts. I'm so sorry about that.' and then, I would come up with something to do. Get a snack and a drink of water. Sit and pet my cats. Bring a stuffed animal to school so that I'm not alone. Even though I still had all my mean beliefs about myself, I started to do nice things just for me because I'm a person, and I deserve to take care of myself for that reason only. My favorite quote from the book that describes the essence of self compassion is "[it's] like a parent comforting a child who has the 48-hour flu. The parent doesn't comfort the child to drive the flu away - the flu is going to leave in its own time. But because the child has a fever and feels bad, the parent comforts her as a natural response to suffering while the process of healing occurs." Being told I deserve compassion and care really turned my world upside down. Sometimes, it hurts to finally feel like you deserve to be cared for because you start realizing how much pain you're in and that something is missing. But if someone else believed it, maybe I could too. So, from the bottom of my heart, I would like to tell you all that you deserve compassion, care, kindness, and gentleness from others. But you especially deserve these from yourself. Thank you.
Amara Torres As some of you may know, I transferred to SPA my senior year, which is almost unheard of. While the reasoning behind the switch varied from "it's a long story" to "it was just a random last-second decision", I feel like I have yet to share the entire story. I have loved every minute of my SPA experience, but that does not negate the fact that I did spend 3 out of my 4 years of high school at a large public school. I have only spoken briefly about my experience at my old school, but looking back I think not a single one of you would believe I was the same person my freshman year as I am today, mostly because I am not the same person. Today, I am a strong, confident, social, happy individual and I cannot thank the SPA community enough for welcoming and embracing this version of me with open arms. but that is not what this speech is about. Unfortunately, it was not always this way. Two years ago, I was not in a good place. I was stuck. Stuck in an environment where nobody embraced success but instead envied it. I used to be someone who would do everything I could to stay unseen. I was introverted, shy, and thought isolation was easier than attempting to make connections. As I eventually began to evolve from that mindset, I realized that with or without trying, I was still invisible to my peers. I would go days without speaking just to see if someone noticed, and yet no one ever did. I began to blame it on myself, telling myself I was not interesting or cool enough for anyone to want to be seen with me. I fell into this cycle of morphing my personality into whatever it seemed people wanted me to be. By the time I started Junior year, I felt I had no part of my true self left. I would float through my classes, laughing at jokes I didn't find funny and smiling at the people I knew secretly disliked me. But it was worth occasionally being waved at in the hallway and sitting at lunch with the popular people, wasn't it? I didn't care if I was no longer myself if it meant others found me appealing. I was falling into a lifestyle that was created by others, and the scariest part 2 was that I did not care. Being an outcast isn't so bad when you aren't trying to fit in, but it's a completely different feeling when you are trying your hardest to be good enough and yet still go unseen. This is how I felt for the majority of the 3 years at my old school, and it wasn't until COVID that I decided I was done pretending. During COVID I was stuck with myself, and only myself. COVID added to the isolation I had already adapted to, but also gave me the time and space I needed to find who I wanted to be without worrying about outside judgment. I tried just about everything, from dying my hair pink to teaching myself how to square dance. As I eventually figured out I didn't want to be a future punk star nor a cowgirl, I started to settle into a place where I didn't feel the need to force a single style onto myself. It was when I took a step back and allowed myself to do whatever it was I wanted that I began to thrive. I began an internship at Good Neighbors Center where I tutored and counseled two little girls, who ended up being my best friends. I began working at Caribou, where I learned to manage the old women who claim they can tell the difference between 1% and 2% milk. I even began cooking nightly meals for my family, which only lasted about a month and I will definitely never be doing again. For once I was genuinely connecting with the world around me, and it's a feeling I can't even begin to describe. Now, as I'm sure most of you have been waiting for, how I ended up at SPA. I was able to find myself within the isolation, and I realized I was not ready to go back to how I'd felt for the past 3 years. Some may think I was running away from something, and in a sense I was. I was running away from myself. From that version of myself that everyone had collectively decided for me. I wanted a fresh start, one where people would not know who I am or what I'm like. I was able to come into SPA knowing almost no one, and while this would usually seem terrible, I loved it. I was able to 3 build a persona that I felt was my own, and the best thing about it is I have been accepted. For the first time, I feel like I belong. As my time in front of you all comes to an end, I would like to dedicate this speech to those who may relate. This speech is for those who feel like I did, still searching for the people who make you feel loved and things you have passion for. This speech is for those who aren't quite sure who they are or want to be. Lastly, this speech is for my younger 14-year-old self, who only ever wanted to feel like she belonged. I promise you, by the time you're standing in the same place I am, you will be okay. It may take change as it did for me, or it may not. Either way, you will find where you belong. I can promise you that. Andy Rose I wanted to write this speech about anything else. I tried to make it about philosophy, I tried to make it about the shortcomings of modern society, I even tried to make it about the subtle marxist themes in the kung fu panda trilogy, but no. Every time I sat down to write about anything else it all circled back in on itself, to the actual topic of my speech; insomnia. As I'm sure you're all aware, every single person is host to an incredibly large number of identities, be they as obvious as our race, age or height, or as invisible as what music we like, or who our friends are. While these identities don't impact how people immediately perceive us, they ultimately have a greater impact on what actions we take and how we interact with people around us. These invisible identities can be so many different things, however big or small, like formative experiences that change how we think, morality that has been slowly absorbed over the years from people we look up to, or, for my example, a medical condition that shapes my whole life. I have insomnia, or more accurately "delayed sleep phase", which means It takes me hours to fall asleep. This diagnosis doesn't really mean anything though, because insomnia is a symptom, not an actual disease or defect. It's like being diagnosed with a cough or a sore throat. After seeing 8 different sleep specialists over the past 7 years, we've come to the conclusion that they have no idea why I have insomnia. I'm a medical mystery, which makes getting treatment a lot harder. Nothing we've tried has effectively worked, so, here I am, stuck getting on average 1-3 hours of sleep a night. As you can imagine, that sucks. A lot. And it only gets worse over the school year. 6 hours below the recommended sleep amount every night adds up pretty quick. Sleep is vital for us as human beings, we need it to learn, grow, and function properly. After about three days with no sleep, the brain can no longer properly dispose of its waste, leading to mild hallucinations, and high risk of brain damage. I hit 3 days sometimes. I've hit 4 a couple of times. I've hit 5 twice. It isn't all bad though. I only ever learned to cook because I had a ton of free time at night, and got a lil hungry. I know so much more about the filmmaking process than I ever would have expected, researching and learning about it late at night. I learned to love horror movies by watching them alone at 3am. I'm constantly awake whenever my friends need someone to talk to deep into the night. These have all changed who I am as a person. Of course, so have all the negatives. Having to work through school barely awake, missing events and plans because I haven't slept enough to function socially, or knowing that my body could just decide to not sleep, and my brain could stop working, all contribute a profound amount to who I am. Anyways, why is this important? Why am I telling you all this? Why did I feel like I had to write my speech about insomnia? It's because almost everything I do, every action I take, every thought I think, when examined deep enough, is impacted by my insomnia. For example, I very much value making other people laugh. Why? Because I'm afraid that if I don't entertain people, they'll think I'm being rude or apathetic. Why would I think that? Because it's happened before. Why? Because people often confuse me being too tired to put in enough social effort with me not caring about them. There's the insomnia, a couple layers down. Now obviously you all have different circumstances, as my story is fairly unique, but what we can learn from it will be useful to all of you. If you take anything you're doing, and ask yourself why you're doing it enough times, you can find which of your identities are most impactful. Obviously just asking why the once won't really do anything. You'll need to ask yourself until you feel uncomfortable. You'll need to be brutally honest. Depending on what you're admitting to yourself the number of times you'll have to ask will change, but whenever you take an action there is always an underlying piece of you that has led you to it. You'll find that a lot of your motivations are impacted by multiple identities, oftentimes noticing little pieces you've never really thought of as central to who you are before. For me, in almost every aspect of my life, if you look down deep enough, my insomnia is there, changing how I think. It's one of my core identities, which, along with all my smaller peripheral ones, develop how I act. Finding out what these core and peripheral identities all are, how they've impacted you, and what they mean to you is the first step in bettering yourself. From there you can analyze what parts of you aren't healthy, what parts of you 'll have to live with, and what parts of you you think are truly good. The first step is to own who you are, all parts and pieces. From there, you can work on changing what you can to become the person you want to be. Annika Brelsford Square 0. Before my house had a kitchen but after it had a roof, I lived in my grandmother's basement, 90 miles away from here. In a quiet void, I found spiders everywhere. They were in my socks and on my pillow like they were clinging to the most personal spaces of mine that they could find. My clothes were some kind of harbor, sitting there on the floor. I was afraid, as most people are, of these harmless arachnids. My mom told me then that spiders are a sign of spiritual transformation. Truthfully, they have a certain mystical power to them that I never really noticed before. I became less afraid. I caught them one by one, releasing the scared, sacred mothers to the above world. But I will always find more, in the end. I think I've been seeing a lot of spiders recently. If you'd have told me a year ago of all the things that would change, I would've asked you to wake me up. A year ago, I relied on a fragile quilt to keep me feeling warm. It was sewn with squares of bruised relationships and doubt. It began to rip at the seams. As you can imagine, it's cold without a blanket. The cold was getting a little too comfortable. It was in this time, between the cold and the sewing of a new quilt, that I found the squares I needed to begin anew. I'm glad that it started to break, that quilt. I see now that I had to have the blanket ripped off to remember how to wake up. I am offering you a square of me, right now, for your own quilt. It's okay, you can take it, if you want. It's not really all my own material anyway. I don't remember when or why, but somewhere, I learned that you slowly collect little bits of other people to create the person you are now. Meaning, I am a patchwork of all the people I've ever met. The woman that raised me is my left side. The person that cut me off in traffic a year ago is a strand of my hair. My childhood friend is my dominant eye. The little nods and interjections that my English teacher used to do are now my own. I am simultaneously my grandmother and Governor Waltz. I'm a mosaic. I'm a collective. I guess that's why it's so important to pick who gets a square on your quilt because, depending on who you sew in, you could become an entirely new patchwork - an entirely new version of you. Square I. I once watched the stars laying in the back of a pick-up truck in our school's parking lot. I was squished between two of my friends: the pick-up truck owner and the kind, sarcastic one that's afraid of heights. We fit two more of our friends next to us creating a sardine can of vertical teenagers in the plastic capsule of a truck bed. Square II. I once watched the stars on the dock of a lake, laying on my friend's stomach as another friend laid on mine. I asked what shooting stars were as I saw one stain my vision. My friend who isn't afraid of dying but is afraid of the dark told me that those trails of light that streak through the speckled blackness before me are meteors that get burned up in the atmosphere of the earth. I thought about the selflessness of this rock that saves me hundreds of times a day; this sphere that has protected me from meteors since before I needed protecting; this mammoth that pushes our plastic with her waves but doesn't cry out when we dig for oil deep in her veins. I get that funny feeling that the world is crumbling before us in fervent grief. Everytime I drive to school in those subservient 20 minutes, I think about the way that she is choking on my car's exhaust, no matter how inconsequential my actions may be. Looking at the stars, I quietly accept the impending end of it all. What I have right now will be over soon, but that's what makes it more than perfect. Square III. I once went to a college ten minutes from my house. My friend who is beautiful like a greek statue and funny like the internet had invited me to meet them there to learn about something we could address in our club at school. I found them in a room full of mostly women eagerly awaiting the words of Nadya Okamoto. Nadya told us about menstruating people in the world that don't have a way to go to school once every month. It's the curse of the infamous broken record-of-a-process they have no choice but to play. If men had periods, there would be tampon vending machines every five miles. I listened to the things Nadya has done in her short life: she created a non-profit at sixteen, went to school homeless and ran for city council at nineteen. I found myself amazed by Nadya in the way that I am amazed by spiders or museums. She wore red. Square IV. My friend who is afraid of the dark but loves horror movies takes me down his stairs and into a room that I didn't know existed. He says it is his mother's art closet. There are paintings piled in stacks or leaning in jagged rows or laying across the top of the previously mentioned rows of paintings. I cannot see the pictures in most of them; only the brown paper backing equipped with two nails and a wire in the hopes that one day my friend who likes horror movies and doesn't like chocolate will affix them to an incomplete wall. Someday, I will run my hands over these squares in this quilt of mine and smile about these moments, even when I am old and have lived four times my life now, sewing a quilt as big as my house. There is magic in being an unfinished, walking story. There is magic in witnessing this untamed transformation. There is chaos in this balancing game between destruction and rebirth. I've been finding a lot of spiders recently. I hope you do too. I hope this makes you smile :) Arjay Jacobs It was raining that morning. The temperature had dropped to a chilly 55 degrees, lower than most days that September, but I didn't feel that cold. It was still dark out as I ran, and soon I was drenched. I debated turning around and going back home, but something about running in the rain was strangely freeing. Even a few months ago I definitely would have turned around, backed down. Knowing this brought out my competitive nature, my desire to beat myself. I only had five miles to run anyway, or maybe it was seven; the mileage didn't feel relevant to me. I remember feeling proud and accomplished as I got in the shower that morning before distanced learning was set to begin. I was training for my first marathon, a journey that took me almost a year starting from only being able to run a 5k in February 2020 to running twenty-six point two in November of the same year. And then I tacked on two more to complete three marathons in three months, earning a lifetime spot in the Marathons Maniacs, a dedicated group of marathon runners. My mother is also a part of this group, and her running accomplishments dwarf mine, including running a marathon on all seven continents, yes - including Antarctica. It wouldn't be fair to say that I could've gotten there without her. My journey really started right as the pandemic hit, and without any sports to play, I turned to running with my mom for exercise. My whole family ended up running a race in Arizona, my mom ran the full marathon, my dad the half, and my sister and I ran the 10k, which is around 6 miles. While it seems like not much of an accomplishment now, that 10k was my first experience training for and running a race, and gave me the first taste of what it felt like to reach a goal that I had spent countless hours preparing for. Now, I have always been the type of person who is great at visualizing things, and not so great at seeing them through. I start projects all the time, hit an obstacle that feels insurmountable, assume it is, and move on. So without the push I got from my family to run that 10k, my journey very well may never have started. And after my life went back to normal, the feeling of accomplishment that came from even a simple three-week training stuck with me and I was hungry for more. I soon set my sights on the half-marathon or thirteen point one miles. It took until mid-September before I was ready for the half. I remember getting up early so many times, really wanting to quit, my legs aching. I remember the feeling of looking at my watch, seeing the mileage I still had to cover. I remember getting cramps in my side, always around the second mile. But I also remember the beautiful fall days when it was 60 degrees and sunny when Minnesota is truly a wonderful place to run. I remember getting to spend those weekend afternoons with my mom, both of us working towards a common goal. I had all those thoughts in my head when I finally finished my first half-marathon on September 13, 2020, in Holland, Michigan. And yet, sitting in the grass to the side of the makeshift social distance finish line, I knew I had it in me to run the full marathon. I wasn't satisfied with just half. Training from thirteen miles to twenty-six takes a lot less time than the first thirteen, it's just a lot of long weekend runs. I had my mom to keep me company, along with her running playlist which consisted of a lot of 80s music plus some Jennifer Lopez, Bruno Mars, and a little bit of Usher. At this point in my training, it was too late to turn back. I had already scheduled my first marathon, which was originally set to be just outside of Las Vegas, but changed to a remote part of Kansas after some logistical issues arose due to the pandemic. The morning of October 24, 2020, was cold, to say the least. I was shivering for the whole car ride from our Airbnb to the start line. The plan was to only run 20, then walk the last 6.2, completing my first marathon. Those first 20 miles were quite the experience. The premise of the marathon was a straight course down an old railroad that had been turned into a trail. During most of the year, this small two-lane path would have made an excellent place for all kinds of exercise. But on that day, with the clouds covering up the sun and the trees on either side of the path creating an excellent wind tunnel, it was freezing cold. I lost feeling of my hands halfway through and I am pretty sure they were still numb at the finish line. I did end up walking the last six miles, mostly because I wasn't fully trained for the full distance yet. And as much as my mom assured me that my marathon counted, I couldn't truly convince myself that I had accomplished my goal yet. And in a fortunate turn of events, the Mt. Charleston Marathon (just outside of Las Vegas) had gotten rescheduled for a few weeks down the line. I was able to finish up my training, and came to Las Vegas ready to validate all the long hours I spent training. Everything went a lot smoother this time, the race started near the top of Mt. Charleston and wound its way down to the desert floor. I can still remember the cool air up in the mountain, much less harsh than the piercing Kansas winds. I still remember the feeling of running on that small shoulder of the road, only a couple of yards away from cars zipping by. I remember becoming bored enough of the repeating desert scenery to sing the entirety of the "100 bottles of beer on the wall" song. All the way down to zero. The last few miles were not easy though. It had gotten closer to noon and I was in the desert. But eventually, step by step, I made it to the finish line. A lot of people ask me what it is like to cross the finish line after running a marathon. I'll tell you that the feeling of accomplishment is absolutely worth the countless hours of struggle required to reach that point. I ended up running one more marathon in Tulsa, Oklahoma to complete three marathons in three months. For me, this whole journey was the first time I really truly poured all my time and energy into a single goal for an extended period of time. I am still astonished by what I was able to accomplish, and I think that anyone can accomplish amazing things with just a little bit of time and dedication. I'm also not even close to a prime example of good work ethic (just ask my parents), but with my mother there to push me along, I stuck with it, through all the ups and downs. So, I challenge everyone in the audience, and everyone listening to this speech to pick something, anything that you are passionate about, maybe find someone else who's passionate about it too and set a goal, it could be small, in fact, I think you should start small. Then stick to it. I promise you the sense of accomplishment from completing what you set out to do will be worth what it cost to get there. Remember, dreaming is fun and all, but memories are so much sweeter. Thank you. Davyd Barchuk Black sky. Fire in the streets. Dark visors and batons. Burnt rubber. Fireworks scream among dark masses, burning their flesh. Torn flags billow in the wind. A megaphone booms amid the chaos. The air reeks of ashen death, yet the crowd of gas masks and visored helmets remain defiant. The battlefield changes, but the fight is the same. Ukrainians drag bloodied bodies behind makeshift shields. Barricades of wood and glass, furniture and stone block the streets. Gas masks and ambulances. Molotovs and rifles. Medics crowded inside a church provide care for the wounded. And the copper angels stand watching at their rooftops, unblinking. This was Kiev, Ukraine's capital as I remember it 8 years ago when I watched Euromaidan unfurl through the relative safety of my iPad. I watched as people ran down the street, slumping over as sniper fire methodically sent civilians to their maker. It was terrifying, and revolting and all of the usual expected responses but most of all I was confused. This wasn't the Ukraine I remembered from when I was a kid. I remember parks, greenery and children laughing. There was a metal sculpture, it can't have been more than ten feet tall but I swear it touched the sky. I had a really small ball pit, it flashed red, blue and yellow under the rays of sunlight that danced on the carpet. And my preschool! Giant rubber tires, paper plates, oh and the maple trees. Me and my friends would remove the seeds from the helicopter-like tissue and use the stickiness to create "Pinochio" noses as we played in the shade. I wonder how they're doing. I wonder if any of them have begun training for war. You see, I'm not like most Ukrainians. I got out. My Ukrainian citizenship has been replaced with a shiny new American one. I watched Barack Obama's face on a projection screen tell me as much. As far as language goes, I can no longer fluently speak Ukrainian or Russian, sure I can generally understand and read them, but only as well as a 5 year old could. Even my accent is gone, dissolved by years of copying others and trying to fit into a wildly different world. I've done traditional Ukrainian dance for nearly a decade, but since I tore my MCL two months ago I haven't been to practice. Every lost piece of my identity racks me with guilt, and I can't help but blame myself for that. It makes me feel like a fraud, even in front of my Ukrainian family, especially in front of them. But my reality as I knew it has begun to unravel. For the last eight years, Ukraine has been entrenched in a war against Russia, in a geopolitical conflict mostly forgotten by the West. Some 14,000 Ukrainian soldiers have died fighting Russian mercenaries while Congress refused to send lethal military aid. Russia stole Crimea while the rest of the world sat on its hands. Nobody cared about my home, up until Putin staged more than 100,000 troops around Ukraine's borders. That got everybody's attention. CNN interrupted it's usual program on the January 6th Committee and pulled up a chair to milk this new development for every drop. Du du du du, this is CNN Breaking News, and we're gonna say "the situation is critical" every day, twice a day, for the next month. It's exhausting, and if I ingest any more news I'm going to overdose on it. Oh look! Russia is sending troops into East Ukraine, the invasion has begun! As if Russia hasn't been supplying weapons, men and propaganda for the last 8 years. All of a sudden everyone's an expert on the invasion in Donbass and Luhansk. I am here to proudly share the words of wisdom that I have heard from others. Many people don't care about Ukraine, they don't want to get involved so they don't have to die in another country's war. Hey man, I get it, I'm not exactly picking up a rifle either. But there are others who think the U.S. shouldn't get involved in Ukraine's independence at all, that this isn't our concern.The U.S. should just "give" Russia Ukraine. These people are incredibly ignorant. They are stuck in a parochial attitude that pretends that if they stick their heads in the sand, everything will be okay. You can point out to them why defending a democracy's sovereignty matters, especially when authoritarian regimes threaten the wellbeing of innocent lives. But when I try to state the obvious, I'm branded a warmonger, drunk on Western propaganda. Then there are the Russian hardliners. They truly and earnestly believe Putin's lie, that the West has unjustly torn the Ukrainian people from the motherly embrace of their mother Russia. They believe that the Russians, the Ukrainians and the Belorussians all share one common Rus identity, and Ukraine must simply come back into the fold. Nevermind the millions of Ukrainians who starved to death during Stalin's collectivization in the Soviet Union. Nevermind the thousands of men, women and children who have been killed by Russian troops and officers, the signs of torture still on their cold bodies when they're dug up in mass graves. Nevermind the century of unrelenting cultural genocide, replacing our orthodox faith with the state, replacing our history and education with lies and fears. They yearn for a return to these glory days of the USSR, when Russia was a superpower and it's people feared and respected. They are like children, mindlessly chasing a forgotten dream of Russian hegemony and supposed cultural superiority. Honestly, everyone's a child. Putin has his own childish obsession with Ukraine, he has no endgame and will lose more than he gains by taking Ukraine. President Biden is a child, he failed to stop Russia's annexation of Ukraine when he was VP for Obama and Ukraine was his assignment, once again he has failed to stop Soviet aggression. The European leaders are children, saber-rattling economic sanctions while Russia is unperturbed. I'm a child, for thinking the world was a fair place where evil always loses and justice prevails. There is no goodness where there is power, justice is what you make it, play by the rules unless they can't stop you. When everything is gone, it won't matter anymore, and the only thing we have left is our spirit. I dream of a free Ukraine, where the sky is blue and the fields green and never ending. Where the sun shines East to West over wheat and sunflowers. There are people there, smiling and laughing, dancing Cheremosh around a large bonfire. But that fire is spreading. It has set the world on fire. If I squint, I can make the tanks look like cars. The hellfire of missiles and bombs are just rain. The explosions lighting up the black sky back into dawn must be nothing more than fireworks. The fresh corpses, a children's game. Maybe if I finally accept this old reality of war and death, then I won't be so miserable. Yet I can't accept it, because I was born into this world. It doesn't feel real. I don't know how to express watching my people die. Watching the missiles through tears in my eyes. My chest either feels too empty or too full, like I would explode or rot away. I don't have to put a poetic spin on war. Why do they have to die? There's nothing after death, just a void, and the void was quiet but now it's shrieking. God, we're just children. It's just a joke right? When I wake up, it will go back to normal. I mean, what do I leave you with? How do I express how this feels? To watch the suffering, the pain. To cry and whimper into my pillow, groveling in my own mucus and saliva until I feel like an animal. I haven't felt this way since my father died. I was 11 years old when I learned there's no justice in this world. I've spent my middle school and high school years regaining some of the innocence I've lost, but now it's all for nothing. Is the real me? Is my other self diminished or gone? Perhaps I'm already dead. Ben Hanson I'm not the best at writing in general but I am especially not good at writing speeches or really anything longer than two pages. Ever since I learned that I had to write a senior speech in middle school I realized that was a lot harder than I thought. I had three main problems. My first and the probably most important problem was that I had no original ideas or ideas, in general, to write my speech on. I brainstormed for what felt like days but actually turned out to be about 25 minutes. Most of my ideas were strange and probably wouldn't make any sense. Some of my ideas were, writing my speech about a sport that I have never played for example writing my speech about underwater hockey, how I've been a huge underwater hockey fan since a young age, frequent the pool to play underwater hockey, and am an avid watcher of underwater hockey never letting the audience in on the joke that I in fact don't know anything about underwater hockey and it was just one of the first things that popped up when I googled up weird sports. My next idea was just writing about fears and phobias that I had, like the fact I'm afraid of height, the ocean, and I'm deathly afraid of blonde people. These were my two best ideas and I wasn't really a big fan of any of them so for my first draft I decided to write about my second biggest challenge, procrastination. Now, I've almost mastered the art of procrastinating on homework assignments, barely getting them done on time and cramming at 5 am and the day of a test but if my English courses have taught me anything it's that in order for your essays to make any sense at all you should probably spend more than 20 minutes spewing words onto a google doc until you hit the word count required. But alas about 4 weeks ago today as I sat down about to start writing the first draft of my speech when I had the brilliant idea that I could just wait till my free period the next day to write it. This wasn't a great idea for multiple reasons for starters, it was an all-class day leaving me with only 45 minutes for writing, and secondly, I was also meeting with Mr. Inchiosa less than 5 minutes after my free period. However, I did in fact churn out my first draft in record time leaving me with 10 minutes to spare which I did not use to fix any grammatical errors. In hindsight that was probably a bad idea because I had to completely redo my speech because my first draft didn't really make too much sense and wasn't very good. That leads me to my second draft, since my first draft was lazily written I didn't really have a starting point I could go off of besides my original idea of writing about procrastination. However, since I barely put any time into fleshing out my idea in the first draft so I decided to start from scratch. The second draft turned out to be very different than the first draft. When I started writing I found myself going over the first sentence over and over again making sure it sounded right and didn't seem strange, I had a perfectionist attitude that I'm normally not used to while writing. I normally only have a perfectionist attitude for art and sports and it's never a good thing. I normally try to draw landscape and realistic drawing in art and that is not just because I think that a hyper-realistic drawing looks better than an abstract drawing but also because I never know when an abstract art piece looks good. I also tend to overwork the pieces I draw obsessing over each line spending far too long trying to get a line straight even though it doesn't matter at all. I came to the realization recently that nobody cares that the mountain I drew doesn't look exactly like a normal mountain that it doesn't really matter the tree I drew looks like some random scribbles that maybe resemble a bush. However my attitude toward my artwork is different from the sports I play, if I make a bad drawing or mess up I'm not letting anyone down but since the sports I do are mostly team sports if I mess up or have an off day I'm not only letting myself down I'm also letting the team down. This attitude has thankfully not carried over into academics, if I do badly on a test I don't get mad at myself I just study more for the next one. I hear a lot of people talk about SPA's academic culture but personally, I've never felt pressured to try to be the best at school I've come to terms with the fact that there are a lot of people who are smarter than me and try harder than me in classes. This doesn't necessarily mean I don't try in school but just means that if someone gets a better grade than me on a test I don't really care. The third biggest problem that I had while writing my speech was that I didn't know how to end it. I couldn't seem to think of a good ending, and I ended up re-doing the ending over and over again till this morning, at about 6:30, when I realized I should probably just write something down, because I had my speech in three hours. So I got out of bed and walked downstairs, eating my usual breakfast of a singular bagel with nothing on it, then sat down to write. I've never been very good at endings for English essays, I always found myself rambling about random things that didn't make much sense before abruptly ending the essay. For History and analytical essays, I never really know how to write a conclusion. I just end up rehashing the body paragraphs and then talking about what I ate for breakfast. I finished the ending at about 8:45 but I still needed a closing sentence. I still couldn't think of one, and because it was about 8:45, I came to the conclusion that I probably shouldn't have waited until the very last minute to finish my speech. Divya Bhargava I sit on the benches of the amphitheater for the first time, looking around in awe and apprehension as people file down towards the wooden stage. I hold my backpack tight against my body and resist the urge to keep glancing over at my friend next to me. We're going to be in the same cabin, I tell myself. We have to be. Two staff members appear on the stage and announce that counselors from each cabin will be reading off the names of their campers, who will then follow them to their home for the next week. One by one the cabins go, Schoolcraft, Ramsey, Hennepin, Grossier, and yet my name has still not been called. Then two counselors run onto the stage and declare that they are from Yaqua. They call out three names, and the three little girls gather their stuff, backpacks and pillows, and make their way down to the counselors. Then the counselors pause and look at each other. It's short, almost unnoticeable, but I see it. Then, hesitantly, one of them reads off D... Duva Bhuga? I understand. That's me. Duva Bhuga. I stand up and walk down to stand with the rest of my cabin mates, laughing it off and saying "it's okay" when my counselor says that she is sorry. That she has never seen a name like mine before. I am at a track meet waiting for it to start after warming up. The team is sitting in a circle under the SPA tent, a tarp crinkling underneath us and food and bags in the middle. It's the end of the season so we have been out in the sun a lot. Someone begins putting on their spikes and laughs at their tan line. This leads to the inevitable comments of "you tan so fast" and "oh I'm so pale" from all around me. Everyone begins comparing the skin on the inside of their forearms but I just sit there silently. Eventually, someone tells me to come join in, so I do, already knowing how this is going to end. I scoot over and put out my arm face up next to theirs. They giggle at the jump in color, as though they are part of some inside joke. I laugh with them although there is nothing to laugh at. I feel a little bit of shame knowing that I have made this joke myself. I am at the MSP airport with my family. We have checked in and are now going through security. I am reminded of when my mom told us not to wear anything with a black hood to the airport. I quickly look down to check what I am wearing before approaching the agent standing next to the line. He lets my mom, my dad, and I through to TSA pre-check but tells my brother that he does not have the same status. I wonder if it's because of the dark hoodie he's wearing. We are now at the airport coming back. I go through the metal detector machine. It beeps. One loud, long, high-pitched noise. Inwardly I sigh. I am used to this by now. It is a "random", which, airport scan. They pull me aside and swab my phone. They insert the piece of paper into the machine and after they have determined that I have not been in contact with any explosives, tell me monotonously that I can leave. I stand there and watch my mom pass through the metal detector. The same beep sounds. She has been selected for the random testing too. What a coincidence. My dad goes next. It beeps again. I am at a swim meet with my club team at the U. I climb out of the pool after finishing my race and walk towards the diving well so I can start cooling down. The sounds of whistles, cheers, talking, splashing, and the drone characteristic of any swim meet fills my ears. I see one of my teammates who raced before me. I walk over and tell her good job. She tells me the same and that she was watching. I ask if she saw my time, and she shakes her head no. We look on Meet Mobile on my phone and I find myself. She asks why I have a star next to my name instead of my middle initial. I tell her that I don't have a middle name. "Huh," she says. "That's weird." I am getting my hair cut at the Kid's Hair in Highland. My mom tells the stylist what to do with my hair, I'm too shy to tell her myself. She finishes speaking with my mom and leads me to a chair at the back of the long row. I sit down and she begins brushing my hair. "How old are you?" she asks to try and coax some words out of me. I tell her that I'm nine. She continues asking me questions until she is done brushing my hair. I look up into the mirror and my eyes meet hers. "Your hair gets frizzy when you brush it out," she tells me. Then she starts cutting it. She sprays it with water from a bottle, but that can't stop the tangles that form as my curls begin to return. She yanks at them with her brush and by the end of the haircut, I am crying because it hurts so much. She tells me that she's not used to hair like mine. I am sitting in history class around a Harkness table. There is a plant in the corner next to me. The photographer walks in quietly and begins taking pictures. They are trying to be discreet but my eyes can't help but glance over at the camera. Every time I look, the lens seems as though it is looking right back at me. The photographer focuses more on me than the other students in the class and I know that it isn't because of the plant behind me. When I was little I was overjoyed when I saw myself in the pictures on the school calendar every year. I felt honored and proud that I had been chosen. As I got older I began to wonder why it was me instead of my friends. I came to understand that I was supposed to be another diverse face on the school website or calendar or in the magazine. I am also more than the sum of these memories. For the most part, I live a very happy life. I am privileged enough to go to SPA, have a loving and supporting family, and amazing friends. And I don't think that people did these things to hurt me on purpose. They understand that racism is bad. I've never had someone say something outright racist to me, like when my parents were getting pizza in California before I was born and a man told them to go back to where they came from. What I think people don't understand is that the little things build up too. Mispronunciations of my name, a lack of effort to even try to get it right, laughing at the fact that my skin is the odd one out, and racial profiling at the airport are all things that I have experienced, things that I have brushed aside or laughed off till now. The fact that whiteness is the standard in many aspects of my life from swimming, to the training that hair care professionals receive, to the racial makeup of our school has caused me to internalize the fact that I am somehow different from my friends, my peers. Sometimes when I go out with my friends I find myself wanting to prove that I am normal, that I am like them. The little things that people have done or said, often unknowingly, caused me to want to change myself to fit who they wanted me to be. I tell baristas that my name is Mary because I am tired of them getting my name wrong even after I spelled it. I sometimes speak for my family so that we won't have to listen to the loud, slow voice people use when they look at us and realize that my parents are not originally from this country. I am working on internalizing the fact that I have no need to apologize or reshape any part of who or what I am for anyone else. I know this in my head, but I think for me to truly believe it I also need to see it in the actions of others first. I'm not any different than anyone else because of how I look. On the surface, everyone here believes that. Or at least I hope they do. But everyone also has their own prejudices that cause them to perpetuate microaggressions like the ones I have experienced without knowing, or feeling uncomfortable only for a second. Then they forget. Except people like me don't forget. So next time, I hope you don't forget either. Brandt Baskerville Throughout my life I've experienced many different environments. I've attended three schools and a few years back my family and I moved from California to Minnesota, and I know what you're thinking, Why? Why move from the glamorous sunny shores of Southern California to the frozen tundra of Minnesota, and I thought the same thing, but for now, that's not important. What I really want to talk about is how shifting my environments has changed the way in which I carry and view myself. Early on I noticed how much I care about the ways others view me. One of the first instances of this is when I left my first school, which resided in the crowded streets of Los Angeles. I went to a more laid back pink and binge colored school in the glaring heat of the Cathedral Valley. It was only a two hour drive away, but I realized that I'd have a fresh start. I enrolled into the new school in 4th grade and had embarked on a new journey, nervous at the prospect of meeting new people. They didn't know anything about who I was, what my interests were, nothing. And this truly scared me. Initially, I was very reserved, quiet and afraid. I missed my old friends, I wanted to go back to my old school and setting and block off this new world entirely. Though, at that moment, I never quite understood just how valuable this new setting would be for me in terms of my personal development. Eventually, I adapted to my surroundings, making new friends through games during recess and goofing around in classes. I was starting to have tons of fun but over the next couple months and years I slowly took on a certain persona. I stuck to being with my basketball and football friends, and I remember feeling a little sad that I only restricted myself to a certain group. Though one day in the sixth grade my self-imposed identity of just being a sportsman came to a screeching halt. I was asked by my friend who played sports, though did theatre and music on the side, if myself and the basketball team wanted to join the school musical. Instantly I said no. The idea made me laugh and I truly didn't think that I belonged in a musical, and if I ever tried to then I would be too embarrassed to perform. Though after weeks of being convinced, myself and the rest of the basketball team joined the musical. Little did we know that we would be involved in a good portion of it as a group of drunken sailors. This was such a daunting task for me, not the fact that I was a sixth grader playing a drunken sailor, but the fact that I'd never acted or done anything theatre related. I wanted to stick to my sports and the person others knew me as. Over the next couple weeks myself, the rest of the cast and directors got together for hours at a time to prep for the musical. In the beginning I felt like quitting, I dreaded every moment of being in the theatre room, but again, I adjusted. I stopped caring about preserving the reputation I had built for myself and let loose, and I had tons of fun running through lines and songs and getting to know everyone on the cast, talking with people I hadn't ever held a conversation with over my years at the school. Our shows came around and each one was better than the last. I'll always remember the crowd bursting into laughter, the cast chatting it up behind stage while the play was going on and even the time us sailors snuck into the computer room to play games. Thankfully, we didn't miss our parts. At first I was extremely anxious and unwilling to be in the musical, thinking I would be judged by my classmates. But I was wrong, I was placed into a loving and great community and became a better person through the experience. This was a completely new activity for me and I thought I would be more confused about what my identity was, but I came out of it knowing even more about myself. I learned it was ok to reach out to other friend groups and challenge myself socially. I became less restricted to my sport norms and crafted a newer and looser identity. I felt like I could express myself way more than before. The musical is still to this date one of the best experiences of my life. Though going into the coming year a quick turn of events led to me transferring schools, enrolling at SPA in the 7th grade. I felt that all I had learned about myself would go down the drain since I would be forced to meet all new sets of strangers. I remember being really anxious seeing my new classmates and where I would fit in. Once again, I stuck to sports. Though sports is a great way for me to always meet new people and where I've made most of my best friends, I wished I had taken more from my past experiences and reached out to others. I felt that I came into middle school an arrogant kid, occasionally starting trouble in classrooms and not doing my homework. Though again after a couple years a sense of clarity had washed over me. I didn't want to be viewed in a certain scope. I hoped I could get to know my classmates better and that they didn't view me as just a guy who plays basketball. Over the past two years I've tried to always be my authentic self, though I'm still trying to improve in that category. I've tried being less reserved and to not walk around with my head so high, just relax and treat everyone genuinely. As I wrap up my speech I'd like to remind everyone to reach out to others. Either at lunch, during class breakout groups, the basketball court, the theatre or wherever you may find yourself. Learn from your past experiences and allow them to benefit the way in which you carry and view yourself within new and old environments. Realize that others are at different stages in finding themselves. I'm not done learning about who I am by any means. I may never be, and that's ok. Though I hope as I, and everyone listening today moves forward throughout life that we strive to embrace each situation we're put in, and that we continue to become better and truer versions of ourselves. Cecilia Watson I came to SPA in ninth grade from a small Montessori school that was just outside of Boston. Though it was a difficult adjustment to move to a different state and enter a much larger school, I soon found a rhythm and was really enjoying meeting new people and going to my classes. The community immediately felt very welcoming, other students made the effort to introduce themselves, and there was always someone saying hello or waving as I passed in the hallway. But even after the kind welcome it was challenging to get a good read on what SPA's environment was really like. At first I didn't feel the competitive nature of SPA that I had heard so much about while applying. When freshman year started my initial assumptions about our school were challenged, there wasn't class rank, students constantly comparing grades during class, or classmates refusing to help eachother out. So I was confused about why this school had been labeled as having such a competitive environment. But as my first year progressed I quickly started to feel the pressure that was put on students and the growing sense of competition within my classes. For me this pressure first appeared when I started comparing myself to and making assumptions about other students. I started to believe that the majority of people around me were all getting perfect grades and were able to understand everything in our classes easily . Looking back this was probably not the case for many students, because my grade was having to learn about the new challenges that high school brings, and how to adapt to a larger workload. I've been reflecting on why it was so easy for me to come to that conclusion about my new classmates, and I think it largely has to do with how SPA portrays their ideal student. Some of the things that immediately come to mind when I think of this ideal student, is someone who gets great grades, excels in all of their extracurriculars, will attend a prestigious college and most importantly is somehow able to never crack under the pressure that this extreme workload brings. For me trying to achieve this standard seemed impossible. After a few years of high school, the pressure of trying to live up to what I thought SPA's perfect student had to be, really caught up to me, I wasn't making my mental health a priority because I didn't have the time or energy to. My routine transitioned from trying to put all of my energy into school, to not having enough to finish my assignments on time, and having to do them the morning they were due. I also realized that while trying to live up to this standard I had lost time to focus on some of the subjects and activities that were most important to me. I had changed how I valued my extracurriculars outside of school, only seeing the things that could be beneficial to my college application as important. This made me lose outlets that had previously helped me destress, and made me less interested in the things I once cared about. One of the most impactful effects this extra pressure brought was that it made school feel like an obligation instead of something I enjoyed. I've always enjoyed going to school everyday, even though some days are definitely more difficult than others, school has always given me a strong community no matter what state or city I have been living in at the time. It is not an outlandish assumption to make, that the majority of students at SPA have a strong academic drive and want to push themselves to meet their goals. Because of this many students already put insane amounts of pressure on themselves to get good grades, get into prestigious colleges or achieve what their idea of academic success is. Not to mention there can be external pressure from parents and other family members. Therefore our school's overly competitive nature unfortunately ends up causing more harm than good for a lot of our students. Our community as a whole including teachers, students and administrators needs to take a moment and reflect on how we are subconsciously contributing to an environment that places unnecessary pressures and unachievable standards onto students. If you have some extra time throughout your day I would ask you to please reflect on how your actions, intentional or not, might be contributing to this environment. Even though there are many aspects of our school that lead students to experience a lot of academic pressure, there is also a wonderful community of teachers and students who are here to help and listen to you. So Finally I will ask you to try and remember that academic success is going to look and feel different for everyone based on their values and interests, there is not one way to be a successful SPA student. And most importantly taking care of your mental health and trying to create sustainable habits will benefit you so much more in the long run even if it feels difficult to achieve right now. Thank You. Charles Hickman There are many interpretations of the word 'freedom'. Some people think of freedom as freedom of speech, or freedom of press, or freedom of religion. I think of freedom as the right to choose. However, I have learned from experience that the freedom to choose does not necessarily mean the wisdom to make the right choice. I've learned this lesson many times over, but the most memorable time was when my family went to London during sixth grade. While there, we visited the palace of Henry the Eighth, also known as the King of England whose most famous accomplishments were starting the English Reformation and going through six wives in forty years. This palace was quite lavish and included a sprawling mess of gardens. In the center of one of these gardens stood a pond, and in that pond swam a majestic, pure-white swan. I was instantly attracted to the spotless plumage of the aquatic bird, and decided that I would arrange for a picture to be taken of me and the swan together. My dad was the photographer, so of course I neglected to inform him that I was running off to look at the swan. In fact, I didn't inform any of my family, meaning that all of them were looking at the admittedly very beautiful flowers while I dashed off towards the pond. I reached the pond's edge and saw the swan looking right at me with black beady eyes. I got down on my hands and knees and met its gaze. For a moment I felt like I too was soaring upon the water. I felt a kinship with this swan, saw a grace I had merely glimpsed up until now. Yes, I thought, I get it now. This is what beauty truly is. Then the swan lunged forward and tried to bite my face off. Turns out swans, despite being very beautiful on the outside, have surprisingly ugly tempers and are extremely territorial. I screamed as its beak clamped down and my nose exploded in pain. Everybody nearby looked over and saw me, down on hands and knees by the pond's edge, holding my nose and yelling loudly enough that Henry the Eighth must have heard me from his grave. Fortunately, my nose had not been torn completely off as I had thought, and I escaped with only a tiny cut across the tip. But I also escaped with a valuable lesson learned: swans are dangerous and terrifying creatures, and must be avoided at all costs. I know what you're all thinking. 'That was the complete wrong lesson to learn.' And you're absolutely right. In truth, I learned absolutely nothing from this event. I continued to make choices without thinking about the consequences. When I chose to kneel in front of that swan, I made a deliberate choice, and I had to live with the consequences. My close brush with a swan-related demise was just one of the many examples of my lack of wisdom leading me into difficult situations. Some of these bad decisions were frivolous in nature. For example, once when I was very young, I wanted to take a picture of a goose flapping its wings, so I decided that the best way to do that was to chase them around and make them flap their wings to try and get away from me. Fortunately, the geese were more even tempered than the swan, and I didn't get attacked. I was less lucky on another occasion when I was even younger, when I elected to stick my finger through the wire fencing of a chicken coop and promptly figured out the hard way that chickens couldn't tell the difference between chicken food and my pinky finger. In case you haven't noticed, I don't have the best history with birds. In those cases and others like them, usually I just laughed them off and forgot about them within a few minutes. Others, though, I couldn't just laugh off. When I first went into sixth grade, despite ample warning from the battle-hardened older students, I went in completely unprepared for the increased workload. As it turned out, the older students were right; middle school homework was much harder than lower school homework. Little sixth-grade me decided for whatever reason that the best way to handle this increased workload was to just not do the homework. Little sixth grade me also chose not to alert my parents to this fact, seeing as I didn't want to get in trouble for not doing my homework. They believed me. After all, I'd never lied about homework assignments before, because I'd had no reason to. Sometimes, as I was lying in bed those sixth-grade nights, I would remember a time in fifth grade when I decided to procrastinate on a homework assignment. It was assigned on Monday and due on Friday, and I decided that I didn't need to do it on Monday. It wouldn't take the entire week to finish. Well, Monday became Tuesday, then Wednesday, and one assignment became two and then three. And every time I assured myself that there was still plenty of time. I voluntarily made the choice to not do those assignments. Back then, I was young and naive, and so when I was given the freedom to choose when to do that homework, I chose to do it at the last minute. That Thursday night, I found myself with five homework assignments, all of them due on Friday morning. I could have easily avoided that predicament if I'd made a different choice, but I did not possess sufficient wisdom to make the right decision, and thus I was forced to work right up until my bedtime to complete all five assignments. I'd mull over that story multiple times, and then I'd forget about it in favor of thinking about base upgrades in Clash of Clans. Sixth-grade me eventually was caught when his network of lies became too contradictory to ignore and the (much smarter than expected) parents pieced things together. I never lied about doing homework assignments again, but it took several more years for me to finally learn not to procrastinate, and even now I still sometimes struggle to complete homework assignments before the day they're due. Valerie Wick I love the color green. In the last two years, I've become genuinely obsessed. Which is funny, because I distinctly remember hating the color when I was a kid. It was my parent's favorite color, or at least the one I associated with them, so I never really felt any ownership over it. Instead, I opted for blues and purples. They were the badge of my favorite character trope, the tragically cool side characters that I would try to emulate for the next couple of years. My childhood was centered around comics, Disney movies, and Cartoon Network, and I adopted a lot of my personality at the time from the characters I looked up to, particularly Raven from Teen Titans (the good one, not Teen Titans GO!) and Meg from Hercules. I'm an only child, both my parents work, AND I'm the youngest in my neighborhood, so growing up I spent a lot of time on my own. I hadn't fully figured out social skills, and I thought that the combo of that, the alone time, and my stereotypically solo interests meant that I should be introverted. I wanted to be like the smart, mysterious, very standoffish characters I looked up to. I wanted my perceived introversion to make me as cool as my favorite characters were. So, I tried my absolute hardest to be as quiet and closed off as possible. Eventually, though, I got tired of the cooler colors, the weird pre-teenage angst, and of trying my hardest to look mysterious. Which, to clarify, didn't go well. No 10 to 12-year-old is mysterious. So, in middle school, I pivoted to yellow, kind of a transitional period from totally shutting down to just chilling out and talking to people I thought were cool. And as I started letting myself be more open to the people around me, I leaned toward the warmer side of the color wheel. After yellow, it was orange. I had an unearned confidence in 8th grade that I hadn't really felt before and probably never will again, being at the top of the middle school food chain came with a massive seniority-superiority complex. This confidence was probably boosted by a realization I had while on tour in 2018; I really like being around people. Being in new cities every week and working with a different backstage crew in each one meant a lot of introductions, so I had to get over the self-imposed awkwardness of meeting new people pretty fast. And traveling with the same group in a bus for months on end demanded a certain level of vulnerability to work out. And it 100% did. I made a lot of incredibly strong friendships, people I still talk to today. I can say with total confidence that being vulnerable, however short my time with a person was, absolutely paid off. But, going on tour meant I missed the better half of 7th grade; half of a year of absence from my friends in Minnesota, and from the class in its entirety. So, for 8th grade, I was determined to seem warmer and more "out there" than I had in past years. And it worked! I made a lot of new friends and re-connected with old ones. I started speaking more in class, actively raising my hand when there was a dead silence and offering to go first for presentations. I felt like I had finally carved out a place for myself. By the end of the year, my favorite color was the warmest it had ever been, pink. And then high school started. I realized pretty quickly that academia wasn't for me, and being surrounded by people who were, at the time, pretty singularly focused on that made it hard for me to connect with them. I kind of shrunk back and re-entered my purpley-blue phase. After a while though, I started opening up again and getting closer with people. Pink started creeping its way back to being my favorite color, which slowly turned into red as I dedicated more and more of my energy to my relationships with others. In the Summer before my Junior year at SPA, I got to be part of a visual arts program at MCAD. Being around a totally new group of people, most of which had similar interests to me, I realized how "up" my guard had been around people at SPA, even people I was close to. I realized I was spending a lot of my energy sort of performing my own traits, becoming this heightened version of myself. I was stressing about being available for anyone at any time and pushing my social and emotional boundaries past what was healthy for me. In fact, I'd hardly thought about my own boundaries. I worried about how they might look to others, how they might make other people feel. I worried that if I expressed my boundaries people would just straight up not like me as much. Maybe it was the two-week time limit on the program at MCAD, maybe it was staying in the dorms, being in a totally new environment, but my guard was down. I realized that I didn't have to perform any version of myself to be a cool person. I didn't have to force myself to be emotionally available to be trustworthy, and I didn't have to ignore my own boundaries to be likable. It was that Summer, and the following year when my favorite color started to change to green. It took a long time to realize that I needed to find a new favorite color. The nice thing about finding a new favorite color is that things sort of domino-effect each other. It started with boundaries. Learning how to communicate my boundaries and getting more comfortable confronting people when they disrespected them. Learning how to handle that kind of conflict meant being able to communicate about my emotional limits too, letting people know that I wasn't always in the right space to have heavier conversations and removing personal assumptions that others would always be too. And of course, that came with a lot of personal reflection. On pretty much everything. A lot of my self-definition comes from other people, so how do I start to remove myself from what they need of me? And that's a massive question and I definitely don't have the answer, but my working theory is that it requires a lot of moderation. I know that I love people. I want to dedicate as much of my life as possible to relationships with others, whether they be friends I've known since my freshmen-year English class or total strangers in Washington Square Park. And to be there for those people, to spend time on those relationships, I have to be healthy, physically, emotionally, the whole shabang. I have to be able to handle conflict and respect my own boundaries. I have to take some alone time. So in the cheesiest way possible, green meets right in the middle. As Hannah Montana so wonderfully put it, you get the best of both worlds. Plus, it matches my eyes. Thank you. Nolan Wagner Let us suppose that the end goal of every human is to be satisfied. If so, every action we take is one we take to bring us towards satisfaction. If we could somehow increase the effectiveness of our actions, we could more quickly and easily progress towards satisfaction. To increase the effectiveness of our actions, we must increase our understanding of the space in which our actions occur, i.e. the world, ergo for our personal satisfaction we must try our best to understand the world in which we live. From some scientific and philosophical perspectives, to understand the world would mean to understand how the elementary particles and forces interact, or to understand how and why our reality was created, but for any practical societal analysis these perspectives are trivial. Our brains work on the macroscopic level, and they evolved sophisticated pattern recognition and communication skills to make sense of things on that level. If I drop a tennis ball, I do not expect it to bounce in a certain way because I have expertly calculated all applicable forces on the ball, I expect it to bounce in a certain way because I have seen tennis balls bounce before and I predict it to bounce as those have bounced. We compare whatever is happening to us at this moment to moments that we have experienced in the past. Here is an analogy to get the point across. When you sit down to play a game of Monopoly, you only need to know the rules of the game. You do not need to know in what year the game was created, you do not need to know the composition of the metal that makes up the car figurine, you do not need to know why properties are named what they are. You only need to know the rules of the game as they exist in relation to each other in logical space. In a similar way, you do not need to know the role of oxygen in our biology in order to breathe air, or the complete etymology of a word to use it in a sentence. Our world is composed of man-made or "synthetic" rules. Unlike the rules of Monopoly, these rules are not "foundational" or "elementary", but are layered on top of each other. At the theoretical bottom there are the laws of quantum physics, but it is not necessary to understand those in order to understand the macroscopic synthetic rules. Though the laws of physics are solely and completely responsible for how cars move, the auto mechanic has a better understanding of a car then the physicist. Of course in a truly metaphysical sense there are no "rules" to speak of, this is just an intuitive framework for thinking in. My explanation of these synthetic rules is in effect a synthetic rule itself. In this vein, we can lay down synthetic rules to follow in life, as long as we remember they are not absolute. Do not think of synthetic rules as "shoulds", rather as "if-thens." Often rules are thought of as "you should do x" or "you should not do y", but this is somewhat incomplete. A synthetic rule would be "if x holds, then y holds". For example, a simple synthetic rule could be: "If you go to school, then you will learn about math," or, "If a brick falls on your head, then your head will be injured." A likely immediate response to these synthetic rules is to think of a counterexample that contradicts them. What if your school is bad and you don't learn anything about math? What if you are wearing a helmet when a brick falls on you? But the purpose of synthetic rules is not to cover every single edge case. A synthetic rule can be thought of as a rule of thumb, something that is generally true but not always true, more guideline than requirement. Another example is the synthetic rule "If about 24 hours have passed since the last sunrise, then the sun will rise again." For every day of our lives, this rule has been true. However, it is possible that an asteroid could knock us out of orbit, or the sun could extinguish, and the sun would not rise on time. We do not accept synthetic propositions because they are essentially true, but because they are tested by trial and error and show themselves to be generally true. The general problem we face is language. Language is an imperfect communicator. You can see it every day; when a person says one thing and a second hears it as a different thing. There are many times when interlocutors are not on the same page, so to speak. It can be a confusing thing. If I know all the definitions of the words someone else uses, and we both know the full context in which they were spoken, how could there ever be miscommunication between us? The answer to this is that there "couldn't" be, but this is evasive. The explanation is that we don't and can never know the definitions of words, and we don't and can never know the context in which they are spoken, therefore, we can never be without some degree of miscommunication. Though "definitions" of words and the "context" they are spoken in are both the same thing, and it is technically nonsense to separate them, it is somewhat nice to do so for a time, so that is what I will do. Two ways we can come to a definition of a word are imitation, learning the meaning from the world, and annexation, learning the meaning from the language. Imitation is how we learn most words, for example: "Water" (point to water) Our brains can quickly learn to associate words with phenomena in the world, and we do this a lot when we are children. However, notice the other words that can also be associated with this object. "Glass. Cup. Drink. Liquid." Or perhaps even more general. "Product. Sustenance. Thing." if you will. And also notice the many ways water is, maybe in the form of an ocean, or a raindrop, or frozen, or vaporized. We can call all these things "water" as well. This maybe calls to mind the theory of forms, but that theory is not only unnecessary but false. Words learned by imitation are representations of mental groups of phenomena in the world. Annexation is usually how we learn more nuanced or technical words. This is a dictionary definition, where we can clearly see that some word is defined by some other words. Similar to imitation, words learned by annexation are representations of mental groups of other words. In this way we see that these two different ways of learning definitions are the same, as words are objects of the world like any other phenomena. Some may argue that there are definitions which do not come from this world but come from a divine source. Regardless of your religious beliefs or lack thereof, the existence of divinity does not change anything, because if such divine definition existed, it would not be understandable in the language of our world. There can be no fully understandable communication between any divine being and a mortal, because there is no complete translation of all definition from a "divine" language to a "human" one; any attempt would lose some clarity or have some of its meaning transformed in the process. Nelson Wodarz 9-26-2022 Senior Speech Two years ago my life changed a lot. Since that time I can say that I have spent a lot of time trying to figure out whether my life had changed for the better or for the worse. In that time I have discovered a lot about myself and who I am. I was given an opportunity to better myself and my life. I had the opportunity to attend SPA and start over with at a new school. At the time I thought that this was going to be the best thing for me and that my life would improve for the better. The one thing about SPA that has made me call this place home is that this is the most supportive school that you will find. When I first came to SPA I was welcomed with open arms and with the school even going to bat for me. The transition was not easy by any means and was frankly very hard. Making new friends wasn't easy, but thankfully there were a group of students that accepted me into there group. Invited me to football games, invited me to parties, and other social events. This was a huge step in the right direction for me and things were looking up although it was very hard. At this time in my life I was very vulnerable, I didn't know if I was gonna be eligible for the varsity hockey team and school was very tough. But somehow, I knew everything was going to be okay. The administration, athletic department, my current and former coaches both went to bat for me and had my back. They all did absolutely everything in their power to help me succeed and to get me where I wanted to go. I would say that I finally felt supported after coming from a school and situation where I never really felt supported by administration and I came from a place where your administration supporting you like they do here is unheard of. I finally felt at home and like I could come to school every day and feel super comfortable being myself. Over time I finally gained my varsity eligibility and that was a major win and a weight off my shoulders. Or so it seemed. At this time in my life I had really been burnt out on the game of hockey. I had been practicing almost every single day from April all the way to October and during the summers multiple skates a day. It got to the point to where I wasn't showing up to my workouts and I really had no desire to go to hockey anymore, so needless to say I didn't know how to feel about my first season at SPA. After an entire summer of skating, working out, and being burnt out on a game I once loved it really just didn't see the same. The season started off pretty fun and I started off rough and grew throughout an injury plagued season. As the season progressed I found a new love for the game of hockey thanks to two of the best coaches I could've ever asked for. My two coaches, Bill McClellan and Tony Kitzman. These two men have shaped me as a hockey player, and as a man in the past year. These men have helped me on and off the ice develop and for that I am forever grateful. Bill and Tony are more than just coaches and they truly care about how you are and this has been shown time and time again. I couldn't have asked for better coaches to give me One story I would like to share is the time I realized that Coach McClellan and Kitzman cared about me beyond some dumb sport. When someone supports you and goes to bat for you even when they don't have to that can make a major impact on a persons life and it really did in my experience. And when someone has your back and vouches for you it's no long about yourself but about others foo. In the beginning of February I had a therapy appointment via zoom which was nothing knew, but I ran into an issue when I realized I had practice at the same time and I had nowhere to do my session. Without skipping a beat Coach McClellan offered me his coaches office to do the therapy session. That day I no longer considered Bill and Tony as coaches and I now thought of them as family. Our bond has continued and we will continue. Throughout my life so many people have supported me and have helped me get to wear they are. Looking forward to present day. I have the most amazing family, the greatest friends I could ask for, and the greatest support system. I would like to think my life has changed for the better and I am a better person today, than I was a year ago walking through these doors for the first time. I would like to give a special thank you to multiple people that have helped me get to where I am today, first and foremost my parents who have provided me with everything that I have ever asked for and gave me every opportunity to succeed in life. Second, I would like to thank my grandparents, who have been there for me throughout my entire life and have been my second set of parents and have made it to every hockey and baseball game that they could. Drove me around to all of my activities whether it be sports, friends houses, or just hanging out with me and going on little dates with my grandparents. Without you I wouldn't be standing here today. I would also like to thank some people here at SPA. Brody Rindelaub who took me in as a friend alost immediately after I had enrolled here at spa. You have done so much for me in my short time here at SPA and I am forever grateful for your friendship. I would like to thank two of my best friends Joey Stolpetstad and Quinn Devine. You two have helped me so much in my transition to SPA. I would like to thank the entire SPA administration and Atheltic department for supporting me and giving me the opportunity to attend SPA and guide me through life in order to be successful. This school is the most supportive and helpful environment and I am truly grateful to attend this school. Thank you. Wyatt Tait For the past two summers I've worked as a sailing instructor on lake Bde Maka Ska. I've spent almost every waking hour in or around boats and in the company of people who, like me, are obsessed with sailing. I worked on boats, taught people about boats, and, when I got off work, I would go hang out with my coworkers on boats where we would have conversations and tell stories about boats. When I finally got home, I would go on my Instagram explore page, where my perfectly trained algorithm would serve me as much boat content as I wanted. I would sit, see a boat and go: "oooo," then would scroll to see, low and behold, another boat. When I eventually got tired and went to bed, can you guess what I dreamed about? Nothing, I'm a really deep sleeper. But you get the point. My entire life the past two summers was sailing. That community is where I feel at home and where I have made some great friends and memories, but the parts of my summers I remember the most are when I got to talk to my students about literally anything other than boats. I teach kids camps and adult classes and while I could tell you that it's changed my life listening to middle schoolers on summer break tell me about how their lunch today is "bussin" and that when they get home, they are gonna hop on Fortnite and get some "victory royales," it hasn't, in fact I think I think its shortened my life by at least a couple of years. The part of my job I 've learned the most from is teaching adults. Now, as you might imagine, people are a bit hesitant to have a seventeen-year-old who got his driver's license only a little more than a year ago teach them to sail a one-and a-half-ton boat, or at least they are until I tell them that if they break it, I'm at fault and have to pay for it, not them. Then they start feeling a little too confident. However, once my students get over their fears and get down the basics of how to steer and pull in the sails, they all seem to realize for the first time that they have signed up to spend twelve hours over the course of the next two weeks trapped on the water with four complete strangers. As an awkward silence sets in, they feel compelled to mention the weather and how great it is to be out on the water at least a few times, and as we get to know each other, we fall into conversation. The groups I teach are a random assortment of people whose cultures, socioeconomic statuses, and political opinions are completely different from each other and my own. In exchange for telling a few sailing stories, I get to learn about their jobs, hobbies, and lifestyles. Whether I'm teaching jazz enthusiasts who are obsessed with finding the perfect boat music, an ex-marines who became a social activist, Minneapolis natives and Somali immigrants who are both getting out on the water for the first time, art consultants that have a side hustle as wine merchants, or anyone else who could possibly want to learn to sail, I get a glimpse of different ways of seeing the world. These people are all trapped on the water with each other. They might disagree on various things, but they find ways to get along and work together to sail the boat. Through conversions with these people I have gotten to learn about ideals that both support and go against my own beliefs. Whether we are talking about current events, politics, or alternate ways of life, we can understand where each other's beliefs come from. There's no need to solve any problems, just opportunities to share and learn. These days it's really easy to stay within your community and only talk with people who believe what you believe. Your social media can connect you with hundreds of thousands of people who think just like you, and that's great. But if you never venture outside of that community, if you refuse to talk to people with contrarian beliefs, you lose the opportunity to learn. I encourage you all to hear people out more often. Even if you disagree, have a conversation. Learn from others and teach them what you believe. Thank you. Cassandra Zirps I often think of myself as a fictional character. I don't know why- it's one of those things that just happens. When you read too many books at a young age and have a variety of undiagnosed mental health problems, It's so easy to treat the world like a movie, or a TV show, or a book. And, you know, following that, it's pretty easy to figure out who the main character in this story is. Out of everyone here, one of us is making a speech, and the other four hundred are sitting and listening. My job is to triumphantly give this speech, provide the climax to a character arc that's been a long time in the making, and your job is to stand up and clap at the end. Don't worry, though if you try hard enough, you might get a promotion to supporting cast, or at least become the comic relief character who pops up and says something funny every few weeks. And, you know, there are benefits and drawbacks to fictionalizing my life. Mostly drawbacks, but that's a whole different speech. One of the major benefits is that a whole life spent within a work of fiction is ripe for critical analysis. In literary criticism, you have to pay attention to motifs. For those of you who don't know, motifs are repeated elements in a work that often symbolize an important theme of the story. For example, right now the color blue has been popping up again and again in my life: I'm wearing a blue dress, I drive a dark blue car, and sometimes, I feel blue. In case you didn't know, that's a colloquial expression meaning "to be sad". Blue can represent many things. (gesturing wildly with hands) Sadness. The sky. The ocean. Fluidity. Death. Life. Sadness. The list goes on and on. It really makes you think.(pause) I'm not sure what it makes you think about, but it makes you think. And that's good, maybe. This is also a good time to discuss death of the author. The death of the author theory posits that interpretation of a work of fiction should not take an author's thoughts into account. Thus, under this theoretical framework, all interpretations of a fictional work (such as my life) are equally correct. The symbolism is important, but another thing we need to focus on in this fictional world is the plot. In his book "the hero with a thousand faces", the theorist Joseph Campbell describes the concept of the monomyth- a unifying plot structure that commonly appears in folklore and other narratives The monomyth takes the form of a circular path, starting from a hero in a mundane or "normal"m existence and following them as they go through challenges. Within the monomyth, I'm likely within what's known as the road of trials, during which the hero faces a plethora of challenges on the way to achievin their goal. In my case, these trials include things like passing tests or talking to literally anybody. Following from that, the next step is the ordeal, or the main challenge a hero has to defeat. A scholar could argue that this ordeal (at least in this arc of my life) comes in the form of the senior speech I am currently undertaking.From the ordeal, the hero recieves a boon, or a reward for overcoming the challenge: in this case, the challenge is standing up in front of four hundred people and trying to be funny, and the reward is passing high school. An alternate way to interpret this speech is as a mini-arc by itself, if the fictional context of my life is episodic, like in a sitcom. This mini-arc would have less symbolic weight, and would be more focused on providing entertainment than true character development or In a rough summary, this episode could be plotted thusly: Scene 1. Cassandra panics about giving this speech, Scene 2. Cassandra procrastinates. Scene 3. Cassandra writes the speech. Scene 4-7. Cassandra alternately procrastinates and rewrites the speech. Scene 8. Cassandra wakes up at 3 in the morning today to rewrite the speech. Scene 9. Cassandra steps onstage, triumphant and sleep-deprived, to give the speech to widespread acclaim. Scene 10 (and this is hypothetical)Cassandra collapses in the gender-neutral bathrooms out of sheer exhaustion. Of course, these would all be intercut with whichever one of you side characters is doing something entertaining enough to qualify for a B-plot. I believe in you. Go crash your car or something. Now it's time to do a little metatextual analysis of the speech thus far. First and foremost, it's important for the reader to know that the author has no idea what she is talking about when it comes to literary criticism. If there was a word in the speech you didn't know the definition of, the odds are I didn't either. This might be important. Additionally, there's a thread of uncertainty through the speech, shown through the self-contradictions used for humor and the attempts I have made to undermine my own message for the sake of a joke. Despite the fact that I'm presenting this speech as taking an analytical lens to my own life, I'm not actually bringing any sort of definite conclusion to the table. From a psychological lens, this could be interpreted as self-sabotage from the narrator of the speech, coming from a fear of judgement. However, another interpretation is that this is done intentionally. In this case, it can be seen to represent the inherent uncertainty of literary analysis. Unfortunately, there's no way to be certain whether this is true, as death of the author suggests that all interpretations of the work are equally valid. Essentially, there's no way for me to know for sure what I'm talking about. Without such a unifying factor, there's no way for the work to truly come to a satisfying conclusion now that it's addressed its own inner symbolism. The only way for it to maintain artistic merit without a conclusion that feels woefully inadequate is to end it now, in medias res. There's a last line out there somewhere, something that brings closure to the speech, something that would make the writer happy. There's some combination of words out there that could turn this last paragraph into a satisfying crescendo where the tension builds and builds until I release it and let it all spill out around me like waves crashing into a rocky shoreline. I wish I could fix it, but the writer of this speech was shot dead a day ago, and the only thing left of her is this wrinkled sheet of paper that's sitting here with nothing but these words. It's already typed up and printed off. Sometimes that's just how it goes. That's all. Thank you for listening to my speech. Read Pale Fire. Roll credits. Zoe Cheng Pinto There's fresh soil under my nails, in my hair between my toes and in my lungs. I'm sentient compost now but the sky is clear and blue above and I'll see it even when I no longer have eyes. This isn't how the story begins this is the end. In the beginning it went like this: Part I. The first thing I picture is the full expanse of the garden. It enveloped you, stretching past the horizon in all directions. The ground was covered in soft moss in places and there were fields of lavender and wildflowers. If you've ever wondered how plants can be living breathing creatures then you'd only have to look at the garden for a moment to understand. The roses whispered to each other, and delphiniums who stood tall and aloof wished they were as tall as the trees. There were flowers of every kind and color, herbs and vegetables, and an entire color palette of leaves and petals that swayed in the wind. Every root was sacred and the soil was always fertile. One day, all the plants of the garden took a collective breath, a long inhale, and then exhaled all of their life and beauty into the air, and out of that, the girl in the garden was born. She became as much a part of the garden as the soil from which all things grew. The plants moved to the rise and fall of her chest. At the heart of the garden was a library, ancient and beautiful. The kind with sliding ladders to reach the highest shelves and a stained glass ceiling. There were clear blue ponds that reflected the sky, each of them filled with koi fish. All the koi ponds had little plaques on them that politely asked that you not touch the fish. The girl never ignored them. She made a game out of trying to brush her fingers against their cold black and orange scales. All the trees in the garden were made to climb and the girl in the garden would spend hours in each one. I'd like to imagine the girl in the garden sitting on a bench reading, so perhaps there was a bench. With lots of cushions. There were nasturtiums too. Honest flowers that taste like their colors. The girl picked them to stuff in her mouth, waiting for the reds and yellows to crawl up her tongue and up through her nose. I don't remember when I first wandered into the garden. I might have been born with the path burned into my mind. She taught me what beauty was, in the curve of her back as she bend down to teach me the names of each flower. She put lilies in my hair and sorrel in my mouth. She took each piece of the garden and whispered their songs into my ears, filling them up until they overflowed and dripped down my face into my hands where I could catch them. I tried to mold them into something I could hold down on paper, but it was never quite the same. I think I was in love with her, with the garden. I grew up, I got busy. I started to have a life away from her, in a world where she couldn't follow me. Maybe it was selfish but I think growing into yourself always is. I still spent my night with her. In the dark, I couldn't see that the colors had faded. The stars were bright but I never noticed. I fell asleep as to the rhythms of her voice describing the constellations. One day, something happened to the garden. It started with the sky getting dark. It started with a blue sky. Terrible things can happen under a blue sky too. It started the first time my anxiety drowned out the girl in the garden's voice. Why should it matter how it started when all that mattered was that it happened? The girl was sitting by the koi pond when it happened. The air stilled and the flowers held their breath. Something had pressed pause on the landscape, the way moments before tornadoes do. There were no tornados in the garden, she knew it must be much worse. She felt the absence of breath first. A movement on the horizon. The dark outline of a figure approached on the horizon. It was a man-shaped void, sucking in life around it and turning it inside out the way you turn a sweater side out to discover all the ugly seams and rough unwoven ends hanging out. The plants began to die, at first around the intruder and spreading across the garden like a tidal wave of infection. When it reached the koi pond the water turned black and the fish cried as they as the poisoned water burned their scales off and they went belly up. The girl hadn't known fish could cry. She ran for the cover but she couldn't outrun it. You see, I was the one who let it in. Somewhere out in the open world without the girl, I met the man shaped void. It asked me for stories and I gladly gave it every drop I could of the garden, each idiosyncrasy of the girl's beauty. I planted a seed of longing in that man-shaped void until it was consumed by thoughts of the garden and the girl. So taught it the way to the garden. Between the girl and the library, her fortress made of stories, the ground split open into a great chasm. There was no bottom only endless darkness. She looked back and saw the intruder picking up the dead fish and plucking their eyes out. The girl but there was nowhere to run to. She was too scared to jump. She was too brave to jump. She turned to face the man-shaped void. It reached out to her and she did not flinch as it enveloped her face in its hands made of abyss. "I love you", It said. Its word tasted of oil spills and smelled of infected wounds. It spoke the words almost like a platitude. It spoke with such terrible sincerity. "You're hurting us, she told it but it didn't understand her. It didn't understand why the flowers turned inside out at its touch. It only wanted to be loved back in the way I promised only the garden could love. It wanted so badly it was consumed by want. The feeling looped over and over again, like words repeated so many times they lose all meaning and dissolve into a mouthful of sound. "Let me stay here, let me be a part of you" the man-shaped void begged. But the girl just looked at it sadly. "I'm sorry," she said. "But pain is not love. It's just pain." The man-shaped void was devastated. It was confused. Finally, in its anguish, it picked the girl up tenderly and threw her into the great chasm. The girl disappeared. Part II. I didn't feel it as it happened. I went about my day, and when I sought out the garden it was gone. I searched and searched, retracing the steps I'd taken so many times but it led me in circles. Afterward, I was lost. I wanted to speak but without her the surly sweetness of her voice through my mind I was mute. Back in the other world, the one the girl couldn't follow me to, people demanded words and stories of me. They asked kindly and gently trying to coax them out. But how could I explain to them that I was empty now. How could I have anything to say when all my words belonged with her. I heard her voice in my dreams, and I'd wake up reaching for it. I could hear her calling to me from the darkness. I knew she was still out there somewhere. I couldn't abandon her but I wasn't strong enough to find her. I knew somehow that the garden had hidden itself from me until I was ready to face it. I went back to words, the first gift she had given me. I read every bit of horror I could until I wasn't scared anymore until I could maybe find a sort of beauty in the pain. Learned to master the art of being afraid until o could control it. When fear and panic are unfamiliar they paralyze, but it's possible to perform a sort of emotional mithridatism with them. Take the poison in small doses. An eery novella or a horror movie watched by yourself in the dark. Final girls and formication taught me and trained me to face the wreckage. The flowers had been crudely recreated in bones and covered in gore. Every bright idea was strung up by a noose to the trees. The dead koi fish swam in circles. I found the man-shaped void sitting under a dead tree. I was only a half-person then. Part poison, closer it than the memory of the garden, and hated my reflection. I wanted to strangle it, take apart each puzzle piece of its body, and widdle it away until I got to the heart which I would rip out and keep in a jar. I'd keep it on my shelf and tell him "look what you've done". Instead, I walked away to the pit and climb down into it. It took me years of climbing in the dark to reach her. As I got closer I heard her voice. Different but the same. When I got to the bottom of the bottomless pit I found her small and withered. I reached for her but she stopped me. I tried to apologize but she just shook her head. She seemed very old. Don't blame yourself, she told me. The only person whose forgiveness needs to forgive is yourself. I asked her to come back up with me. There was still time to rebuild her garden together. She laughed and it was still beautiful. Don't you know? She said, leaning close. I felt her breath on my neck You made the garden she told me. You made it, you have un-made it, and now you will re-make it. I didn't believe her, I told her "I need you." I'd lost myself in her absence. Couldn't she see the half-person I turned into. I was crying then and I felt her familiar hands on my cheeks catching the tears. She took my hand and brought it to her chest. As I touched her body, it crumbled into a thousand tiny pieces and I was left with a handful of seeds. Maybe the garden could grow inside of me, the way we tell children watermelon plants will sprout in their bellies if they swallow their seeds. I placed a seed in my mouth and laid down to wait. Hazel Waltenbaugh Intro: I'm not up here today to reveal the purpose of my life. I'm not solving climate change, I don't have a solution to fix mental health, and honestly, I'm not sure my reflections can provide useful advice to anyone's life but my own. At a time where I am expected to make so many crucial decisions, I really don't feel like I have answers to anything. So today, I am going to share 3 things that are meaningful to me at this moment in my life .... Topic sentence 1: Life isn't always like school Approaching senior year and thinking about all these life-changing decisions I am going to make this year made me realize how much I have always worried about making the right choices. I have always prioritized my school work over pretty much everything else which has a correlation with my drive to doing things the "correct" way. As I continue thinking about my future and my life outside of SPA, I have realized that life is not always like school and that the "correct" way to make decisions does not exist. Surrounded by high schoolers and social media and constantly being graded for the work we put in makes it very easy for us to believe there is a certain "correct" way to live. But I have learned that comparison and the need to follow everyone around me are not always beneficial to my own future, so I am working on letting go of that unrealistic reality. One crucial example in my life right now would be the SAT. We are encouraged by our parents, our school, and the students around us to take these huge tests in order to place us into college. With optional testing, my strong interest in the UC schools, and not being the best at focusing on long tests in general, it didn't really feel like something worth my time. Although it felt like everyone around me was constantly meeting with their tutors and spending their time on practice tests, I chose to forget about testing all together. And honestly, I haven't gotten into college yet, but it made sense for me. All summer, and especially the past couple of weeks, my mind has been torn between 'SPA-approved colleges' and the ones I feel genuinely interested in. I want to be recognized for my hard work and valued for my time at SPA, but what if I would rather go to a more relaxed school? Factoring in the expectations and preferences of our parents the decision gets even more complicated, especially when we consider the financial involvement they may have. Choosing a college is probably one of the biggest decisions I will have to make this year, and it can get really overwhelming trying to satisfy all these voices in my head. Aside from the academic influence on pressuring a certain way of living, social media is another considerable factor. With social media, we are exposed to many different people in a way that often excludes the entirety of reality. Sometimes my logic for why I am so different than my family is because it feels as though we have so many more choices of who to take inspiration from, which can be a really good thing. However, it can be easy for social media to encourage this idea of perfection, which is why we need to be careful about its messages. .... Topic sentence 2: Our behaviors are a reflection of the way we have been taught to love and communicate (both by our parents, by our friends, and by the world around us) This next one is something I spend a lot of time thinking about, piecing together the stories of the people around me, but also my own story seeking to understand why I act the way I do. And, I can almost always relate it back to the way in which I was raised, my own experiences, and the people that make up my life, which makes a lot of sense. I'm not sure where, but a few years ago I heard someone talking about what they called the flower analogy. When there is a flower dying, we tend to think about the environment that surrounds the flower: is there enough water, does it receive enough sunlight, are there flowers around it that are making it difficult for it to inhabit that particular space? But rarely, do we exclusively blame the flower for just not being good enough. This analogy has shifted the way I think about not only my relationships with the people around me but also just people in general. While this may be uncommon, especially considering the bubble I've been surrounded by for most of my life, this analogy is part of the reason why I don't believe there are bad people in the world. Instead of labeling people, I try my best to think about why people feel inclined to behave in the ways they do. Not as a justification, but as a way to understand how and why their brains have been trained to think about things, and simply put myself in their shoes for a moment. How were they raised to communicate? Set boundaries? Ask for the things they need? Whether or not you agree with me, training your brain to try to understand where people are coming from and relating it to how they have learned to navigate the world is an extremely useful tool. We have all been trained differently, whether that is how we communicate, how we show emotion, or how we learn to understand what we need. How has the environment around each individual shaped who they are, and who they will become? Topic sentence 3: Our environments shape how successful we can become Throughout my time at SPA, there have been moments where I have questioned if I am in the right place. I'm sure most of us have, especially as we try and place ourselves in the world, but my most compelling reason to stay was this: No matter what is going on in my life or what pressures I am feeling, the moment I walk into the building at SPA I feel capable. Although stressful, this environment has taught me to ask questions, challenge those around me, and explore the things that I am passionate about. A few weeks ago I was walking around the building asking students about our mission statement, and the majority had told me that changing the world felt out of reach. While it may be aspirational, being placed in an environment surrounded by people who truly believe in your capabilities, makes a significant difference. I want to remind everyone that you can and you will change the world. While I still don't feel like I have the answers to anything, I feel confident in the future of my success because I have been told that I can. That being said, I believe it is crucial to be intentional about my future decisions, as they will determine the environments in which I will be placed. Conclusion So, #1 Making decisions can be difficult but know that there is no right answer or right way to live your life. Do what feels best. #2 The way we interact is a reflection of the places we have been and the things we have been taught, seek to understand the perspectives that are different from your own. And #3 Be thoughtful in choosing the environments that make up your life, as they will define who you are capable of becoming. Thank you. Adeline Horstman Since I was fourteen I have had three different jobs. I would say I have learned something from all of them but that would be a lie as my first two jobs were retail and the only thing I learned is that people can be really obnoxious, anyone out there thinking about working retail, don't, it's awful, hours of your life will be just wasted away. However my most recent job is different, unlike before when I would just stand behind a counter and ring people up, and was mostly ignored by my much older coworkers, I now work as a hostess at a restaurant in a hotel, and although I would love to spill my workplace drama to you all I fear the wrath of my co workers finding out. I've never been great with people, in fact I think I'm rather bad with people, I have a slow processing disorder so even on my socially good days it takes me a minute to comprehend what people are telling me, resulting in me staring at people blankly or not getting the joke right away. As a kid I was described as shy, I never left my moms side and hated groups of people, even my extended family, i'm not kidding when I say that my mom would give me a grade on my social interactions after family stuff, i'm pretty sure I failed every time, as I've grown up my diagnosis has changed from shy to socially anxious, which is really fun, it's always been incredibly hard for me to make friends and talk to new people so when I first got my current job as you can imagine I was so hyped and excited. The whole premise of working as a hostess was having to talk to people when they came in, which for the record I hate talking to people. I figured it would be fine, I only had to ask the most basic questions; 'do you have a reservation?' 'What name would that be under?' and then end the interaction with a 'okay follow me' and 'have a good night' what I didn't account for was that I worked in White Bear Lake and anyone who has ever been to White bear lake knows first hand the type of people that live their but ill give you a hint, their not very nice, you know when you're forced to be nice to someone who seems to just hate you for existing within their space, that's everyday at good old restaurant I won't name, but it also might just be my social anxiety talking. Now you may ask 'Adeline, why won't you name the restaurant?' It's because the uniform is absolutely atrocious and I don't want anyone seeing me in it. People also really just like to be angry over the most ridiculous stuff, like when i'm working a busy night when we are fully booked for most of the night and people come hoping to get a table. I can't tell you how many times I've had people just stand there and stare at me as if they expect me to magically conjure a table for them, which I can't for the record, then they hit me with a few lines such as 'I was really looking forward to this, are you sure' like sir it's a bar and grill in the middle of suburban white bear lake with food that's edible at best and way overpriced i'm sure you can find somewhere much better and yes i'm sure I'm not withholding tables from you why would I purposely put myself through this. Ever so slowly I've been able to start dealing with the people at my job, it helps that spending so much time dealing with frustrating people with my coworkers made it natural to befriend them, and from having made friends with coworkers I've started to feel less and less overwhelmed by social situations and hanging out with new people, i've come to the conclusion that if i fill silence with mindless chatter or pretending to be on my phone depending on how much I like someone that I don't feel nearly as awkward or overwhelmed, do people like me when I do this? Up for debate. People actually confused me quite a lot which is why I think I've struggled so much in forming connections with other people, there's lots of social things that just seem overwhelming to me, like saying hi in the hallways, as ridiculous as it sounds it makes me ridiculously anxious so unless it's one of my few close friends I try not to make eye contact and just slip by, i'll even take drastic measures to not be seen. Or having a conversation with someone, I can never tell what I should talk about or whether I'm talking too much or not enough and how do you even end a conversation, my go to tactic is to just start walking away until they stop talking, which surprisingly doesn't work very often. I mean I have passable social skills so I don't look completely lost, I hope, but I'm overthinking the entire time. Every person I meet refers to me as the quiet one but when I'm comfortable with someone I actually am really annoying. Anyway, moral of the story if you have social anxiety, find a job where every customer seems to hate you but you have to make idle chit chat and help them, or just go to therapy I really don't care. But for real i'm so thankful to everyone in my life who has helped me become who I am today and i'm so proud of myself for how far i've come with my social anxiety, that being said If this speech makes you want to talk to me please don't, that sounds super overwhelming. Alex Armada To sink one's teeth into something. Or as the Cambridge English dictionary defines it, to be completely involved in something. I have always had a tendency to sink my teeth into things that hold my interest. My parents tell me that the first thing I really sank my teeth into occurred when I was just two years old, at daycare. That thing, unfortunately, was another two year old. Let's call her Mazie. I don't know what separated her from the ten other kids at daycare. Regardless, two year old me bit her, a lot. Two year old me bit her arms, legs, knees, shoulders, fingers, elbows, ears, and ankles. It was not pretty. Mazie's mother wanted to kill this pint-sized vampire. I bit her so much that my daycare provider made all of the kids wear T-Shirts with a do not bite logo on it. The second time I sank my teeth into something, it was much less literal, and much more in tune with what it means to sink one's teeth into something. Let's jump forward from my two year old self to my six year old self. It was a few days before valentine's day, and my kindergarten teacher assigned us a task: We each had to bring in a valentine for everybody else in the class. Although most kindergarteners brought suckers or Fun Dip, I wanted to bring a healthy snack. So I grabbed two things: A stack of paper to write my valentine labels, and a stack of what my six year old mind thought was the healthiest, tastiest snack on Earth: Kraft American Cheese Singles. My parents tell me that they had never seen me work on anything with such focus and earnest determination. They tell me I was on my hands and knees for two hours, writing valentine labels, cutting them out, and taping them to each individual cheese slice. I was determined. One could say that I sank my teeth into Valentine's day 2010. There was a buzz around the classroom. To kindergarteners and parents, I quickly became known as The Cheese Giver: the boy who gave cheese. Fast forward a decade to 2020, a full ten years later, one of the parents sent my dad this image. My fellow Spartans, you are looking at a ten year old piece of cheese. The parent was giving away his daughter's elementary school backpack, when he came upon this crumpled piece of cheese sitting at the bottom of her bag. How about that? Ten year old cheese, and not a speck of mold. Another parent took a great liking to me, in part because of the great cheese incident of 2010. This parent, let's call him Bill, because that's actually his name, introduced the next experience that I would sink my teeth into: Sea Salt Eatery. For those of you who do not know, Sea Salt is an outdoor Seafood restaurant bordering Minnehaha Falls in Minneapolis. At first, to me, it was just another summer job. But after a few weeks, I found myself picking up more shifts, longer shifts, until I had at times worked 60 hours in 5 days. Clearly, I was sinking my teeth into my new job. Obviously I didn't always love the grueling hours, relentless hordes of customers, or overpowering odor of calamari at Sea Salt. What I did love about it, however, was putting in a hard day's work and knowing that I was appreciated for having done so. As time went on I grew close with my coworkers. As Sea Salt workers and SPA alum, Judah, Charlie, Tommy, and Adam, all influenced my attraction to SPA. I was a student at Cretin-Derham Hall, but could not help but feel that something was missing from my high school experience. Leaving Cretin-Derham Hall for SPA was one of the hardest choices I've made in my life. And for some months after, I regretted it. But now I can say with confidence that because of my teachers, friends, and the community at SPA, I am glad I became a Spartan. This brings me to the final experience that I have sunk my teeth into. And that is the Boys Soccer team. Although I wasn't a top player on the team, I felt every bit a part of that team, as if I were. That is because of the players and coaches, from top to bottom, contributing to a supportive environment of excellence in which everyone was valued. This kind of community was exactly like my experience at Sea Salt. Although soccer was always a secondary sport to hockey, this particular group of people was special. Winning the state championship will forever be one of my greatest memories, but the best part of the team was the team itself. Aside from my unfortunate biting episode as a two year old in daycare, there has been a common variable throughout everything that I have sunk my teeth into: and that is the presence of supportive people. The presence of people who do not need to tear you down to build themselves up. The presence of people who understand that the whole can be greater than the sum of its parts. Those are the types of people I want to be around, that is the type of person I want to be, and those are the types of communities that I want to build into my future. Thank you. Alexandra Cardwell The time I have spent in high school has gone by incredibly quickly. While that is something we've all heard many times before, when I reflect on my experience at SPA, it seems like not that long ago I was a freshman who barely knew anyone here and could not find my way to Spanish. Suddenly, I am now a senior, applying to colleges, and in my last year living at home. In what felt like no time, I have gone from experiencing my first regattas, games, and dances, to doing it all one last time. Everything has gone by too quickly: middle school, lower school, summer. It took me until now to finally realize why. Ever since I can remember, I have always looked to the future, occupying my time thinking, planning, and worrying. This mindset has impacted matters of a range of importance. Spending my whole weekend thinking about an upcoming test, and afterwards, how I did on that test-my mind cycling through the problems and any mistakes I might have made. I have spent my days at school thinking about rowing practice. I would often be preoccupied during the day thinking about what the lineups of our boats might be or how hard the workout will be, often dreading 3 by 15 minute pieces at race pace. But the matter that occupied a lot of my future-thinking has always been college. I began thinking of college all the way back in 2015. In my middle school, the math classes split up in 6th grade into enhanced, regular, and advanced math. Immediately after learning this, I knew I had to be in advanced math. What college would want me if I was not in 6th grade advanced math? It took until very recently to realize how untrue that train of thought is. It also took until receiving my transcript at the end of 8th grade that I learned no college will ever look at or care about your middle school transcript! In a Google Form where we were given the opportunity to share our input for the math course we would take the next year, I declared that I must be placed in advanced math, because if I wasn't in advanced math in 6th grade, then I could never take pre-algebra in 7th grade, thus not being placed into advanced geometry in 8th grade and then I would not be in Honors Advanced Algebra and Trigonometry as a freshman. I explained to my teacher that if I was not on this path then I would never get into a college deemed acceptable by 11-year-old me. While my revelation likely did not affect my placement, I was put into advanced math, so step 1 in my 7 year plan was complete. This way of thinking continued all the way through middle school and pushed me to set high standards for myself academically, athletically, and in my extracurriculars. All around, I pushed myself very hard. My constant focus on the future followed me into high school. Reflecting back on my most memorable experiences of the past three years, I wish I had felt more present in the moment instead of not being mentally there. My sophomore year particularly stands out to me. I had made it into my club's top boat with three seniors in addition to our coxswain who was also a senior. I remember initially being really nervous because I admired each of them so much. I was so lucky to witness their work ethic, leadership, and success in the sport. Like nearly all teams, we had a really unusual season that year due to the pandemic. After working together all fall and winter-often going between individual at-home erg workouts to practices together on the water-there was the possibility that we could go to USRowing nationals. It had been four years since my club had any boat compete at this regatta. In the spring we knew we had to train really hard if we 1. wanted to make it to nationals and 2. wanted to do well once we got there. So for all of the spring of 2021, my boatmates and I completed morning erg workouts at home and then went to practice on the water where we did another challenging piece. I spent most of these weeks of training worrying if I was good enough, if we would do well at our qualifying regatta, and if we would do well at nationals. Looking back on the weeks I spent training, I regret not enjoying the time I spent with my teammates more. I got to spend everyday with some of my best friends, doing the sport I love. Even looking back at some of the really hard workouts we did-like 10 by 3 minutes at 2k pace-I would do anything to go back and do it all one more time. I would love to go back and be at the Original Pancake House with my boatmates, sitting at a table together all soaking wet from our Saturday morning practice in the rain. Even though we all keep in touch and see each other over the summer, I know we will never get the chance to all row and train together again. What I remember most about that year was not how we performed at nationals, but it's the experiences and memories I shared with my teammates. We did not do as well as we hoped to, but that doesn't stand out to me at all when looking back. It's not the outcome I spent all my time worrying about that mattered, it's the people and it's the process. When I reflect on my freshman year physics, I don't remember the questions I got wrong on tests, I just remember how much fun I had. Often laughing with the people in my class about the smallest things. Reflecting back on my sophomore year when we were all figuring out how to adjust our lives to the pandemic, I remember feeling grateful to see everyone at school again. And reflecting back on last year, what stands out to me the most is the time I spent with my friends and getting to know my teachers better. I know that after I graduate, I will want to come back and do this year again. So as we all look at the year ahead of us, I encourage everyone to cherish the moments you get to spend with the people in our community instead of worrying about what's next. As Mr. World Wide once said, "It's only one life, you don't get two, so live life, don't let it live you" Alison Browne As most of you know, I have an identical twin. My sister Lindsay and I have shared almost every part of our lives for as long as I can remember, from bunk beds and birthday parties to brown hair, and blue eyes. For much of my early life, Lindsay and I were identical in all the ways I thought it mattered and, as it usually goes, the people who spent the most time with us could tell us apart, except for my uncle who still calls me "cousin" because he doesn't want to guess the wrong name. Later on, I would start to reflect on how being a twin shapes my sense of individuality, but at the time, people mixing us up was just a small annoyance in the grand scheme of what it meant to be a twin. Lindsay and I were a package deal: we played on all the same sports teams, had the same friends, dressed in matching outfits, spent almost all of our time together, and above all else, looked exactly the same. But, I loved it because being a twin was about partnership, whatever happened, we were in this together. That's what I believed it meant to be an identical twin. My reality check came around fourth grade. As a new kid at SPA, I was accustomed to people who didn't know me giving me weird looks, but one day, I noticed a classmate of mine across the playground staring a little too hard for comfort. Later that day, I saw him again, and he greeted me by name, immediately followed by: "Do you wanna know how I know exactly who you are? I can tell that you're Ali because you're the twin with the really bad acne." Looking back on this now, his bluntness is more understandable, but this is an interaction that I have carried with me ever since. While at the core, it was just an unfiltered comment from someone who didn't know any better, I will always remember this as the moment it really sunk in that no matter what I did, I would always be defined by how I compared to my sister, and that our level of similarity was out of my control. Being a twin was no longer just about us, our relationship, and how our lives were shaped because of it; being a twin began to have implications that involved everyone around me and how they perceived this part of who I am. People saw us as one half of a whole. I'm lucky I didn't notice this sooner, but it still didn't cushion me from the pervasive belief that our differences could only be perceived as my flaws. Though I can't remember a lot from the rest of that year, I remember how it felt to look in the mirror at ten years old and feel like there was something inherently wrong with what I saw. When I got to the age where comments like the one I received in fourth grade were no longer made to my face, my mind quickly filled the silence. Though comparisons come in all forms, more than anything, everyone else seemed to focus on my appearance. So, it was inevitable that I picked this habit up as well. I could look at myself in the mirror and pick apart my own reflection in that moment, but suddenly I did so with an awareness that others were doing the same thing while comparing me to my sister, my living breathing mirror. It wasn't until my sophomore year that I started to piece together these experiences and confront how being a twin has shaped my self-image. One day at the public library, I came across a book called More Than A Body: Your Body is an Instrument, Not an Ornament. I flipped to the first page and read the opening line of the introduction: "No one experiences having their bodies and faces enthusiastically and unapologetically ogled, scanned, and compared by both strangers and loved ones like identical twins." Though I was embarrassed to check out what seemed like a self-help book at the ripe age of 15, after reading that sentence, I was sold. More Than A Body is a book written by identical twins that centers on the idea of self objectification, the critical awareness of yourself and your appearance that emerges when you begin to view yourself from an outside perspective. Though this is something many of you have probably experienced before, it becomes more complicated when you apply it to identical twins. I've lived my entire life with someone who looks exactly like me, and that creates comparisons from others that are completely out of my control. That is, in the simplest terms, how I can best explain the one negative aspect of being a twin. Sometimes the comparisons focus on all that makes you the same, but most often they fixate on differences, overwhelmingly those that are skill or appearance-based. It's hard to fight the urge to see yourself the way you think others will, to make the comparisons before other people get the chance. While most people have a running commentary of worries of what others think about them or their appearance in their mind as they go throughout their day, I used to not only worry about what I look like to other people but also if I am performing the role of the lesser twin: less athletic, less smart, you can fill in the blank with whatever you want, and trust me, I have. When these comparisons breed competition, it's hard to feel like anyone is on your team, and I would be lying if I said that didn't influence my relationship with my sister and the idea of partnership that I used to love. With this, I've realized that self-objectification is something I've always been familiar with, even if I didn't have a name for it. It's human nature to compare yourself to others, but I've grown to understand that I never compared myself to my sister or hyperfixated on the fact that I'm a twin until I recognized that other people did, and I let that influence the way I see myself for far too long. It's painful to think about how I've let comparison infiltrate my life. People would always tell me about their hidden tricks they use to tell us apart, and since that day in fourth grade, it was hard not to wonder if my biggest insecurities were the reason someone can remember my name. When people couldn't resist the urge to analyze everything about me in relation to my sister, I let my fear of comparison dictate what I wore, the activities I engaged in, and how I presented myself to others, and I lost a sense of freedom, carelessness, and appreciation for myself. It has taken a lot to deconstruct this way of thinking and refocus on living without picturing what that looks like to others, but, I've gotten to a point where I can finally see that my sister and I have never been two halves, of the same whole; my value doesn't lie in how we measure up to one another, and I'm not meant to be critiqued, minimized, or defined by appearance just because I am a twin. As the last twin in my grade to give their senior speech this year, I felt like writing "the twin speech" was what I had to do. I felt an overwhelming internal pressure to come up here and correct misconceptions or define for you all what it means to be a twin. But, as much as I may want to, I can't give a universal definition even if I tried or tell you that I've entirely figured out how to compartmentalize the judgments and unfiltered comments that people can rarely hold back. While I have known that I wanted to discuss my struggles with self-image long before I started writing this speech, both for myself and anyone in the audience who may be going through something similar, it would be unfair not to mention, even if briefly, all the joy that being a twin has brought into my life. I have never genuinely felt alone because I have been lucky enough to have Lindsay by my side. She is my best friend and our relationship is the most important thing in my life. So yes, no matter who you are or who your twin is for that matter, being a twin comes with its challenges, but I've learned to see and accept myself for who I am: an individual with passions, interests, and experiences that go far beyond my identity as a twin and that have absolutely nothing to do with my appearance or how it may compare to anyone else's. I have to make a conscious choice every day to break the cycle of self-objectification and not let others dictate my self-image and my relationship with my sister, but being a twin, no matter how I'm perceived by others, is all I know, and I've never wished for anything else. Thank you. Alison Mitchell I come from a family of multi-sport athletes, so growing up, I tried almost every sport in existence in a desperate attempt to find one, or three, sports that would stick. This is my definitive rating of my performance in some of the sports I played as a kid, pictures included. (SLIDE) Up first, we have gymnastics. My illustrious gymnastics career began at the ripe age of 3 when my rambunctious self was sent to the local gym to 'burn off some energy', aka give my mom a few hours of peace and quiet. Because I was 3 and this was a local gym, my gymnastics training wasn't exactly rigorous and I spent more time playing tag with my friends than I did doing cartwheels. Eventually, I did move on to a more serious gym, however, my career there was short-lived, as I was swiftly kicked off of the team because I couldn't stop falling off of the beam. I'll give myself a solid (SLIDE) 3/10. Next up we have (SLIDE) soccer. And I think that this picture says it all, because I was in it for the juice boxes, not for the goals. And although my soccer career lasted a whole 3 seasons, my only distinct memory of the sport is counting the blades of grass in the goalie box because I got bored standing in goal. I think I made it to 87 before I actually had to pay attention again. So although my soccer career was rather devoid of accomplishments, I think I'm going to have to give myself a solid (SLIDE) 5/10 because (SLIDE) the uniforms made me look like an absolute beast. And now onto (SLIDE) figure skating. I'm going to keep this brief, like my interest in the sport. I truly don't know what possessed me to take up figure skating. I think it's because I knew how to skate but didn't want to play hockey like every other kid in Minnesota. So after buying a fresh pair of skates, I headed over to the St. Louis Park ice arena to try my luck at figure skating. However, about 2 lessons in it became abundantly clear that this was not the sport for me because I kept tripping and falling due to the stupid toe pick on the front of the skates. Needless to say, I hung up my skates after only 1 season of figure skating and never returned to the ice again. I'll give it a solid (SLIDE) 2/10. Finally, we have (SLIDE) swimming. And I'll admit, I thought swimming was the one. I genuinely enjoyed the sport and my team and stuck with it for several years. I also got some mad street cred when I showed up to school with the names and numbers of my races scrawled across my arm in sharpie. Kids would always ask me what it meant or if I had gotten a tattoo, and I, along with all of the other swimming kids, would scoff and say "no, it's just from this huge meet I swam in this weekend". Even though I was enjoying my time on the swim team, I ultimately quit swimming because I realized that I had peaked in the sport when I was 10 years old and got 6th place in an event, just one spot shy of making it to sections. Although my performance as a swimmer wasn't exactly stellar, I'm going to have to give myself a solid (SLIDE) 7.5/10 because I had a lot of fun. So I know that some of you are probably wondering, what sport did she try next, surely she didn't let all of that athletic talent go to waste. And I'm here to tell you that after swimming, I found (SLIDE) theater. And if any of you are saying that theater isn't a sport then clearly you haven't been through the rehearsal process for a musical. But the point here isn't debating whether or not theater is a sport. The point is that, through theater, I found something that I was genuinely passionate about and a community that I could be a part of. Theater gave me a creative outlet and a platform that I could use to tell people's stories. It brought me a new sense of confidence. (SLIDE) So I quickly realized that it didn't matter if everyone around me played a sport. Theater was the path for me, and so what if it looked a little different than what everyone else was doing? This was my passion to pursue, my path to follow. The concept of following my own path has been something that I've returned to quite a lot in these past few years. Whether it's switching schools halfway through high school, exploring my own identity, or deciding where to apply to college, I've constantly had to remind myself of this message. And it isn't always easy focusing on your path instead of someone else's, but I encourage you all to remember, as I encourage myself to remember, that the things you do and the decisions you make don't always have to make sense to or be influenced by everyone else. Sometimes what's right for you might look or feel a little different, and that's okay, because this is the path that makes sense for you. So while the comical takeaway from this speech is that I will never be playing sports again, what I really hope that you all take away from this is that you shouldn't be afraid to follow your own path even if it feels silly or stupid or scary. And while I can't promise that following your own path will fix all of your problems or bring you everlasting peace, what I can promise is that you will become an infinitely better person by doing so. I know I have. Alyssa Ebert I always need a plan: boundaries to stay within. Whether it be for a group outing, to what order I'm going to complete my homework in. I need to know ahead of time what's happening and when. So I make plans for myself in the notes section of my phone, or I confirm with the group what the plan is the day before. This summer, however, was a little different: It began with my first ever job as an assistant tennis coach for kids. As an assistant, my job was to help the head coach with lesson plans and interact with the children to keep them on task, simple enough. However, as I've previously stated, unexpected things terrify me and I ended up making an extensive list of all the possible things that could go wrong. For example, when I first heard I got hired for the job my first thoughts were: What if I'm not outgoing enough and end up alone. What if my entire site group is awful and unorganized people. What if I actually suck at this job and am miserable the entire time, and finally: what if it turns out there are a bunch of college kids and I'm the only highschooler? These thoughts coupled with a hoard of ravaging butterflies in my gut does not make for an enjoyable morning before my first day of training. Of course none of these things happened, everyone was amazing and I felt pretty good after a week of training. I was even excited for this new experience with my coworkers and ready to face any challenges head on. What I had failed to remember was how chaotic children could truly be and how much I disliked them. For starters, they are short. I don't trust anyone below the height of 4ft. 2nd They don't listen to anything you say unless you phrase it in such a way that it sounds like the most amazing thing they will ever experience, 3rd they eat stuff they know they shouldn't, one kid even decided that he should lick his tennis racket. and finally they are impossible to understand, like --I don't understand your mumbled nonsense--. Up until this point in my life, I have rejected any offer to take care of or supervise children. I have never babysitted before despite taking a babysitting prep course and just this September denied a volunteer position to supervise kids for only an hour once a month in my neighborhood. I think the main reason for my dislike is how unpredictable they can be. There is no way to know what a kid will say or do in any given situation, which is hard for someone who wants to know what is going on at all times. I feel like I need to constantly be on guard, with a list of responses ready for whatever a child may say to me. Yet there I was- not only supervising kids, but having to instruct them in tennis. Why would someone who hates kids, coach kids? Because it's a good life experience, or something. To add onto this I was with the outreach group, meaning we had to go to a different site each day of the week with multiple sessions per day, that's around 60 kids a week, let's just say I gave up on names pretty quickly. The first few weeks were the most chaotic. On day one, the group of supposedly 10 kids was actually 20, and we were stuck in a humid gym with flimsy pop-up nets. But then later that same week a group of 8 kids was literally 2. The second day the place didn't know we were coming, so they had to find random children at the school that had some free time to play tennis. and our boss was not so on top of things and gave my group last minute changes, an hour before we had to leave for work. But we dealt with it as a group, we got through 2 dozen kids with 3 coaches, misinformation and last minute switches. My must know every detail of what is going on mentality was thrown out the window for the first few weeks and, while extremely stressful at times, was very much doable. I had to push away the whirlpool of doubts going through my mind and face each situation head on, and once it was over, I realized nothing bad was ever going to happen in the first place. Some other lessons came out of this job as well, for example: I reaffirmed my dislike for kids. How could I not when a 10 year old child says to my face: "I hate you" just from making him do an activity. please just balance the ball on your racket, that is all I ask of you. One could also argue that my social skills improved. I had to learn how to guide kids in a way they would understand and follow. Along with figure out quick responses to random questions thrown at me. The trick is to nod your head and agree with everything they say. For example: one time a kid was convinced someone stole their racket, even if this was true, there was no way to know which racket was his since everyone just takes one from the big bag we bring, and it had happened a week before, so pretty much a lost cause. I looked down at the small, sad child and told him: "Oh no, I'm so sorry" then proceeded to slowly walk away. Flawless social skills. I think the only reason I made it through this job was because of the group I worked with. It was me plus two other assistant coaches and a head coach, with some others who rotated in and out of our group. We had made a group chat during the training week to contact each others about changes and that sort of thing, but the fact that I could talk to those people and reaffirm what was happening each given day, or make sure I wasn't the only one who didn't know what was going on, helped me not panic when we had no information on what we were doing. I find this to be true in other aspects of my life as well. For example when driving alone, I find myself second guessing every turn or stop I make, but when someone is sitting next to me despite my driving being exactly the same, I am more relaxed, because if I happen to make a wrong turn, they can correct me and we can work through it together. Or when I'm going to an event alone I'm anxious the whole time, but once I spot a friend it all goes away in an instant. The fact that if something unexpected does happen, I'll have someone who is going through the same situation and we can work through it together. Life is crazy, nothing is planned, kids are terrible, so surround yourself with people to get through those unexpected times and finally, go with the flow. Andrea Gist Some of you may not know that I didn't grow up in the U.S. I didn't grow up watching Scooby Doo, The Powerpuff Girls, or whatever iconic movie or tv show everyone watched in their childhood. Every time someone made a reference to Highschool Musical or 13 going on 30, I would always give them a blank stare and say "I've never seen that movie". Most of the time they would give me a shocked face and look at me in disbelief, and I would have to explain that I grew up in Taiwan where the culture there is completely different. My brother and I learned Mandarin as our first language, and since we went to a Mandarin-speaking school, the only time we spoke English was with our dad. As well as traveling to Minnesota every summer to visit my dad's side of the family. I didn't get to experience snacks and recess breaks or ride the school buses every day after school. I was just an average Taiwanese kid learning in their very strict education system. You may think SPA is competitive, but trust me it is worst there. Teachers indulge in corporal punishments and it is culturally acceptable. Everyone goes to school from 8 to 3, and then transfer to cram school to study until 8pm. Thank god my mom didn't let me stay for those study sessions, though she did love to put me in a bunch of extracurricular activities. I remember the first time I ever went to drawing class, I told the teacher that she sucked at drawing and that she couldn't draw without a guide. Only because she was using a book to demonstrate the drawing for me. Let's just say I never stepped foot in her classroom again. When my mom realized I wasn't turning into an art prodigy she took me to violin classes. And not even a week in, I hit my teacher with a balloon shaped like a sheep after she told me I played the wrong note. I promise I don't do that anymore, and Ms. Englehardt can vouch for me. I was lucky I didn't get kicked out by my teacher, though I wasn't so lucky when I had to take piano lessons as my punishment. Although piano did turn out better than violin, and I continued practicing it when I moved to Japan at the age of 10. Surprisingly I behaved and went to lessons without causing any commotion. My teacher was happy with me, even though I struggled to understand a word she was saying because I didn't speak any Japanese. My parents were also happy because they weren't told by my teachers that I was doomed. However at my very first recital, as I messed up playing the easiest song in the world, twinkle twinkle little star, I slapped the keys down so hard, I cried and left. I may have blamed it on the fact that I had a bad teacher and that I could never understand her instructions, but in reality, I could understand most of her hand gestures and the occasional English that she loved to speak. You most likely now think that I was a very difficult child and that I always gave my parents a headache, which I probably did, but I did eventually find a hobby that I enjoyed, which was soccer. Playing soccer at a high level in Taiwan was basically impossible. It wasn't very challenging or competitive, so when I joined a soccer club in Japan, not only was it hard but I've had a few embarrassing moments. Like I said, when I first moved there I didn't know how to speak or understand Japanese, so trying to communicate with my teammates was like trying to keep up with your Spanish teacher at level 3 Spanish. There's a lot of Spanglish and hand gestures going around that it will take a while for you to keep up. At my first soccer game, I was pretty sure the only reason I was put in goal was because I still couldn't talk to my team, but it did result in me getting punched by the throat with the ball when the opposing team scored. I've never stood in front of the goal since. Lindsay, I don't know how you do it, but you make it seem so easy. Thankfully that experience didn't deter me from the sport, and I carried on playing even when I moved to the U.S. in 7th grade. Moving to Minnesota might have been the biggest transition for me. It was the first time I got to experience and live the culture here. I had no friends except for my grandparents and the rest of my dad's family, and it was hard to navigate when my English sucked. It was so bad that when I tried to apply to SPA in 7th grade, I got rejected (or should I say denied). I was even made fun of once in middle school for not knowing what a zit was. Being told that might have been more humiliating than any other embarrassing moment I've shared, but living these experiences and getting to stand up here and share them doesn't seem that big of a deal anymore. I no longer think back to those moments and cringe and wished I have done things differently, and I know a lot of people have been in my shoes before. Where we all think back to an encounter and wished we could have changed what we've done or how we act. I hope that by sharing my embarrassing stories can make you feel less embarrassed about yours, and know that there is nothing to change about the past. All we can do is laugh it off, move on, or be like me and share it. Andrew Bai I have a secret superpower. And no, it's not my figure skating. And it's also not being able to disguise myself as literally any other asian male at spa. In fact, it's far less useful. Like every senior giving this speech, I have obviously already figured my life out. In fact, I've already fulfilled my childhood dream of becoming spiderman. Or at least in my mind, the next best thing. I mean, I can't swing through the air or climb on ceilings or even do a backflip. But, I can make extreme logical leaps. So now let me explain how I am spiderman. Kind of. As you know, most superheroes have incredible origin stories. Now, I don't really know marvel movies or comics, but I know that Hulk survived chernobyl, captain america got vaccinated, and dogwelder... well, i don't actually know how he got the ability to weld dogs to peoples' faces. But let me tell you about MY origin story. Before 4th grade, i was attending a christian summer camp. I'm not even sure why I was there; I'm not christian. No one in my family is. And so, I was extremely bored. I know, shocker. Until I found this bendy piece of metal on the ground. You know that thing adults tell you sometimes, not the "stranger danger" thing, but the "don't put metal into outlets or you'll die" thing? Well, as I scanned the room, looking for something to do with my new toy, guess what sparked my attention. That's right. So I bent the strip of metal into a fun, two-pronged apparatus. And as someone who doesn't believe in a higher power, I have to admit: maybe god was looking after me that day. Because when I screamed, watching my fleetingly short life literally flash in front of my eyes, blacking out for a few moments, I got up, and continued my class as if nothing happened. On that day, unbeknownst to 10-year-old me, I had gained two extremely mediocre superpowers. The first was from the man up above. I think he noticed my complete lack of common sense, so he blessed me with great intelligence. Well, kind of good intelligence. See, I became smart enough to where I got placed into the hard math classes, but not smart enough to where I understood what was going on. That's kinda like spiderman. He's really physically strong, but not compared to the other heroes. Now, the second superpower was gifted to me by the San Gabriel Valley power grid. Those 240 volts surging through my veins gave me the ability to do my homework super fast. Like really fast. But, there's one small caveat. It only works RIGHT before the assignment is due. But, you know, It's almost like my version of the spider sense. Instead of sensing imminent danger, I can feel incoming teacher emails, veracross notifications, and yelling parents. And for years, I kept it a secret. My parents didn't even know electrocuted myself until last year. But it's been really useful to me. I managed to stumble through middle school, doing my homework most of the time. The fact that I could complete much of my homework extremely quickly only fueled my procrastination. I knew I could always do it later, and I wouldn't have any consequences. Except for Geometry. Please don't speak to me about geometry. I did not do ANY homework in that class. I don't know what a triangle is. This mentality allowed me to start projects later and later. This mentality made me start projects later and later. No matter how hard I try, I can't bring myself to accomplish anything that's not due the day of. So as more time passes, I can't help but feel like I've turned my blessing into my curse. I go through phases for weeks, sometimes months, where one thing is all-consuming in my life. Since the start of this school year, it has been my procrastination, more than ever before. There's not a day that goes by without me feeling unsatisfied, unproductive, and ultimately, guilty. So I'll have to be honest. To myself. To everyone. I'm no superhero. I was once a freshman listening to speeches for the first time, seeing the spotlight illuminate those I looked up to. The people I imagined as my heroes. But in these four years, I've done nothing but procrastinate. Not only did I push my assignments and projects back, but I also pushed everything back. My friends, connections, feelings, all of it. Because I could always do it later. Now that I'm standing up here, it's hard to accept all the time that know I've wasted. Every. single. day. And deep down, I know this speech too, is a mechanism to procrastinate improving myself. Everything I write and say here addresses my problems but still, only pushes the solution further and further away. Yes, I know I wrote half this speech last week. And the other half last night. But still, I'll keep that familiar disguise on, red, with that black webbing and those signature white eyes. And on the outside, I still smile, exuding the confidence that every superhero should. After all, with my great power, I don't need a sense of responsibility. Right? But secretly, I worry. I worry that one day my strings will snap, my resolve will crumble, and I will fall. Until I no longer have my powers to hide behind. And secretly, I wish. I wish that every day, every moment, tomorrow's past and yesterday's future, would stop slipping through my grasp, no matter how much I want my fingers to stick to them like they do to the ceiling and the walls. And I hope, that one day, I'll become the real hero of my story. Anna Nowakowski Reading was one of the first things that I remember truly disliking. This was a tough topic to bring up with Mr Inchiosa, my English teacher, while writing this speech. I'm not quite sure when I decided that I did not like to read. Maybe it was when I could not figure out what rhyming was in my first grade reading groups, or maybe it was when I found out that not liking reading was even an option, but all I know is that I do not like it. When I was in middle school I downloaded the game Episode. For those of you who don't know in Episode you are a character and you write your own story by reading and clicking through options. At first I loved it and even invested my money into buying gems, so that instead of dressing up in a trash bag for prom I could wear the coolest dress that 2015 had to offer. After a few days I got bored of the game and started skipping through the text. The 60 word speech bubbles crossed over into reading territory and I eventually gave up on the game all together. My complete disdain of reading got even worse and in 11th grade I did not read a single book. I strategically placed myself in two English classes which required only some reading. Honestly the longest book I read that year was a learning to read chapter book that I read to the kids I was babysitting and even that felt like a lot of effort. At the after school program I work at, I told some of the kids that I have not read a single Harry Potter book. This was devastating to their perception of adulthood because how could I be 18 and still not have read any of the books . They have since decided the most logical explanation is that I actually don't know how to read. Instead I have been lying to all of my teachers. I once cried after finding out one of the books I read was a series not a stand alone and that meant I would have to read more to find out what happens. Needless to say I did not. I know reading is not something I can avoid for the rest of my life, but despite what I may have written in almost all of my college applications I don't appreciate the holistic approach to learning especially if it includes reading. I also hate getting in trouble. That is not to say of course that I never do or that I am good in any way at avoiding getting in trouble, just that I will attempt to avoid it at all costs. During the middle school social me and a few other kids got bored and decided to go to the gym to play basketball. I knew this was against the rules but when none of the parent chaperones stopped me as I walked past the clear barrier the school had set up to prevent students from leaving. I decided I was in the clear. While I was returning to the gym after going to grab water from the water fountain down stairs a security guard came into the gym. Probably to find where the eightish middle schoolers had disappeared to. Immediately one of the students shouted "RUN" and of course to avoid the trouble I ran. I thought that if I returned to the social after strategically avoiding the security I could gaslight the teachers into thinking that I was never gone and that they had not seen me in the gym. After escaping through the back door I stood in the athletics hallway hiding in the dark for about 2 minutes. Eventually me and my friend decided that there was no possible way they could still be looking for us and that the coast was clear to head back up. As we were sneaking back up, we started to form our plan which involved us using our James Bond like skills to make our way back to the entrance of the social sneaking past the parents and returning without punishment. We were so amazed by the genius of our own plan that as we were walking up the stairs we ran basically right into the security guard and almost all the other students who had attempted to flee, lasting an outstanding three minutes. I hate running. This is probably due to the fact that I am so slow that I can barely beat my babysitting kids in a race and that it would be almost impossible to run slower than I do. I have never experienced runners high only the burning chest pain of someone with mild asthma and a disdain for running. Every year my running scores in gym were concerningly low, but at the end of the year mile run they would somehow become worse. Of course 9th grade me thought that I had cracked the code to the physical tests. All I had to do was run a slow mile and then no matter how quickly I ran the second mile my time would be faster. That year I ran a 16 min mile and I did not end up running the final mile so my score for the year ended up being 16 mins. For any of you who don't know math, it is almost impossible to move that slow. My pace was 3.75 miles per hour. I actually can't fathom how I physically moved that slow. My extreme competitiveness and hate for running also prove to be a difficult combination. This meant when playing tag games, I needed to get extra crafty. Once while playing tag my extreme competitiveness combined with my complete lack of speed caused me to run full tilt into a glass wall which I had mistaken for a doorway. The glass was in no way damaged and instead I sort of just bounced off. Despite the glass being unscathed, I had sustained a broken nose. Unfortunately this moment was captured on a security camera and when my family watched the video instead of seeing me heroically sprinting to safety they watched my almost slow motion running and the resulting injury and confusion which made the situation even worse, and we still have the DVD. Things like running, reading, and getting in trouble are a part of everybody's life and as much as I may dislike it they are all still a part of mine. Accepting this fact is important because knowing that you don't like something and having to live with it is a valuable skill. I was told many times as a kid that I would find a book that I would love to read, that as an adult running would become a great exercise and even that getting in trouble is important for character building and that all of these things I would learn to love. I used to think that the people who told me these things had gained some amazing perspective and insight from their lives that someday I too would have. But now reflecting I think these people were either very good liars or they actually enjoyed these things all along. I can not say definitely that I will never feel neutral about or even like any of these things, but what I know now is that I don't have to. There is nothing wrong with not liking something, actually it is an important part of life. Knowing that I do not like these things has allowed me to feel confident in the things that I do enjoy and accepting the fact that I may never like these things has allowed me to get over it and just do them. I can not avoid the things that I don't like doing. I can only do my best to fill my time with things I love. I love being a middle child. People say that middle children are forgotten or quiet but I think being the middle child is the best because you live the best of both worlds having an older sibling to teach you and act as a role model while having a younger sibling that you get to boss around. Today I will be talking about all my best sister moments . For context I have an sister Ellie who is four years older and a twin sister Leni who is 2 mins younger. I once locked my sister outside for april fools day because Ellie and I decided it would be funny to pull a prank. The prank was complex and involved many moving parts but the idea was to lock Leni outside and then she would see the awesome April fools sign we made out of chalk. Leni got very frustrated almost immediately and she did not see the chalk art so Ellie and I decided we should not let her in. As many of you know April is not the most warm time of the year in minnesota and so I watched my sister cry from the door while me and Ellie pointed to the chalk sign we had placed next to the garage. When we told ellie that she had frosted tips Other sstories and things that i dislike - Soda - Sweaters - Mayo - Putting up my hair - Movies over 2 hours - Breaking bad - Playing pretend - Drawing - Being quiet Did not score one pt all of middle school bball Hate spending money except for on coffee Hatting sea critters and geting stabbed in the foot by a razor clam I hate snakes story with grandpa down river bank I hate driving. I don't like driving myself but that is nothing compared to the hatred that I have for when other people drive me. Everyone that I know drives too fast and too slow slams on the brakes and stops to early and I always leave the car with a sense of frustration and nausea. Directions however are the worst part of driving. I am terrible at directions and the only sense of direction that I even remotely posses is where things are in relation to the nearest starbucks. It once took me 30 minutes extra minutes to complete a drive because I took the wrong exit an impressive 3 times. My lack of direction skills with my hate for car rides and fear of being late combines to create an impressive One day while driving in the desert with my Grandparents we were headed down a hill when we reached a rougher part of the road. While following down this path I noticed the road started to become much smaller and my grandparents car could barely squeeze through the gap that the two walls of rock formed around the road. Eventually after scraping the car against the side of the road we stopped. I thought that we would be trapped in the desert and I started to get concerned. When I looked at the road behind me I realized that the road had curved off at the bottom of the hill and that the precarious stretch of road we had been following was actually a dried up river bank not a road and it took us almost a half an hour to back out of the river bank and return to the normal road. A few other things i dont like without nuance because I don't think they deserve any are I don't like drinking water, don't like the mall of America, and I don't like snapchat. Aryun Nemani Back when I was 8 years old, my parents enrolled me in Kumon. Kumon is a tutoring program in which students attend classes multiple times a week and complete daily homework assignments to improve their skills in math. Every time I'd enter their building, I would get the immediate feel of a classroom; I'd see students at desks independently completing problems, and groups of adult tutors pacing the room. At the start of each session, I'd go up to the desks at the front of the class where I'd be checked in by another tutor, who would then hand me a packet of problems to work on. I'd work on the packet for about an hour while being occasionally checked on by a tutor, and then I'd go home. I would also bring extra packets home that I was supposed to complete as homework before I came back the next time. There were many different levels of difficulty for the packets, and each level was assigned a letter, going from A to O, which meant there were 15 levels. Each level simulates a year's worth of math, but students are expected to go through a level in a matter of months, meaning that, if you wanted to, you could spend around 10 years of your childhood learning math starting from counting skills all the way through calculus. I only lasted until level E, which was adding and subtracting fractions, and I stopped attending Kumon before coming to SPA in 6th grade. Up until I came to SPA, though, I had only attended Montessori schools for my education. Montessori schools are very different from traditional schooling systems. For starters, students spend their entire days in one big classroom with a few teachers. There are no structured times to learn math, or English, or science, or history. Instead, teachers work with small groups of students on pretty much anything that the students want to learn. There's also never any homework, and students are expected to write in cursive all the time. Essentially, my Montessori experience couldn't be any more distinct from Kumon than it already is; one of them assigns work to be completed on a schedule, and the other is more free-flowing. At this point in my life, Kumon and Montessori were two familiar spaces to me. But one place that I knew nothing about, and never went to, was church. Now, I haven't ever actually been to church. I've only ever entered the one next to my bus stop a few times whenever I needed to wait somewhere and it was cold outside. Because of this, I knew little about its purpose or what actually happens inside, and I would rely on external sources of information, including friends, TV shows, and movies. Based on a few stretchy assumptions of mine, I inaccurately concluded that this concept of church I'd heard so much about must be the same thing as my Kumon tutoring program, meaning that church was meant for doing math problems only. One day in my Montessori classroom, a couple of peers and I were working with the teacher on math. As we went through the problems, a classmate of mine looked over at my paper and asked: "Aryun, how'd you know how to do that?" In response, I told him: "Just go to church, dude, and you'll know." Now, I didn't think of it then, but I'd assume the look my peer gave me was probably because I'd just told him to go pray to God he gets better at math. In the moment, I thought everything was completely fine. It wasn't until my teacher intervened that I explained what I thought church was. Luckily, she was quick to correct me in explaining that Kumon is definitely not church, but rather an educational program. Now, the reason I tell this story is that everyone you'll meet has their own background, culture, identity, and interests. As we all move throughout our lives, everyone we meet will be unique in their experiences, and misunderstandings similar to the one I encountered are likely to happen. For example, you might misunderstand the definition or implications of something based on your knowledge of other things, much like I did, or you might accidentally present yourself in a way you did not intend to. The point is, these things are inevitable. However, the lessons you pick up from these mistakes will make you more open-minded, and you'll understand multiple perspectives of something more easily. Don't be too hard on yourself for something you did that you think was pretty dumb because chances are, everyone is making similar mistakes and learning from them. At the end of the day, you'll always have something to look back at and laugh at. Thank you Autumn Spaulding Did you know Fred Durst has a tattoo of the Mona Lisa? Fred Durst is the frontman for the nu-metal band called Limp Bizkit. They were "popular" in the late 90s and early 2000s, mostly with skaters, which makes sense, but it was before my time, so I have a limited perception of how people saw Fred at his peak. All I know is from the reactions I get from people that were alive when they were popular, and the only two reactions I've seen are concern and outrage. I am disappointed in these reactions because I think Limp Bizkit holds more weight than they are given credit for. I understand that their most popular song is called break stuff, but they have more to contribute than brutality! Anyways. I was doing some research on Fred, finding out his favorite denim brand, JNCO, if you were wondering, as information for a joke for the first draft of this speech. After a little more research, I realized he's...inspiring. Before anyone gets upset or worried for me, please just hear me out. Also, quick disclaimer, if he's done something awful that I don't know about, I'm not excusing it, but please forget about it for the duration of this speech. So, now that that's out of the way, I understand that the frontman for the nu-metal band Limp Bizkit might not seem like a relatable role model for me, but after doing some research and reading 50 of his best quotes, I found myself looking up to him. One of the things I admire is how he doesn't let other people define his intelligence. I believe that everyone has their own brand of smart, and everyone has something to learn and something to teach. When I look at myself and my own values, something that often comes to mind is academics. Not in the sense that they're something I prioritize and feel connected with; it's actually the opposite. I'm not going to stand here and try to sell the story that I don't try at all in school because that's not true, but school rarely resonates with me. When we say the word smart, it's often associated with academics, which I disagree with. There are plenty of other smarts we should value just as much. You can be people smart, where you're great at starting conversations and reading the room. Pop-culture smarts, where you know the best movies and music to recommend to someone. Street smarts, which is something I don't know much about. Philosophy smart, where you can just think really deeply about literally anything. For example, Fred is great at articulating when people are trying to get him down and turning it into a banger song. People discounting what a genius he is just further proves my point that types of intelligence outside of academia are often not appreciated the way they should be. Just because something isn't presented classically doesn't mean it can't or shouldn't be appreciated. Everyone is smart in different ways, and life is a lot less stressful when you can accept that. My life got easier once I stopped putting myself in a position where I would fail. In 10th grade, I got put in regular biology instead of honors biology. At the time, I was upset because it felt like my friends were leaving me behind. Looking back, I am SO glad I did't get put in honors biology. The regular class was difficult enough, and trying to hold myself to a standard I didn't resonate with was not healthy. Another reason I look up to Fred is because he doesn't get hung up on people that misunderstand him. He once said, "I always knew the guy in the red cap was not me. I'm Dr. Frankenstein, and that's my creature... it was a conscious effort to create Fred Durst and eventually I had to bring that guy out more than I wanted to. It took on a life of its own. I had to check into that character - the gorilla, the thing, the red cap guy. It's a painful transformation, but I do it 'cos that's what I was taught to do when you have people pulling at you." When I read this for the first time my mouth fell open. Fred is basically saying that he is watching this character of himself perform, and sometimes this character gets a little bit out of control due to pressure, which is something I've definitely felt. He's showing that there's more going on with him than it seems, comparing the him that he knows vs. the creature his Limp Bizkit frontman persona takes on. If you know me well, you know that I am constantly cracking a joke. If you met me a while ago I probably seemed super shy and quiet. I am slowly becoming more talkative, so if you met me recently, this might surprise you a little bit. However, I'm sure that many people still think I'm shy or even rude because of my very dry sense of humor. This often makes me feel misunderstood because, contrary to popular belief, I do have things to say that aren't funny. Fred embraces this so-called creature that he's created and recognizes that it's a character that he can step in and out of, which is really important and something I'm trying to do. Sometimes you can't change people's perception of you, so you have to roll with it and mesh it with the current you. Fred learning to embrace this creature is him making a way for himself in a world that won't always accept him. Fred is also teaching me how to pave a new path for myself instead of looking for one that's already made. In the lyrics of Limp Bizkit's song out of style, Fred says, "I'm always out of style. Never change my style 'cause my style kinda fresh" I think that this lyric is absolutely genius. When he says that he's always out of style, he means that not everyone is going to like him and he'll never be perfectly on trend, but that he's not going to change because he's still cool and he knows it, regardless of how some people see him. This is the exact mindset I'm trying to live by. If some people don't like me or think I'm 'uncool' that's literally fine because I need to be pursue things for myself. This mindset extends to more straightforward things like the way I dress or the classes I take, as well as more nuanced things like my mannerisms and values. This also goes as far as liking what you want to like and having parts of your personality and hobbies that don't necessarily go together. It can feel hard to be more than one thing at a time, but contradictions are what make everyone unique. For example, even though Fred Durst is in a nu metal band, he's a softie! Once I moved past the discomfort of feeling like too many things at once, I started to fear falling into a stereotype and being only one thing. I would feel stupid if had a question when I was dressed up, and worried that other people would think the same. I understand that hardly anyone would jump to that conclusion, but I still often worry about it. If Fred Durst has learned how to embrace his thick-skulled JNCO jean-wearer stereotype, maybe I need to learn how to embrace my airheaded tote bag stereotype and start using it to my advantage. Fred is not afraid to do things that seem to contradict his personality or the way people see him. Did you know that Fred hosts a jazz night in LA just because he loves jazz? He says, "It's a passion thing. I'm not making one penny. I'm there because I wanna be there. I love being maybe able to turn some people on to jazz, to the extent of maybe breaking that stereotype of what they might think it is." I hope that one day I will have a jazz club. Not literally, but I want something equivalent to that. Its powerful that Fred publically breaks his character to pursue a passion and so other people can enjoy something with him. Fred said, "We're just here doing what we do and we have nothing to say about anybody. I wish them luck and I feel sorry that they're so jealous and mad at themselves that they have to talk." This is so true. If people have a problem with something that just doesn't impact them, they're probably dealing with something internally. Anyone dissing on Fred's jazz club or anyone's jazz club needs to take a good look at themselves. My thing that is kind of like a jazz club is hunting. I have been hunting and fishing for as long as I can remember, and it hasbecome very meaningful to me. I guess this is something out of character for me because often, when people find out for the first time, they seem surprised or sometimes upset. While I respect their opinions, I think many people don't totally understand what I'm doing and why I'm doing it. This feels like my jazz club because it's a little out of character, but I do it because I enjoy it. I hope to show some people the value I see in it the way Fred has helped me see the power in going against the grain. See what I mean when I say he has more to say and do than break stuff? I chose Fred as my example because it seems like people overlook him, and he notices but doesn't care about misconceptions. I hope that if Fred was here, he would like my speech, and like Fred once said, "Imperfections make someone perfect to me." Gabriel Bangoura Often, we hear the word "narratives" being thrown around. It's the tired, repeated phrase in the news and politics. Today, I'd like to demystify this word and discuss why narratives are so influential. Let's start with the basics. A narrative is a way of presenting or understanding circumstances while reflecting and promoting a viewpoint. Often, these narratives are things we want to believe or that make sense to us. As cliche as it sounds, they practically govern our lives and everyday thinking, and eventually, these narratives become the story we tell ourselves. Let's look at a couple of narratives I believe are impactful and that I can provide clarity on. Let me know if this sounds familiar: you are arguing with someone and can't understand why they are upset. Not only that, but you do not even know how they could be upset. Now stop. There is an example of an implicit narrative steeped in your thinking and actions. That narrative is that you are reasonable, and consequently, your notions of reasonability are standard. I know it sounds crazy because of the opposite implication: How could you consider yourself unreasonable? Well, think about the premise of the situation. It's not that you don't know they are upset; you can't even understand how or why they could be upset. Now, ask yourself candidly: does that sound reasonable? Does it sound logical that you can't conceive of a reason for their actions? It isn't; in fact, being unable to find a reason for something is the facial definition of unreasonable. Instead of asking, "Am I wrong?" you're asking, "how can they be right?" We are conditioned to center ourselves in every decision, which makes sense when our actions only affect us. When we let our subjective, personal estimations of "rationality" diminish other people, we encounter contradictions. You see, the reasons someone could be upset, believe, or do something aren't up to us. We do not control other people. In fact, the reasons you do something are not dictated by "logic" in its academic definition. Those "reasons" are determined by each person's rationale, a composition of narratives meant to justify their actions. Acknowledging this reality does not mean we must agree with or accept others' reasoning. However, stepping back and understanding why someone acts the way they do is a sign that you have successfully overcome the delusion that you determine "reason." Remember, understand first, and rationalize later. In my experience, genuinely understanding someone entails seeing how they view the world and finding what assumptions compose their reality. Then ask your whys and hows. The other narrative I want to examine stems from the fallacy that every challenge is a personal, motivated impediment to which we are the victims. Let's take the commonly misconstrued story of David and Goliath to illustrate my point. You'll have to take David's background at face value. We are often made to believe that David is the underdog in this story. But, here is the truth; David had a considerable advantage in his battle with Goliath. This advantage was made clear in the narrative. It came from years of protecting his sheep with the slingshot. By virtue of this story, David would have had thousands of hours of training. Goliath was also giant, slow, nearsighted, and likely had arthritis. So, do you now like the story less? The answer is probably yes. Why, then, do people misconstrue a narrative that is so clear? Because we like to tell ourselves that we are the underdog. Most people pity the tiny, powerless boy, but that boy saw an unmissable target. We as a society have placed a new emphasis on creating and elevating the "virtue" of powerlessness. We have also equated the underdog with the victim, and substituted their heroism. You see, the most dangerous narratives we tell ourselves are about our ability, value, and place. Our minds easily turn impersonal happenings into stories that challenge our self-worth and agency. This is the greatest lie of all; that our power is "taken" by events; It's the personification of struggle. So, let's be frank: most challenges and bad things don't happen because of us or to us; they happen despite us. In the face of all these things, the most remarkable power anyone can wield is over themselves. It's the only thing we control without complicity, collaboration, or subjugation. To my earlier point, there are true underdog stories, but honestly, they are few and far between. So, if we are to take David and Goliath as our lesson givers, you can throw out the oft-repeated ideals of meritocracy or making your own way for a minute and hear this; If you succeed, it won't be "because" you are the underdog, it will be because you are capable and because "Goliath" was not better than you. If one thing from this speech will stick with you, I hope it will be the following: the narratives you harbor will shape your life. I have heavily implied this, but I wanted to state it explicitly. Perhaps the most challenging part of stories is that we want them to make sense. Growing up is living with the unavoidable uncertainty and ambiguity that will taint the cohesivity of our stories. That tapestry of premises will eventually become your life's account. Recognize that though "your story" may not be easy to understand, it will undoubtedly have themes. Also, know that everyone in this audience, city, state, country, and world, has their own lives and ways of thinking. Their existence is as complex as your own. The world is not about you, and it never will be. When you "write your story," make sure to account for the other people and try to make them a part of yours. Along the way, be kind and empathetic, never give up quickly, and don't let others devalue you. To close this speech, I'd like to say that I am very grateful. Thank you to my family for loving me and making me who I am. Thank you to my friends. You are the best friends that I could have ever imagined having. Thank you to my teachers for your dedication and kindness. And a special thank you to all I have interacted with over my four years here who have shown compassion and openness. It has been an honor and a privilege to be a part of your stories, and you've certainly changed mine. I don't deserve it. Nikola Barkwell I could feel every beat of my heart as I stood outside that door. My anxiety pumped through my brain "You won't play," "You're not good enough," "Why do you even try." I inched one step closer to knocking, but my mind kept racing. My breath quickened as my hands began to shake. I stood unable to knock until my coaches emerged and invited me in to the office. For those of you that don't know, last year I tried out for the boys' hockey team at spa. I played for the girl's team in ninth grade and it was great, but after the co-op with Vis was dissolved I played a year of club hockey with my U15A team at Saint Paul-Roseville. Then with guidance from my coaches and the fact that I had played boys hockey when I was younger, I decided to try out for the boys hockey team. Toward the end of my first year on the team I asked my coaches how to improve toward my goal of making the varsity team. I don't remember many minor details from the meeting. However, I remember when my coaches told me I had the skill, the speed, and the work ethic, but I needed to hit the weight room and get stronger. I left that office virtually in tears and with many of my fingers bleeding as I picked them to pieces while my anxiety flared. I thought I had proven myself with my stats and hard work all season long, which my coaches had noticed, and yet the simple fact that I am a girl who doesn't look the same as the boys disqualified me from an equal chance. Another jv goalie got a chance to play varsity just a week after my coaches had that conversation with me. Following my coach's advice, I started working out a few days a week. When I didn't see as much progress as I wanted, I started working out obssesively on top of my already strenuous sports. I pushed myself further to reach the body I thought my coach wanted but I became obsessed with trying to look a way that was not sustainable. I pushed myself past my limits in search of a body that did not exist, but slowly I regained control and refocused on my goals. Then, a few weeks before tryouts this year my coaches requested a meeting with me, to talk to me about my progress and spot on the team. Once again they told me I would play junior varsity and practice varsity even though they saw how much better I had gotten and how hard I had worked. I knew that I would not change my coach's mind at that point as tryouts hadn't even happened and he made his choice, but ultimately I chose to stay on the boys' team because I couldn't quit and give him what he wanted. I refocused on having a better relationship with the way I see myself and my body, but some days, I still don't like my female body for not living up to its male counterpart or the other images I see of girls on social media. Unfortunately, that was not the only thing I obsessed over. After every game, I hyper analyzed every mistake. Every goal scored on me felt like I was a problem but it was not just because I wanted to perform at my best it was because every time I get scored on I felt like I was proving everyone right. This is what my teammates and coaches never really understood. When they lose it sucks but when I lose or get scored on I am proving every person right who looked down on me when I walked in the arena or brushed me off as not good enough simply because I'm a girl and trust me when I did make a mistake I heard about it. A passing "Oh look it's that girl that fricking flopped" to things I could never repeat on this stage. Opposing teams often even took it a step further. I only had about 2 games this year out of about ten where I wasn't physically hit by the other team. In the first game I played in this year an opposing team took their stick and slashed my neck so hard it left a mark for days and I fell to the ground with the wind knocked out of me, but we didn't have a backup goalie so after being checked out by the athletic trainer I went back in, in another I was hit three times and the refs never called a penalty, the first time my helmet came up and off my head and the refs waited twenty seconds to stop the play but no penalty, the second time a guy just hit me again no penalty, the last time the same guy skated at me full speed and blew me up. He hit me so hard that I got the wind knocked out of me, I hit my head on the ice, bruised my shoulder through my gear, and had to be evaluated by the trainer but I didn't want to let them win so I lied and I kept playing. When we got back to the locker room between periods I tried to stand up but I got dizzy and my vision was blurry. This was the only game I never finished. But would you guess that the same team didn't hit my goalie partner once in the period he played? My coaches reassured me that the other team only hit me because I was too good for a girl and they thought the only way to win was to physically hit me out of the game. Keep in mind the first time they hit me I had not let in a goal, but by the third time, I was in pain and it was 3-0 so they were hitting me for fun at that point. While the hits hurt one of the things that stuck with me the most was not what happened with the other team, but rather my own. I know it sounds silly but the loneliness of being a girl on the guys team was debilitating. I loved watching my team win and I went to every single varsity game whether I sat on the bench or in the stands except for two over the years I played on the team. It was amazing to see how excited they were, but after the excitement of the coaches coming into the locker room and giving their talk, it would be my time to leave. So I would walk back to my locker room to sit by myself and listen to them scream and blast music while I got to think about the fact that I will never know what it felt like to win a varsity game and be that a part of things. Granted I did end up playing about six minutes at the end of a game once but trust me that doesn't count. I never started, never heard my name on the speaks, never got ot skate up to that line and just stare at the other team like yeah you are about to lose to a girl, and never got to really celebrate with my team. I was just the girl hiding in the background wanting to be included but being too scared to actually go for what I wanted. While I could talk forever about the bad things that happened that's not the whole story. Hockey is one of my favorite sports and being on the ice every day watching my team and myself get better, winning games, and just having fun was amazing. One particular game was the game we played against Tartan. This game was particularly important because one of the JV coaches and one of the varsity coaches had played at Tartan. When I got scored on to tie up the game near the end the player who scored started screaming at me yelling slurs and more. He got a penalty and I pushed through my shaking to kill the penalty and keep us in the game. However, when he got out of the box he started threatening me that he was going to sexually assault me after the game over and over. I flagged my coaches a couple of times to show I needed help and soon after a time-out was called. I didn't even have to really explain anything my coach just came over and talked to me about how they were intimidated by me and that I was an amazing goalie who was the reason we were even in that game and that the way I win is not letting it phase me because that's all they wanted. He taught me how to touch my heart and reset with some deep breaths and I went back into that game fired up as did my team. I remember how loud my coaches cheered for me each time I made a save. Through all of my games this year they cheered me on and believed in me even when I didn't. When we won that game I had over 50 saves and when I walked into that locker room with everyone screaming it didn't matter what had happened because my team was there for me and I proved the other team wrong. That ice was my favorite place and through it all my team was there to support me and help build back the confidence I had lost. The rink was my home more than anywhere else and even though I didn't know all of the guys super well they got me through some of the hardest times I've ever gone through and made them some of the happiest time I've ever had. I know not many of you can probably relate to this exact situation but I know there are female athletes who have been mistreated by coaches or players and there are people who have been judged based on who they are or what they look like. This is my advice. First of all never ever give up on yourself. There are always going to be people who try to bring you down even if you don't deserve it. Don't be one of them. Fight for your chance. I let my anxiety hold me back from pushing for what I deserved and trust me that regret and guilt are so much worse than pushing through and just asking for what you deserve. I missed out on so much both on the ice and with the guys and I would do anything to get that time back and get to be more a part of everything. You never know what chance you could open up just by showing how much you want it and have worked for it. Secondly, it blows my mind how little encouragement people actually need to be happy and how void many of us are of even the tiniest amounts of it in our lives. Yes, I remember a lot of the bad things but mostly I remember my jv coaches supporting me each year, I remember the boys who saw me struggling and asked me over and over again if I was ok until I was ready to tell them. I remember the boys who gave me hugs when I couldn't express what was wrong or put their hand on my back and breathed with me so I didn't feel so alone when I had a panic attack, and I remember the guys who went out of their way to make sure they told me I was appreciated and that they saw how I led and supported my teammates in my own way. You may not remember the small moments but those who you helped probably will so show the people around you that you see them and all they do. You can create hope in someone's thoughts with little things and I promise it will make a difference. Be the reason that somewhere there is a person who has a story about how they wouldn't be where they are today if it wasn't for you and some small little way you showed them they matter. Leona Barocas Pick up one ball. If I asked you to pick the thing that matters most to you, what would it be? Pick up second ball. How about if I asked you to pick a second thing? Pick up third ball. What about a third thing? Juggle 3 balls. In preparation for my speech, I've been reflecting on those questions and I've come up with my three most important things. Set two balls down. The first thing that came to mind was relationships. The most important relationships in my life are those with my family. Each member of my family does a different thing to bring fulfillment and joy to my life. My dad plays board games with me and talks about sports. My brother sends me memes and always makes me laugh. I travel with my mom and we bond over Rock Band and bad tv shows. As important as all these relationships are to me, they're all different. Each brings a different thing to me. One ball tricks: under the leg (Dad), catch on back of hand (Rafi), under-the-arm (and mom). And of course, my grandparents, extended family, and friends have impacted me too. "Relationships" is my first ball. Pass one ball back and forth. Pick up the second ball. The second important aspect of my life is the pursuit of knowledge and learning. My pursuit of knowledge has been fostered through my time at SPA. And even though I'm in my last semester here, I will continue to learn after I leave. I will learn in college and pursue research beyond that. Pursuit of knowledge and learning is my second ball. Cycle two balls. My relationships also influence my pursuit of knowledge. My parents encourage me to reach in my academics and engage in intellectual discussions with me and my brother. They've helped me with my homework and connected me to people in the subjects I want to study. My friends study with me and make school more enjoyable. Relationships and learning go hand-in-hand. Two ball tricks: two in one hand, one hand columns. Pick up the third ball. The third ball for me is juggling and performance -- I hope this doesn't come as a surprise given that I'm juggling for my speech. Juggling and performance had and will continue to have, a larger impact on my life than I ever could have imagined. My first circus performance was thirteen years ago; the last week of April, when I was in kindergarten. Even with the pandemic pausing performances for a year, I have done over 100 shows during my time with Circus Juventas. Through specific acts and my abilities changing, performance has always been a constant in my life. Performance and juggling are such big parts of my life that as I looked at colleges, I considered whether or not I would be able to continue my passions at the institute I attended. My best friends are the people I have trained with over the last several years. I have teammates whom I have performed with from first grade; we've grown up together. There is no version of my life that would be complete without juggling and circus performances. Juggling and performance is my third ball. Juggle three balls. Together, relationships, pursuit of knowledge, and performance make up the core of who I am. As I move into different stages of my life, these are things that I want to keep with me. They form a foundation that I can always return to and build off of. Three ball tricks. At different times, some parts of my foundation may take the priority over others; Columns ending with a high throw. So, those are my three balls. And while we may have some overlap, I'm fairly certain that none of you have juggling as one of your three. But what if you have more than three? Maybe you have four, or even five. As I was reflecting for this speech, there were two more things that came to mind. They may not be part of my core or things I will fall back to, but they still matter to me. Pick up balls four and five. One of these extra things is yearbook and self-expression. I have been on staff for all four years of high school and spent a year on staff in middle school. Through my time on staff, I have learned so much about interacting with others and I've met people from all over the state and country. My communication skills and organization have improved and I've gotten to connect with classmates I wouldn't otherwise know. The other thing that's really important is my job at Caribou. Interacting with customers has made me more confident in my social skills and introduced me to people from many different backgrounds. Through work, I've found that small things, like remembering someone's order, can go a long way in brightening their day. While my job is currently at Caribou, I expect that some sort of job will always be a fifth ball in my life. Juggle 5 balls. These are the things that are really important to me right now. Of course, I can pick up a sixth ball and come up with another thing that matters to me, but as I add more, my passion lessens, and my abilities get shaky. Juggle six balls. As I said things get shaky. So when things get rough, and I'm not able to maintain them as long, I take comfort in my foundation: relationships, learning, and juggling. Juggle three balls. Thank you. Barshack 1 Mikey Barshack 20 January 2023 Senior Speech For better or for worse, I've been at the prestigious school of SPA since kindergarten. I'm extremely grateful for my education and the friendships I've made along the way, however thirteen years of the same old faces (no offense) at the same old school is a really long time. As I prepare to go to college next year, I'm excited to finally go somewhere new and different. Of course, SPA will always hold a special place in my heart, especially thinking about my time at the lower school. Life seemed so good then. School was easy and fun. I had few worries, and the ones that I did have, held little to no bearing. Looking back, I don't actually have that many specific memories of that time. Except of course when those two kids got stuck in a baby swing. However, I have a general sense of how things were, and remember it being good. Now don't get me wrong, I know it wasn't perfect. Believe it or not, back then I wasn't the put together young man you see before yourselves today. You could say I was a little rough around the edges, still trying to discover who I was and where I belonged. For example, almost everyday in kindergarten after lunch, I'd step into the homeroom, pause for a second, and proceed to throw up said lunch everywhere. The funny thing is, I don't actually remember this, but a lot of other people do. Apparently this reputation has followed me all the way up to highschool, which I blame for why I can't get a girlfriend, and also why it sucks going to the same school for thirteen years. Now it's probably good that I blocked out this memory, as I'm sure it was very traumatic for both me and my classmates, but I feel like there are a lot of other memories, many of them good, that I've forgotten as well. It's not like I forgot my childhood entirely, I remember the general vibe, and even my sense of identity at the time, but it worries me how many specific Barshack 2 memories I might've lost. At first, I thought there might be something wrong with me, and took to the internet to diagnose myself. But after crying to my mom and coming out to her as having dementia, she explained that memory loss of your childhood is normal. I suppose it makes sense, that our brains can't remember everything, I mean the more we learn, the more we're bound to forget. Our brains are only so strong and have their limitations. Yet at the same time, our brains are so powerful that they must limit themselves. About a week ago, I was sitting in class, not paying attention to the teacher, when I suddenly had an epiphany: "I have free will, I can do whatever I want." At that moment, I realized if I wanted to, I could flip over my desk, or start screaming, or even body slam the teacher. Now, I know that's probably not what you teachers want to hear your students are thinking about during class, but I'd like to make it very clear that I never actually had the intention of doing any of these things, nor ever would I. It was more the idea that if I wanted to, which I didn't, I could. We have the power to do virtually anything. Our only limitations are our brains and physical laws such as gravity. Sure you can't fly, but there's nothing stopping you from jumping off a building and trying. I'm not recommending this of course, but I don't need to say that, as all of your brains have already told you that's a bad idea. Just because you can do it, doesn't mean you should, and doesn't mean there aren't any consequences. But that doesn't mean you technically can't do them. If I wanted to, right now I could simply stop talking and walk off the stage. Now, I'm not gonna do that, but I have the power to if I wanted. I know these have been some pretty dumb examples, and it's good that our brains stop us from making poor decisions. This way of thinking though, I believe can be applied to more serious matters. If you set your mind to something, you can do it. The only thing stopping you is yourself. Barshack 3 For the majority of my high school career, I have not been an academic weapon. I've always been a procrastinator, and there have even been a couple of times where I never completed my homework at all. I relied on motivation to get stuff done, and sometimes that motivation never came. Sometime this year though, something clicked in my head. I was going to college next year, and needed to get this whole school situation locked down, and fast. It wasn't easy, but I was disciplined. I started doing my homework during free periods and as soon as I got home. We often don't realize it, but almost everything we do is a product of habit. The reason I wasn't on top of my schoolwork, is because I wasn't on top of my schoolwork the day before. It's not easy to break a bad habit, but each time you do it becomes slightly easier, until you've finally replaced it with a good one. I've found that the homework's really not that bad most of the time, and the hype up to actually starting it is a lot more challenging than actually getting it done. Over the past year, I've tried really hard to better myself. By creating a daily habit of eating healthy, working out, doing my homework, and going to bed early, I've found that we all have the power to better ourselves. It can be challenging, but if you're disciplined, slowly but surely you'll reach your goals. The only thing stopping you is yourself. One day, if I work hard enough, I'll even be able to lose the reputation of just being the kindergartener that threw up. Henry Batson When I was younger I always wanted to be a magician - you know, one of those lads that wanders into unknowing people's backyards to pull that cliche overstuffed bunny out of an understuffed hat. I flaunted my professional grade card tricks and disappearing coin acts around the house, deceiving my family for years into thinking I had magical powers. I carefully read entire instruction manuals from magic sets, while meticulously practicing these tricks just the way that they told me to. But what if there were no instruction manuals? What if those pages didn't tell me how to find the secret flap where the bunny hides? Without the instruction manual of course I would be lost. Last summer, I found myself actually lost when I was backpacking with a group in Colorado. It was around 3 in the morning when I ventured outside of the tent to go use nature's portapotty. I grabbed my headlamp and a puff jacket before I exited the warmth of the tent. There was a tiny bit of light peeking over the distant mountains as the cold thin air nipped away at my skin. I stumbled out of our small homey clearing and into the dense forest, looking like a dazed pineapple. I soon found myself consumed by the trees around me. Tree after tree walked by me, laughing at me as I passed, for only they knew that I was soon to be lost in their spiky leaves. It wasn't long till the trees woke me up to the truth. A giant tree stood in front of me, impeding my path, towering over with its menacing wrath. I stopped, looking up at its strong loyal branches. I was lost. I suddenly felt an urge to run, assuming that

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