The Speech
I had to give a speech at my graduation. I was valedictorian, it was a requirement. I had gone to
the graduation the year before and heard what that valedictorian had to say about his classmates.
He obviously liked his, and I hated mine. Getting in front of my classmates and telling the truth
about them, to their assembled parents, would not be a bright idea.
I thought about my classmates and wrote down how they had treated me throughout our
thirteen years together. I recalled how in fourth grade they started calling me fat and ugly. By fifth
grade poor was added to the list. I remembered how I was never invited to the birthday parties and
sleepovers that everyone else went to. In eighth grade I was called dirty because I was a farmer's
daughter and by the ninth grade I was accused of sleeping with the baseball team. Which,
incidentally was also the soccer and basketball teams. Going over how they had treated me was not
giving me any ideas or a pleasing speech about my classmates.
I switched tracks and started to think about how my classmates treated one another, thinking it
would be more productive. I listed how they would have parties at which someone was almost
always drugged to alleviate the boredom of the others. I wrote down how they would steal
everything from one another be it boyfriends, clothes or CDs. I tried to write about my classmates
relationships and stopped at “Brandon raped Casey when he was sixteen and she was fourteen”
because at that point they were engaged and she wore long sleeves to hide the bruises.
I couldn't stand it. I could think of no glimmer, sliver, ounce, pinch or dollop of good in these
people that I had grown up amongst. So, I wrote my speech. It told the truth and included every
foul thing my classmates had ever done to each other and myself. The parents would be unhappy
with being forced to see the truth. The school probably wouldn't be too happy with me either.
Graduation night came. My classmates and I were all lined up in our polyester gowns, caps
firmly in place. We walked down the aisle formed out of folding chairs occupied by proud parents.
A projector ran photos submitted by the parents of us growing up. We all sat and listened to the
speeches from local government officials and the school superintendent's reading of The Places
You May Go, by Dr. Seuss. The salutatorian broke down in tears giving her speech and a few of
my classmates quietly jeered.
Then my turn came. I stood up and futilely attempted to smooth my wrinkled gown. I looked at
the already bored assemblage in the hot gymnasium and noticed them turning off camcorders or
deciding to take a smoke break rather than listen to what I had to say. Approaching the podium I
deliberately tore up my speech in full view of the audience.
“We are the Class of 2000,” I spoke clearly and firmly into the microphone. After a brief pause I
continued, “We are the Class of 2000 and We are the future. Our actions, hopes and dreams will
shape it. We are the Future, and I am not afraid.” The parents stood and clapped. They had heard
what they wanted to in my vague words. I had said what I wanted to say and honestly didn't care
anymore.
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Note, I hate writing, but not nearly as much as my former classmates. As far as I know writing has never beaten anyone and the dirtiest it makes you feel is like you need to wash your hands afterwards and drown your shame in intoxicants.
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