It's All In The Words

Nobody other than me knew what happened to Paul Cherbrand after his huge debut in the stage lights until one year prior of today. Whether or not it could have been prevented, I hate to tell myself, but the very least I can do is tell the story like he did. And it's a complicated one that I don't believe either sometimes. If you believe in coincidence, or purpose, I'll leave that part up to you. But for now: just bear with me.

He was giving off this huge bravado speech about his time there at Banks Memorial High School, flaunting the Valedictorian status, and smacking his lips on the regular about the successes, and losses, of us all as people. As if we related to his 35 ACT score, one point away from perfection.

"And with further time, the only thing I would ask myself to do, is to live," he had said, and the crowd wiped away porcelain tears, his mom probably holding up a cliche white handkerchief and snotting into it. "And for all of you, I agree that no honor is more honorable than finding ourselves. Finding us. Where we are isn't as simple as here or there, it's a stepping stone in who we become as people."

Personally, I didn't care for the whole thing. Maybe I should have. But sitting in my uncomfortable metal-sheet chair, there wasn't much joy to be had listening to Mr. President's List gawk about our uneventful high school experience. He was standing in his cap and gown behind a podium, flailing his hands around as he spoke with an extra flick of the wrist, reminding me of the band instructor at all our pep rallies. I heard that vague, uneven ringing of trumpets somewhere. God I used to hate Mr. Kingsley.

"I used to ask all of my teachers, family, peers; what was your goals in life before today? And the answers always had a ring to them that you can only get with passion," Paul had scrambled on, and for me the clock was only ticking slower. Everyone had plastic water bottles on standby, occasionally slugging down a pint before setting it back down in a hurrah of applause, while I had pulled out my phone to pass the time on Instagram. "And I feel like now, that I ask myself, that goal isn't a career. Oftentimes, it's a place. Maybe a state to be in, like happiness, or proud, but moreover it's a state of where."

I want to say that corny side of the speech faded within a couple minutes, but that would take away from the truth. Four minutes had slowly crawled by, and it was around halfway when even I was looking up to listen, and the speech was taking a turn. Not necessarily for worse, but eerily. His subject had changed ever so slightly, and the appraisal had dimmed to leave room for the mood Paul was beginning to set.

"Do you ever ask yourself, how do things happen? Where does it begin, end, or progress?" There was a following silence that I subconsciously agreed to join. "I do. And within that journey, I've learned that the truth is bright. For most of us." His eyes didn't raise from the paper.

Nobody really knew what to say about that. "For most of us". I called it off as an accurate philosophy, that not everyone is going to end up where they want to be, but I had already felt it in my gut that it was wrong to say. I just didn't know why back then.

"There is something beautiful about that, too. We all drive ourselves forward, even if we don't know where that road of life is going to end."

The awkward shade must have lifted, because there was a long period of clapping hands once more and I followed it. A little bit of chatter while Paul took his hands to his speech page, and then the rest had continued.

"I want to thank each and every one of you for not only your experiences, but for handling the shaking burdens that have been presented to you. For pushing on when everything tells you to concede, and for learning yourself along that way." Paul cupped his hands together.

"After all, nothing stops in this life. Not us, not the difficulty of ourselves, or the paths we take. And although those properties that we wish to control, aren't in our grasp, we can at the very least accept that the wheels keep turning. They carry us forward, even when we wouldn't like to, and it's that discomfort that makes us grow. We can see what will be hard, but we pursue regardless."

Eight minutes had passed since he began. I could feel the speech coming to a close, and the rustling chairs around me could feel it too. Paul cleared his throat, gave off a short grin, and the rumble of his words came again.

"Now, as most of us will come to be a newer version of ourselves, either in the workforce, our countries military, or college, I wish you all a goodbye that reaches so much farther than the classroom. One that not only promises you that life is coming, but that we are soon to approach what we merely called "the future" years ago, head-on, with the heaviest hearts we can hold. We look into the eyes of all those we care so deeply for, and promise them we are ready. Ready to persevere, ready to move from our shells into the real world of headlights and dreams."

My ears were ringing from so much clapping, and I really had to use the bathroom. I remember looking around for one, avoiding all those aged faces, and trying to find my route of exit as soon as the sap was spilled out and it was acceptable to book it out of there. The seats were all rowed up, the sound of Paul still echoing throughout the room.

It was a pretty big room, at least how I remember it. A couple banners for Banks Memorial, with our mascot ( a brown bear, basic I know ) draped across the walls in blue and gold, and a few photographers lurking around to take pictures of the graduates. Afterwards, I could imagine all the seniors lined up with their families, taking pictures to tag along in college. Weirdly, I imagined Paul with his own, although I could never imagine what Mr. and Mrs. Cherbrand were like.

"I think I can truly speak for all of us, as seniors, when I say that four years goes by irreversibly fast. During those days, it seems slow, but the weeks, months, and years truly have left us behind. Even now, I try to accept it, but there is a small part of me that desires more time."

Twelve minutes had passed by then. It was going on for too long. I just didn't understand why yet.

"Sometimes I can even see myself, a little further from now. I'm sure you all do, too. In a place that calls for protection, or solitude. One that is soon to come, or far ahead. A future that none of us can alter, because it is due to happen, a future that isn't capable of being explained," Paul had twisted back into a state of talking in a way I could only tell you was cumbersome. "But it isn't meant to be."

There was some sniffles in the crowd, in choppy phases, but the speech was beginning to drag on it's tail. Fifteen, sixteen minutes kept passing, and it almost seemed like he was stalling the whole event alone. The pure embarrassment coming from telling him to "hurry it up" outweighed everyone in that room by tenfold.

"I want to close tonight with a message that not everyone will understand. Possibly nobody will understand," Paul wasn't looking at his paper. Matter of fact, I didn't remember him looking at it for the past ten minutes of his speech. "If there was anything I could leave here on this date, it wouldn't be my words. It would be a second chance that I never got. And for you all, there is a moment-just one-when everything will seem the same, right before it all changes, right before your eyes. I've seen mine. I can only hope you see it as well."

Paul finally raised his hands in victory, waving off the crowd as they broke out of a trance-like stillness into a series of whistles, yelling, and celebration. I like to say I hesitated, like I had an inch of understanding nobody else had, but I didn't. When the time came, I threw that cap off, jumped in joy, and ran to my family while the photographers clicked and flashed away behind the cameras. It truly was a night to remember, and yet everyone seemed to have forgot about what else happened: bittersweet nostalgia, I guess.

Which leads to that night. Paul Cherbrand, after his historical speaking record at Banks Memorial High School, didn't end up just like everyone else. Maybe you picked up on it sooner than I did, but I remember everything that followed. The lights. The rumors. The stories.

Paul never made it home that night of graduation like most people thought he did. And the craziest part to me, is that before any of us knew what happened, he did. And every time I look back on that night, I see a new sign that I should have read before. The speech. The fact he went on for way longer than he should have.

And even then, I still don't completely understand why. He seemed completely normal. If I am right, and not a complete lunatic yet, he knew what was going to happen to him, and still let it happen. He gave the speech. I listened and scrolled through Instagram. He repeated himself in ways I didn't understand, and he called that out too. I didn't have to like him, but I did have to hear him. And I admit I messed that up, too.

Paul ended up in a car crash that night and died. I can sometimes still hear little bits and pieces of his speech, ones that had more messages in them than I can count. I hope you can understand them better than I did.

"There is a moment-just one-when everything will seem the same, right before it all changes, right before your eyes. I've seen mine. I can only hope you see it as well." He was right. He saw his and we didn't.

And to this day, I'll never understand how.