To my vexation and fury, I was forced by my class standing into the position of delivering a speech at my graduation ceremony, concluding my senior year of high school. My bête-noir with the honor did not arise out of a fear of public speaking, for I had competed in philosophy debate my entire high school career; simply, I possessed no positive words for the evil institution that held me captive and subjected me to IQ-sucking dealings, if it may be privileged with such a description. Ideally I would have been allowed to terminate my association with the school and town entirely at the first possible moment; however, because of various pressures my engagement with a microphone and the devil himself could not be avoided. Though I truly would have preferred to abstain from the entire graduation ceremony proceedings, I regret not delivering a speech of truth to the thousands of eyes whose audience I maintained for a precious indefinite interval of time, for I could have revealed to the naive the corrupt and inhibiting environment of which they refer to as a legitimate educational system. Instead I, as a coward, ironically yet hollowly relayed The Art of War, Sun Tzu’s message of victory and principle, for a mere three and a half minutes.
Truly I have never held positive feelings toward any manner of ceremony; in fact, I abhor rituals of all nature. Ceremonies have no purpose. Traditions have little value. Weddings, graduations, even birthdays for that matter seem meaningless; everyone has a birthday. High school graduation most definitely falls into this category of pesky rituals, and the loathing of graduation multiplied when I realized that I would have to actively participate in the whole charade. Unfortunately, I had the brilliant epiphany, that class ranking and a graduation speech are inseparable, a little too late. One must go with the other, and this realization did not fully enter my thick head until about three months prior to my speech date. The two-by-four of knowledge, finally pounded into my brain, left my stomach in a state of turmoil and revolt.
I, like everyone else, would be required to gratefully accept the rolled paper from the school principal and then shake his hand. This presented two problems. First, I shuddered at the thought of shaking the hand of any person related to the evil institution responsible for my alleged high school education. Second, I loathed the institution and all of its constituents; gratefulness would not be an emotion I could muster, nor would I want to. Shaking hands with the devil, smiling, and delivering a speech would associate myself with the pseudo-school. My achievements, the feats that I accomplished for my own image, would be twisted and stolen, used to improve the reputation of the institution. The school has no authority to take credit for my triumphs; I succeeded despite the institution.
Most specific to my dread and loathing was the speech itself. All graduation speeches are corny and excruciatingly long. It is inevitable. I was not very enthusiastic about standing in front of thousands, resembling an idiot, an asinine fool with nothing meaningful or original to say. I could form no positive words, not even “finally we can get the hell out of here” because we could not. We, the ensnared students, still had two more hours of torture to endure. So I decided on Sun Tzu’s The Art of War—simple, dignified, and short. Treat the future as a battle, conquer the enemy, and stand victoriously.
I should have told the truth. I had the attention of thousands of people, but I wasted the moment. I should have opened the mass’s eyes to the greater corruption and inanity of the school system. I should have enlightened them to the political aspects of the top ten percent and entire workings of the school system. The corrupt administrators, the unqualified teachers, the favors, the lies, the bribes. This was the message: determination, effort, and intelligence are worthless. The school censored students’ opinions, rights, and freedom of thought. Originality and autonomy were banished officially from the evil institution; one had to check his or her selfhood at the door of the school building.
Truly I cannot form a proper description of the hell hole that I attended for too many disastrous years; however, this does not excuse my lack of truth. My greed and selfishness, my cowardice caused the simple words of truth to evade my oration. I spoke only hollow, meaningless words. I was afraid of jeopardizing my class ranking, diploma, recommendation letters, and transcripts. I feared rocking the boat.
I feared ostracism. Even though I loathed the institution and its people, they still held influence over me. I resented their influence. I secretly ridiculed my peers for their worldly ignorance, yet I yearned to not disappoint. They expected a rebellious speech. Those hundreds of eyes times two all insisted as a simultaneous mass the words of a true anarchist. I am an anarchist at heart, but my mouth trembles. I feared the disgust of the townspeople, as I publicly revealed their true hypocritical nature.
Less important, but sill in the forethought of my mind, lies the fact that no one likes a whiner. I could not stand on a stage and gripe about the shortcomings of an educational system without sounding like a spoiled brat. My intentions of revolt and truth did not include the motives of self-pity or revenge; I only wanted to save the future students from the hell that I endured. I wanted the town to actually learn a modicum of knowledge for a change. Ignorance is never socially becoming, and the town is full of it to this day. However, no matter my intentions, my words would only be interpreted as the tantrums of a bitter, cynical girl.
As for the social consequences of a truthful speech, the one that I did not perform, perhaps the truly innocent people remained ignorant and naive because of my lies. Perhaps they would have welcomed honesty. To these people I am truly sorry; my stomach twisted as the lies poured from my mouth. I did not want to compromise their education; I just did not want to sacrifice mine. I knew the institution would not change without confrontation. Should I maintain the status quo for the sake of peace or do I challenge the man for the enlightenment of others? That was my responsibility, and I failed. Hundreds of fresh minds rested on my shoulders, and I let them fall to the floor. I ducked my head, put my tail between my legs, copped the plea of “in the name of copasetic tranquility”, and sold my soul as an accomplice of the institution by my silence.
