Commencement Address 2022
Graduation 2022
Commencement Address – The Accents of Sincerity
Welcome parents and students, faculty and staff, neighbors, and all others who are joining us tonight to celebrate the achievements of these students.
The word ‘commencement’ means to begin. A graduation ceremony, however, also represents a culmination and conclusion of formative events and experiences—from learning to read, to climbing mountains, solving equations, and comprehending the magnitude of discoveries. Yet, the most astonishing discovery in this journey has been you.
As parents, and if I may be a bit presumptuous, as teachers, we understand your uniqueness. As Alain de Botton has written of parenthood, “Most of our lives are spent in situations of numbing sterility. There is usually no option but to conform and obey impersonal rules. In our work, we don’t generally create anything of particular wonder or interest. We don’t know how to paint or to play Chopin’s Scherzo No. 2 in B flat minor. We can’t personally manufacture an iPhone; we don’t know how to extract oil from the ground.” Our lives come to resemble, in their bleaker moments, a mundane treadmill of obligations and requirements, and in our sourest moments, Thoreau’s words chafe. He wrote, “The mass of men lead lives of quiet desperation. What is called resignation is confirmed desperation…A stereotyped but unconscious despair is concealed even under what are called the games and amusements of mankind. There is no play in them, for this comes after work.” For most, we become what we act at: a “radical editing of our true selves,” and it “is the price we must pay for conviviality.” But, with parenthood, there is at least one irrefutable redemption: we have a purpose. “In our roles as parents, we will be terrified, exhausted, resentful, enchanted, but forever spared the slightest doubt as to our significance or our role on the earth.”
In this transition from dependence to independence, we cannot be blamed for fretting over the sort of world our children and students will inherit. We are not blind to the incursions on freedom of thought, speech, and conscience, of declining civility or rising violence, whether against individuals, history, ideas, or entire peoples. The state of literacy, the falling numbers of readers, the attention spans attenuated by social media, or the wounds our technologies have inflicted on our sense of community, and the need to be anything other than slow, deliberate, and intentional does not seem to have devised a world eager for the sorts of skills that have been acquired here or to have produced the kinds of community these students have been taught to crave.
One of the most concerning reports from previous graduates has been the dearth of these communities—not for want of ideological sameness or like-mindedness, but for the want of conversation and contemplation. It is harder to locate than one might suppose.
A recent graduate compared two stories to make this point. The first was Aldous Huxley’s Brave New World. In this novel, John the Savage is one of the only characters who is not the product of genetic and educative manipulation to include hypnopædia, essentially the subconscious learning of attitudes and opinions without an awareness of their development or rationale. As the novel builds to its climax, John engages in a fevered argument with the Controller, Mustapha Mond.
In response to Mond stating that, “We prefer to do things comfortably,” John replies, “But I don’t want comfort. I want God, I want poetry, I want real danger, I want freedom, I want goodness. I want sin.” Mond replies, “In fact…you’re claiming the right to be unhappy.” “All right then,” said the Savage defiantly, “I’m claiming the right to be unhappy.” “Not to mention the right to grow old and ugly and impotent; the right to have syphilis and cancer; the right to have too little to eat; the right to be lousy; the right to live in constant apprehension of what may happen tomorrow; the right to catch typhoid; the right to be tormented by unspeakable pains of every kind.” There was a long silence. “I claim them all,” said the Savage at last.”
At the end of the novel, John commits suicide. There is no place in this ‘brave new world’ for a man such as him.
In a separate story by Henry James entitled Brooksmith, the titular character is a butler of sorts to a wealthy man named Oliver Offord. Mr. Offord organizes salons to discuss books and ideas, and his butler, Brooksmith, is always helping to organize these things and to be present in the margins taking in the conversations. When Mr. Offord dies, Brooksmith seeks other work, but none of it sustains him in the way his work for Mr. Offord did. When a former member of Mr. Offord’s salon attempts to convey his condolences to Brooksmith, the butler responds with this short monologue:
“Oh, sir, it’s sad for you, very sad indeed, and for a great many gentlemen and ladies; that it is, sir. But for me, sir, it is, if I may say so, still graver even than that: it’s just the loss of something that was everything. For me, sir,” he went on with rising tears, “he was just all, if you know what I mean, sir. You have others, sir, I dare say—not that I would have you understand me to speak of them as in any way tantamount. But you have the pleasures of society, sir; if it’s only in talking about him, sir, as I dare say you do freely—for all his blest memory has to fear from it—with gentlemen and ladies who have had the same honour. That’s not for me, sir, and I’ve to keep my associations to myself. Mr. Offord was my society, and now, you see, I just haven’t any. You go back to conversation, sir, after all, and I go back to my place,” Brooksmith stammered, without exaggerated irony or dramatic bitterness, but with a flat unstudied veracity and his hand on the knob of the street-door. He turned it to let me out and then he added, “I just go downstairs, sir, again, and I stay there.”
In the end, like John the Savage, Brooksmith also commits suicide. Given his education, but more importantly, his social and class situation, there is no satisfying place for him in the world.
Many years ago, another graduate reported back after less than a year at college that, “We had prepared her for a world that did not exist.” She, like John and Brooksmith, could not find the sort of community she had known here, and from this there issued a severe melancholy.
This is a part of this transition from dependence to independence—moving from a community built for you to one you must build and sustain for yourself. Please do not think these former graduates weak or overly sensitive: the gregariousness described by Aristotle shows a genuine need for comradery, friendship, and association. The older you grow, the more difficult it is to attain. Your concerns grow more vocational, more commercial, more transactional, but I think that one of the silver linings of this pandemic has been to show us the indispensability of community, and to make us more appreciative of good friends and the pleasures of conversation.
If it seems as though I am belaboring this point, perhaps it is because I am bit sentimental about this profession and the kind of life collegiality and study have provided me. André Maurois, a French author, wrote an autobiography entitled Call No Man Happy. The title is a play on Solon’s advice recounted by Aristotle: “Count no man happy till he is dead.”
In the opening chapter, Maurois describes his time teaching at an American university on the Pacific coast. He speaks of the landscape, the foliage, the scent in the air, and how different it all is from his home in France. But, what he captures most poignantly is his delight in the conversations he has with the men and women enraptured by their work, their music, and he writes of one younger colleague, “It would not surprise me if she had genius; but I am a professor who is passionately in love with his calling and is always tempted to believe he has discovered a masterpiece the instant he recognizes the accents of sincerity.”
At times, I have thought of each of these students with a sentiment similar to Maurois’, and in those moments, hope wins the day. I think there is not only good cause for it, but a warning against the notion that it must all be perfect in order to be good enough. The quality and capability of these young people that we are turning loose suffices.
When I think of the perfect, I often reflect on the rock gardens of the Zen Buddhists in Kyoto. The practice of raking gravel within these monasteries “enshrines the Zen Buddhist idea that we can aim to make things perfect within a bounded space (a garden, a book, a home), but should gracefully accept the permanently chaotic nature of the wider world. Seeing a gravel garden can feel poignant because we recognize both the disciplined willpower that went into its creation, and sense the garden’s fragility and impermanence, one sharp gust of wind away from being returned to chaos.” So, I also reflect on Immanuel Kant’s line, “Aus so krummen Holze, als woraus der Mensch gemacht ist, kann nichts ganz Gerades gezimmert werden.” “Out of the crooked timber of humanity, no straight thing was ever made.” “An acceptance of our crooked nature is not dispiriting; it is the birth of generosity and dark good humor. And, Kant added, crooked beams can make for beautiful floors in the hands of a talented carpenter.”
To return for a moment, to my opening remark, we are unique—we needn’t be perfect. We are individuals, but we need one another. We are independent, but we need a purpose. What more then, can I offer these fine young people, whom I have admired and sometimes even envied that I have not already tried to give them?
The answer must be a summary and a review of everything I have attempted to make Ridgeview stand for and do, whether directly in a class or in a personal conversation, or indirectly through the curriculum, the faculty I have the good fortune to employ, or the staff who too often go unthanked.
Seniors have periodically asked me what my own senior thesis would consist of, and several months ago, Dr. McMahon sent me an e-mail in which was contained a short passage from St. Augustine. The passage struck me as an apt description of how I should try to weather the frustrations and disappointments that invariably come from teaching, and so I printed the quotation as a poster, framed it, and hung it near my desk in my classroom as a reminder of my own purpose. It reads,
The turbulent have to be corrected,
The faint-hearted cheered up,
The weak supported;
The Gospel’s opponents need to be refuted,
Its insidious enemies guarded against;
The unlearned need to be taught,
The indolent stirred up,
The argumentative checked;
The proud must be put in their place,
The desperate set on their feet,
Those engaged in quarrels reconciled;
The needy have to be helped,
The oppressed to be liberated,
The good to be encouraged,
The bad to be tolerated;
All must be loved.
I know, of course, that Augustine was describing the work of a first-century bishop, so what was there for a headmaster or a teacher to find sympathy with in this?
Similar to Augustine’s project, one must be all in for teaching. In chasing a genuine purpose, you must be willing to be hurt. Where there are no lows, there are no highs. I tell you this not because I hope you will become bishops or headmasters or teachers, and in fact, I do not care so much what you do so long as you are good and can find your way to happiness. My intention in relating this is to explain that it took me longer to understand my purpose than to find it. I do not believe that I am extraordinary in this sense: I suspect you all know that part of your purpose is to find your purpose, to realize your great potential, but I hope you might also consider the nobility possible in the life you live and the in the work you do, and that the world and the people you encounter will be altered not only by your existence, but by the disposition that you bring to each encounter.
What comes next is about how you meet the world, and hopefully, how you meet yourself with forgiveness, humility, and patience.
Corripiendi sunt inquieti — The turbulent have to be corrected
The brooding and the intolerant, with their pedantic, usually polemical, opinions. Why are they all assertion and no submission? Why are they all argument without substantiation? The turbulent are intemperate, sometimes incontinent—emotionally or intellectually. In heated moments, we are all. Correction requires compassion, a quick wit, and a light hand.
Pussillanimes consolandi — The faint-hearted cheered up
Every day may be a blessing without it feeling as such. We are all irascible, inconstant, prone to vacillation and melancholic despair. Good counsel, friendship, and a regard for others is priceless.
Infirmi suscipiendi — The weak supported
Each of us is weak in some way. No person comes complete, nor are they ever completed. Learning requires us to expose weaknesses; teaching to support them.
Contradicentes redarguendi – The Gospel’s opponents need to be refuted
I am not a bishop, my purpose is educative rather than religious, but I believe there are first principles to teaching that cannot be maligned without maligning the project. Scholarly detachment, an interest in truth, a willingness to entertain the uncomfortable, and to be patient with the ignorant. Those who would use the classroom as a pulpit for an agenda other than truth or virtue must be refuted.
Insidiantes cavendi – Its insidious enemies guarded against
The politicians, the bureaucrats, and those with an overt agenda, need to be kept far from the classroom. Students may say what they like and should be expected to defend it as best they can, but teachers must exhibit a detached restraint.
Imperiti docendi – The unlearned need to be taught
We are all unlearned in some respect. Whether we are learning to read, tie a knot, solve a mathematical problem, or struggling with philosophy, the teacher’s purpose is to remove ignorance if he can.
Desidiosi excitandi – The indolent stirred up
Life is exhausting, indolence inevitable. The great teacher revives flagging interest and rejuvenates.
Contentiosi cohibendi – The argumentative checked
Argument with substantiation is welcome; argument from malice is not. The philosopher is welcome; the sophist discouraged.
Superbientes reprimendi – The proud must be put in their place
There is a place for rightful pride, and there is a time for calling out pridefulness.
Desperantes erigendi – The desperate set on their feet
Teaching should call on our intellect as much as on our compassion for the downtrodden, whoever they may be and however they got there.
Litigantes pacandi – Those engaged in quarrels reconciled
The teacher must know his role as a peacemaker and diplomat.
Inopes adiuvandi – The needy have to be helped
People come to us for help, and we must help.
Oppressi liberandi – The oppressed to be liberated
Liberated chiefly from ignorance, through which comes the freedom by education to develop their quiddities and pursue their purposes.
Boni approbandi – The good to be encouraged
Good acts must be commended and held up as exemplars
Mali tolerandi – The bad to be tolerated
Not all will be good; some bad must be endured to teach well.
Omnes amandi – All must be loved.
This is the most important of all. The line my eye gravitates to on that poster more frequently than any other; a self-admonishment that I am called to do good, to be patient, and that the only way I know to do this is to love, on some level, however Platonically, those whom I serve and with whom I serve.
There will be those who tell you that all of this is sentimental flotsam—complete gibberish, and that you should instead focus on yourself, worship Mammon, and accrue wealth, and that through wealth, you will make the world your oyster. It is not just there will be those, there will be a worldwide chorus urging you in this direction. Be wary of what comes easiest, know your ends, and guard your principles. The world is subsumed in comparative lifestyles, and it will deceive, inveigle, and obfuscate to keep you from a higher purpose.
The parting words of an ageing, if not yet agéd, teacher are to be open, to be compassionate, considerate and kind, to listen, to reflect, and live fully and live well. I am, as I noted at the outset, envious of you all. You are at the very beginnings of a grand adventure. Ones so full of uncertainty, promise, and first blushes that nothing is yet settled. Revel in that! I am both sorry and proud to see you go.
Congratulations to the Class of 2022!
D. Anderson
Headmaster
