Commencement

I’m still a bit hung over and cotton-mouthed when the Uber driver stops a block or so from the auditorium and convinces me to leave the airconditioned comfort of his car. Traffic is at a standstill while hundreds of cars are creeping up the hill to snatch whatever parking spot they can find or create.

With a dramatic sigh, agreeing that walking up that hill will be quicker, though less comfortable, I fall in with smiling twenty somethings. No doubt they are slowly broiling in their long black polyester gowns while holding a precariously balanced mortar boards on their heads with one hand. Many travel in packs, with proud parents, relatives, and sundry admirers.

I allow myself to be squeezed through the open doors and washed along on the tide until I stand at the foot of the stage. Here I capture the attention of a haggard-looking woman, holding a clipboard. When I introduce myself, she lets out a sigh of relief and ushers me to my seat on the stage.

While the excitement and sound grows around me, I am amazed at how I came to sit here. There are many rewards to being a famous author. For instance, your name will get you the best table in certain restaurants, the one near the window, where anyone walking by may recognize you. Or so I’ve been told.

I’ve only published one book. It had a modest success, reaching 198 on the NYT bestseller list for a day or so, before disappearing into oblivion. I made an appearance on the Good Day Show, a number of obscure videocasts with five dodgy fans, who just wanted me to open one more button on my blouse. I’ve gone from Zanesville to Alexandria, and every Jackson you can think of where I may have met thirty fans, though some of them may have been paid to be there. I am about to sink into the $0.99 category online when I get a call from my agent. Bless her heart.

“I know it’s short notice, but you were the first person I thought of.”

Yeah, right. The only two positives that when added together, will always make a negative, flit through my half numb brain.

“Humph.” is the sound I can make at seven am on a Saturday while Friday is still hanging around and lightly snoring on the other half of my bed.

“You are to give the commencement speech at Holy Smokes School for Ladies. I have emailed you the link to your ticket. The plane leaves from Lunken at ten o’clock, today. Don’t make me look bad,

“Wait!”

 But she has hung up. I imagine I’m not her only client. Probably. Because if I were she would be starving, and I’d have to shop around for another one. It’s not an overnight trip, but just in case, I stuff a toothbrush, clean underwear, and some extra pads in my large purse.

And that's why I am here, on a stage, about to make a fool of myself.

Trying, in vain, not to be nervous, I watch the front rows fill up with black-clad young women, all giggling and chattering, until the school president taps on the microphone. Promptly all eyes swivel forward and automatically glaze over.

After the woman’s monotone but mercifully short speech, the graduates prance, one by one, across the stage, grinning and bouncing happily. Once the last one has accepted her diploma, the President sits down. The Dean of Students steps up to the lectern and introduces me. I shall not correct her on the pronunciation of my name. I’m not that persnickety.

To a hesitant, distracted applause, I rise and take my place behind the microphone.

Thank you, Dean Sparrow for that lovely introduction. I am delighted to be here.

Madam President, faculty members, graduates, and families

Like the excellent faculty behind me, my mother was a great teacher. She taught me to brush my teeth, wash behind my ears, and tie my shoelaces. To look both ways before crossing the street and to never go home with strangers. To say please and thank you and smile doing so. To knit, crotchet and sew. To clean up after myself and how not to burn water.

She did not, however, teach me to do my Kegels.

You, honored graduates, are poised to leave these safe and hallowed halls and one by one will trickle into the workplace, where you will undoubtedly meet a tidal wave of conservatism, a strong current designed to maintain the status quo.

I urge you to hold onto your ideals and do your Kegels.

Don’t gush, do not exude as you start your first job. I cannot impress on you enough the value of practicing restraint. Learn to bank any tendencies at running your mouth. Make sure your dams are strong enough to withstand any overtime induced pressure. You should, however, be prepared and have sandbags standing by to protect against any flood of emotions.

While continuing to do your Kegels.

Spewing flattery may stroke your boss’ ego but will be recognized as empty spatters if not outright odiferous dribble and seepage by the very people you want to be on your side.

Instead do your Kegels.

Since you are the new kid in the office, you want to be seen working, not seeking and repeating droplets and goblets of gossip, nor should you be overflowing with innovative ideas, or oozing with newfangled theories. Don’t sprinkle hints about change, not within your first year.

But definitely practice your Kegels.

As you mature in your work you will gain solid footing in the riptide of an ever-changing world. While you climb higher and strain to stay ahead of the cascade of growth and change, you should not need to depend on protection against the drips and drabs and dangerous undertow stirred by a younger generation. Even though you are convinced that they are not dry behind the ear.

You should spend extra time on your Kegels.

You don’t want to always rely on your poise. You need to feel assured that you are able to control the basics while you join in the heavy lifting of work. You want to feel confident that you will not be washed away by a paltry sneeze. And decades from now, when you embrace your retirement, you should feel secure that it is not only your sharp wit that is dry.

Because you are still doing your Kegels.

Thank you and good luck.

The large room, though packed to rafters, is deadly silent while I return to my seat. I know that I have given them the most important lesson they will undoubtedly ignore.

With thanks for the inspiration to Mary Schmich of the Chicago Tribune. (June 1997)