Today, congratulations are not exactly in order. We, the Class of Some Time Ago, are not wearing mortarboards. Our sheepskins have been expensively framed and rest in storage. Yet we slouch at our desks with headphones and a salad, watching commencement speeches from colleges with which we have no affiliation, momentarily forgetting that we root viciously against some of these institutions in sport. Why do we do this?
The reason is simple and sad: we are starved for inspiration. We need encouragement way more than this year’s graduating class. Out there in the real world, bolstering the economy with our sensible haircuts and sweet talk, we have become uncomfortably familiar with our own capabilities. The round hole of our dreams has met with the square peg of our minds. We have come to understand that Bob Marley was wrong: when one door closed, another did not open. Not even a window.
So there we slouch, watching this smart, funny, successful speaker, realizing that we have a nice life, and yet we could dream bigger, be kinder, sign up for that pottery class, volunteer for things and never, ever add Craisins to our salads. But we don’t possess the energy of the young people in the audience, nor the celebrity of the individual at the podium, and we can’t sign up for that pottery class because we’ve forgotten our PayPal password and the answers to the security questions.
We’re complex and mature, and platitudes don’t work. At this point in the speech, we’ve become more than slouched: we’re slumped, minimizing the window because our boss is around, and we really should get some work done.
That we remain jonesing for hope doesn’t mean that we haven’t grown. After college, we learned new vocabulary words, such as amortization, analgesic, and annulment. And that’s just the tip of the “A”s. Not only have we embraced failure but we’ve failed at embracing failure. Failure left us hanging. Success, in its rare appearances, showed up wearing strange clothes. We’ve changed the world so much, it will take two generations to undo all the cool things we’ve done.
Yes, the Class of Don’t Ask How Long has acquired deep pockets of wisdom. Like the fact that custom picture frames, while insanely expensive, can be considered a “home investment,” whereas storage units are a total scam. We've confronted practical questions that no one mentioned in child psych, such as, Why is my kid collapsing in a tantrum on our concrete patio at his own birthday party and, now that I think of it, many times this past month? The stuff of quantum relationship mechanics, such as what to do after your spouse says, “The more you talk, the guiltier you seem.”
I was invited to speak today not because I’m a B-list comedian from that-show-you-hear-is-good-but-haven’t-had-time-to-watch. I stand before you because I once viewed twenty-seven commencement speeches and read five more before lunch, in the midst of facing an important work deadline. I started imagining that I was up here on the podium, receiving an honorary doctorate in affirmations. My boss found me in a conference room, collapsed over an elaborate vision board. I nearly asphyxiated on the glitter. I had tried following all of my dreams at the exact same time. My brain, the triage nurse said, had been over-exhorted.
The lesson was powerful: I could either continue inhaling commencement speeches like Pirate’s Booty or stop pretending that I was young and idealistic, and that I still had a chance to leave a lasting mark on the world.
In short, I stopped giving a shit. After I did this, my life improved. So I share this advice with you: stop giving a shit. Stop giving a shit. Stop giving a shit! Now, whenever May and June roll around, and one or two commencement speeches go viral, I permit myself to read the comments. People sum things up down there anyway. I gather a few nuggets of wisdom and then get back to work.
Never forget, Class of Pre-Napster, you have commenced. While time is not on our side, some of us have money and power. So do the things that make new graduates jealous: see the non-hostel side of Europe, adorn your walls with lavish custom frames and, last, don’t hire any graduates. That way, they’ll begin to understand that failure isn’t something you embrace; failure sucker punches you like a playground bully. Failure parties in your storage unit, burning money.
If this is the final commencement speech that you sit through, I will have done my job. However, if this speech becomes a giftable book, please consider buying it for someone who looks starved for inspiration. Someone who used to look much like myself. Thank you, all.
Photograph by Eric Feferberg/AFP/Getty.