Today marks the completion of my 15th year at Meridian School. What a journey it has been. As I have been reminiscing and pondering what to say today, I remembered my very first clear memory of this school: It was was the day I left my art drawing in my cubby upstairs in the pre-school room. My mom scolded me for my forgetfulness which would cause me to be late to dance class, so I rushed up the stairs as fast as I could to retrieve my precious artwork. As I wheeled around the corner at the top of the stairs, I saw Mrs. Reeder and Miss Gwen standing in front of the oven. I was terrified to receive a second scolding for forgetting my art, and so I hid behind the plants as to not be seen. Mrs. Reeder was holding Miss Gwen's red hair in her left hand while Miss Gwen, who was now bald, was sitting in the chair in front of her. Through the plants, I carefully watched Mrs. Reeder set down the red hair on the counter, rearrange some flowers on a white sun hat, and place the hat on Miss Gwen's head. Puzzled and scared, I decided to leave my artwork there, and crept back down the stairs. I didn't understand: "Mrs. Reeder already had hair. Why was she taking Miss Gwen's pretty red hair? How did her hair come off like that?" Nine months later, I thought back to that moment of Miss Gwen's bald head as she placed my paper-bowl and card-stock graduation cap on my head; it was my pretend hair, just like Miss Gwen's. 4 months later, Miss Gwen passed away from cancer.
I have not shared that story with anybody before. In fact, I had forgotten it until just a few weeks ago as I began drafting this speech. This story, or more importantly, the process by which I remember this event underscores what I would like to focus on today: the importance of our stories.
Storytelling is a crucial component of being human. Humans have a natural ability of verbal communication to teach, explain, share, and recount the details in our lives. According to Reynold Price, author of A Palpable God, “A need to tell and hear stories is essential to the species Homo sapiens—second in necessity apparently after nourishment and before love and shelter. Millions survive without love or home, almost none in silence; the opposite of silence leads quickly to narrative, and the sound of story is the dominant sound of our lives, from the small accounts of our day’s events to the vast incommunicable constructs...”
It is a bold statement to compare stories to the importance of love, or place them high enough on our hierarchy of needs to rival shelter or food: Love comforts, shelter protects, and without food, we would perish. But without our stories, its almost as if we had never lived. For you, Miss Gwen is given life not because you knew her, but because of a small story I just shared with you. For me, this small story is the only thing that gives her permanence.
There are countless ways to experience stories, the most obvious being through reading. Here at Meridian, we spend countless hours pouring through stories. And from those stories, I have been able to see my life juxtaposed and compared to these characters: I know that my father is not an ill nylon salesman like Willy Loman; I understand that I am not a creator of a hideous form of like like Dr. Frankenstein, nor do I believe that Raskoinikov murdered my dear friend. But to know these things is not why I picked up the book. It is said that we read to understand who we are and who we are not. Great stories are there to comfort us, to challenge our emotions, and to help us realize "Oh. I didn't know I believed that."
Luckily, reading is not the only means to experience stories, and the performing arts offers a wide array of storytelling vehicles. In dance, the choreographed routines use emotion and music to bring to life a budding romance, or the loss of a loved one. Artists use color and light to bring forth the pain of heartache or the excitement of springtime. Acting is similar: live theater allows us to explore the life and relationships of another individuals in a more visceral manner for both actor and audience. That is when we truly understand the love of Juliet, the passion of Timoune, or the loyalty of Cordelia.
However, great danger lies in redundant storytelling--the story of Beauty and the Beast has been performed countless times in countless venues. As we approached opening night few weeks ago, I found myself asking why we do this over and over again: the character is the same, the plot doesn't change, and there is nothing different about it. What possible good can come from a bunch of small high school students stuffing their chests with chest hair to tell a story that's been told time and time again? I discovered that the answer is not found in the story itself, as much as in the process of creation. Recreating stories is absolutely paramount, and Leslie Marmon Silko, author of Ceremony, agrees. Her main character, Tayo, must be healed of his mental and cultural illness by a ceremeny. That ceremony was learning to tell and preserve the important stories and traditions of his tribe. “Everywhere he looked, he saw a world made of stories, the long ago, time immemorial stories, as old Grandma called them. It was a world alive, always changing and moving; and if you knew where to look, you could see it, sometimes almost imperceptible, like the motion of the stars across the sky.”
However, great danger lies in redundant storytelling--the story of Beauty and the Beast has been performed countless times in countless venues. As we approached opening night few weeks ago, I found myself asking why we do this over and over again: the character is the same, the plot doesn't change, and there is nothing different about it. What possible good can come from a bunch of small high school students stuffing their chests with chest hair to tell a story that's been told time and time again? I discovered that the answer is not found in the story itself, as much as in the process of creation. Recreating stories is absolutely paramount, and Leslie Marmon Silko, author of Ceremony, agrees. Her main character, Tayo, must be healed of his mental and cultural illness by a ceremeny. That ceremony was learning to tell and preserve the important stories and traditions of his tribe. “Everywhere he looked, he saw a world made of stories, the long ago, time immemorial stories, as old Grandma called them. It was a world alive, always changing and moving; and if you knew where to look, you could see it, sometimes almost imperceptible, like the motion of the stars across the sky.”
At Meridian, we are not only expected to explore stories of the past, but we are expected to create and remember our own. My freshmen year was the first year Meridian had ever considered or taken a team to the prestigious High School Competition at the Utah Shakespeare Festival in Cedar City. Now a national competition with hundreds of competing schools from across the nation, we threw together a 13-person drama team and tried our luck. Little did we know what kind of extravagent living we would be enjoying when we reached our motel in Parowan. "The Ace Motel" offered seven luxurious rooms for our enjoyment, and boy, did we enjoy it. For three nights we lived in rooms with carpet samples stitched together for carpet, bugs and mold everywhere, and shower-heads tall enough for Philip Erickson to clear only when he was kneeling. But when the awards ceremony rolled around, our little team swept the competition with a First place in Ensemble Performance, First place in Monologue, and First Place Sweepstakes. Our theater department has grown to over 60 students, and suddenly, that wretched Ace Motel has more meaning to us than we could have imagined.
As wonderful as the triumphant and earth-shattering moments are, the mundane in our lives can create even sweeter recollections. Every morning at 7:27, Kellie Higgins and I drove through the Provo Center Street and 9th East intersection on our way to seminary. And every morning, without fail, was an older couple walking together and holding hands. Over the last 9 months, Kellie and I have watched the wife in her jogging suit walk her husband to the corner. When they reached the light, they would give each other a long hug, a small kiss on the cheek, and then part ways. He would cross the street, and she would head back to their apartment. At the exact same moment, they would turn to wave goodbye one last time. Kellie and I don't know this couple, nor will we ever, but it is a small story that the two of us share, and won't be forgotten, along with many other mundane moments of my time at Meridian: I will never forget the sweet and simple moment when Liz willed all of her cool clothes to her younger sister at our Senior Roast, the time little Hootie sang in a concert, showing off his beautiful voice and vibrato, or the times our entire AP German class army-crawled passed Mrs. Shumway's room in order to go to Gandolfo's without being caught. Stories as sad as Miss Gwen, as happy as our Shakespearean success, or as mundane as the couple in the morning are what makes us who we are, and who we can become.
Class of 2006, we have finally made it to our graduation, the ceremony that is the capstone of our few years together. But in the end, this ceremony in itself is absolutely meaningless. The meaning comes from thee stories and moments behind the ceremony; the stories that have made our lives and our relationships meaningful and personal; the stories that got us sitting in those chairs. I remember listening to a speech were the speaker felt that at this moment he should urge you to achieve momentous things. He said he wasn't going to do that because it was too easy, too empty. I would like to borrow that idea and suggest that the most important thing for you, for Meridian, and for it's community is to remember our stories. Garrison Keiller said "As long as young people love stories I think there is hope for the world. As long as we love stories and the past, there is hope for the future." For each one of our graduating class and our beloved school, we hope for a great future. May we remember that our future is tied to our past, and to our stories. Thank-you.
As wonderful as the triumphant and earth-shattering moments are, the mundane in our lives can create even sweeter recollections. Every morning at 7:27, Kellie Higgins and I drove through the Provo Center Street and 9th East intersection on our way to seminary. And every morning, without fail, was an older couple walking together and holding hands. Over the last 9 months, Kellie and I have watched the wife in her jogging suit walk her husband to the corner. When they reached the light, they would give each other a long hug, a small kiss on the cheek, and then part ways. He would cross the street, and she would head back to their apartment. At the exact same moment, they would turn to wave goodbye one last time. Kellie and I don't know this couple, nor will we ever, but it is a small story that the two of us share, and won't be forgotten, along with many other mundane moments of my time at Meridian: I will never forget the sweet and simple moment when Liz willed all of her cool clothes to her younger sister at our Senior Roast, the time little Hootie sang in a concert, showing off his beautiful voice and vibrato, or the times our entire AP German class army-crawled passed Mrs. Shumway's room in order to go to Gandolfo's without being caught. Stories as sad as Miss Gwen, as happy as our Shakespearean success, or as mundane as the couple in the morning are what makes us who we are, and who we can become.
Class of 2006, we have finally made it to our graduation, the ceremony that is the capstone of our few years together. But in the end, this ceremony in itself is absolutely meaningless. The meaning comes from thee stories and moments behind the ceremony; the stories that have made our lives and our relationships meaningful and personal; the stories that got us sitting in those chairs. I remember listening to a speech were the speaker felt that at this moment he should urge you to achieve momentous things. He said he wasn't going to do that because it was too easy, too empty. I would like to borrow that idea and suggest that the most important thing for you, for Meridian, and for it's community is to remember our stories. Garrison Keiller said "As long as young people love stories I think there is hope for the world. As long as we love stories and the past, there is hope for the future." For each one of our graduating class and our beloved school, we hope for a great future. May we remember that our future is tied to our past, and to our stories. Thank-you.
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