No more mountains — except the ones we choose to climb

Good afternoon class of 2010. Good morning dear parents, dear teachers, dear guests, dear classmates. What a solemn occasion! The ceremony that will commence in an hour, in which we walk from seat to stage center, is at once the shortest and longest journey we have ever taken.

Scratching across hardwood floors, it is physically only a matter of steps, but with each step we walk a one-way path to that uncertain, exciting thing we call the Future. 

What does it mean to graduate? In the march of life, there exists no clear divide between what is past and what lies ahead. Especially with intangible concepts as maturity; as coming of age; as adulthood: there is no sign to mark progress except those that we create ourselves. This gathering today, this graduation, is one such creation, a human artifice built as a monument along the wayside by generations past, for generations future. And we pause here today, to pay homage. 

The stillness that surrounds this room gives us a chance to pause and reflect. Beneath quiet breathing churns a crescendo as we each struggle to imbue this ritual space with meaning. This speech, and the ones that follow, hope to suggest a path. 

I am speaking here today in the capacity of this year’s valedictorian, a strange honor, if you think about it: to reward the labor of much silent, solitary studying with the fruit of public speaking. No matter, I assure that you won’t be disappointed

And it is from this platform of academics, that I begin my speech. For, having kept such a meticulous record of capital letters, I would like to give a message to our graduating class here: 

You won’t find your life in grades. 

Ironic to hear from me, but also fitting: for grades, that ubiquitous measure of ability and intelligence which we students have been so persistently conditioned to pursue, is not actually as vital as we have been made to believe. Literally, grades lack vitality—that is, life. 

Life, as we have experienced it in the latter half of these past 18 years, has essentially followed the same pattern: Wake up, go to school, come home, do homework, sleep. Rinse and repeat. What other interests and passions we might have had to be squeezed in between each step, as the bulk of our energy and time were devoted to the acquisition and maintenance of good academic records for use during application. 

All that changed this year. With the submission of our college applications, we have entered a new stage of our life for both good and bad. Already, most of us have realized this unconsciously: we have all been guilty of that phenomenon known as “senior year second semester” in one form or another. But senioritis is not a disease. Rather, it is much like the exclamation of a prisoner in discovering a sudden open door: the wind of an unchecked, radical freedom buffets his face, and he stands dumbstruck. So it was with us, after January second, when the liberation that accompanied applications made us reluctant to reattach old shackles. 

The picture from hereon will be different. Although colleges still use GPA to measure performance, grades will never again return to the same all-powerful foci that it was during these years. As, of course, it shouldn’t: success in real life is solely dependent upon one’s actual ability. 

But during this transitional period between high school and the real world known as college, there is a struggle ahead for each of us to define our lives’ meaning in the vacuum of freedom. Here I would like to urge you during that time to not hastily surrender choice in favor of an easy definition: whether that be grades or otherwise.

Freedom is the single most powerful attribute that defines and limits us as human beings. Born as vectors, we are free to choose the direction of our lives, and end far from where we begin. Especially us, with our ease to travel and international background: countless worlds await. 

Yet at the same time, keep in mind that we cannot choose to be not free. This is the ever-present limit and burden of choice, that even our decision to surrender passively into the currents of life is still a choice—and we hold the responsibility to answer for it. As P. J O’Rourke once said:  “There is only one basic human right, the right to do as you please. And with it comes the only basic human duty, the duty to take the consequences. ”

And so we come back to graduation. We stand now at the apex of two mountains, one metaphorical, one real—but so tightly conjoined by our ritual of graduation that they exist as one entity. It has been a long climb to reach here, almost 18 years. In a short while, we will fall back down into the diurnal rhythm, but for these precious few moments, take a few breaths. Feel the thinness of the atmosphere that urges you to breathe a little quicker, the lightness of gravity’s pull that barely keeps you in your seats, and a deep, burning desire—the frenzied, jittering disease of youth—to start the journey. 

From here on, there will be no more mountains, other than the ones you choose to climb. No more struggling, uphill battle of will against despair, other than those you begin yourself. For your sake, and for the world’s sake, I hope you will. 

As a last note, I’d like to thank those who made us and our journey here today possible. To our teachers, thank you for a lifetime of guidance, for paving the road with your own footprints for us to follow. To our parents and family, thank you all of the support and encouragement along the way, for catching us when we fall, helping us up when we slip. We couldn’t have done it without any of you. 

To my fellow classmates, enjoy the view. 

I’ll see you on the way down.

Max Song was born in Milwaukee, grew up in North Carolina, attended preschool in Beijing, and spent formative schooling years in Chicago. He went to high schools in Chicago, Beijing and attending SAS for his junior and senior years. He will attend Brown University next fall. He likes long walks along the philosophic beach, with occasional pauses to examine nature’s oddities.