Friday I attended my last high school graduation as a member of the faculty. Our graduates, in their blue and white robes, sat beneath a canopy; we sat in rows of wobbly folding chairs that marched up the long grass slope of our school's front lawn, toward the "front steps," which fittingly lead to the library. We faced the students, and beyond them, a stunning view of the White Mountains across the Connecticut River valley.
At our school, unlike at others, students are the sole speakers, and the opportunity is open to any student who wishes -- not only the valedictorian or salutatorian. Near the end of the two-hour ceremony, the last speaker had several tough acts to follow, and one more challenge: We sat beneath a looming thundercloud, tickled by flashes of lightning, increasing rumbles, and a few drops. We'd been spared by the powers that be, or be not, but for how much longer?
The young man, a round fellow with a big mop of curly blond hair and a big grin, began by announcing he'd accomplished the impossible: he'd written a graduation speech. Then he spoke about the changes ahead. Many of us, I'm sure, mentally squirmed, one eye on the sky. Our intrepid speaker went on to say he was about to make a very personal change, right this moment. He reached under his robe, and whipped out a pair of scissors. Several hundred spectators gasped in unison as he brought the shears to his curly mop, where he sported a tight braid he'd had since kindergarten.
The young man began to saw away at the braid. And saw some more. What he'd clearly intended to be a dramatic flourish stretched into a largo. Moments passed; his face reddened. "This wasn't supposed to happen," he apologized. "I got these scissors from the library, and I guess they aren't too sharp." More moments passed; the braid resisted still. Then a junior stepped forward with another pair of shears, and she finished the job. Finally, the graduate could flourish his braid in the air, to wild applause. And we could sing our last anthem, watch the processional and escape before the deluge.
Looking back, I realize this moment meant more to me than one student's very dramatic illustration of his rite of passage into a new phase of his life. This particular step forward wasn't one he could make as planned: he needed help. We needed help; we were part of his plight. And help came.
I see this moment as a reminder: When we struggle -- perhaps silently and bravely, we imagine -- we have an impact on others that we may not appreciate, or intend. Asking for help, not for our sake alone but for the sake of others, is the bravest thing. Offering help, unasked, is a greater act of generosity than we may know; the one we help touches many other lives.
Is there a book in here somewhere?
There is. A few days before graduation, I finished The Lifeboat, a first novel by Charlotte Rogan. According to a recent review in The New York Times, Rogan spent decades working on this off and on while she raised a family. I wonder if the timing of its release, to well-deserved enthusiastic reviews, was meant to take advantage of renewed public interest in the sinking of the Titanic, on its hundredth anniversary: The Lifeboat takes place a few weeks after that tragedy, with the sinking of another luxury liner.
I'm not giving away anything the dust jacket doesn't, in saying that the protagonist, Grace, is a newlywed and now a widow, who survives to face a trial for murder, along with two other women on the lifeboat. In the weeks adrift we spend with Grace, who narrates the story (and it feels like real time, even though this is a fast read), we are simultaneously invited to connect, to identify with her-- and to judge her at arm's length. Could this be me? Is this really what I would do? we ask ourselves.
Obviously, the fates of the thirty-nine people on the lifeboat are entwined, regardless of the different ways they respond to their ordeal; but Rogan is going beyond the obvious here. She doesn't package her boat with obvious heroes and villains. She raises, through Grace and the other characters, questions of moral obligation to self and others in a situation of mortal danger from nature and from society. She shows how hard it can be to know our own intentions, let alone our obligations. She encourages us to question what gives a person authority, what we want to rely upon, what leadership means. She invites us to consider how we see God. A being we can petition? A force of nature? Something within ourselves? Do we have the capacity for that kind of goodness?
The prose itself is like the sea, rising and falling in cadence, clear and yet hard to see through its depths to a simple statement. It's beautiful, and it makes you think.
At our school, unlike at others, students are the sole speakers, and the opportunity is open to any student who wishes -- not only the valedictorian or salutatorian. Near the end of the two-hour ceremony, the last speaker had several tough acts to follow, and one more challenge: We sat beneath a looming thundercloud, tickled by flashes of lightning, increasing rumbles, and a few drops. We'd been spared by the powers that be, or be not, but for how much longer?
The young man, a round fellow with a big mop of curly blond hair and a big grin, began by announcing he'd accomplished the impossible: he'd written a graduation speech. Then he spoke about the changes ahead. Many of us, I'm sure, mentally squirmed, one eye on the sky. Our intrepid speaker went on to say he was about to make a very personal change, right this moment. He reached under his robe, and whipped out a pair of scissors. Several hundred spectators gasped in unison as he brought the shears to his curly mop, where he sported a tight braid he'd had since kindergarten.
The young man began to saw away at the braid. And saw some more. What he'd clearly intended to be a dramatic flourish stretched into a largo. Moments passed; his face reddened. "This wasn't supposed to happen," he apologized. "I got these scissors from the library, and I guess they aren't too sharp." More moments passed; the braid resisted still. Then a junior stepped forward with another pair of shears, and she finished the job. Finally, the graduate could flourish his braid in the air, to wild applause. And we could sing our last anthem, watch the processional and escape before the deluge.
Looking back, I realize this moment meant more to me than one student's very dramatic illustration of his rite of passage into a new phase of his life. This particular step forward wasn't one he could make as planned: he needed help. We needed help; we were part of his plight. And help came.
I see this moment as a reminder: When we struggle -- perhaps silently and bravely, we imagine -- we have an impact on others that we may not appreciate, or intend. Asking for help, not for our sake alone but for the sake of others, is the bravest thing. Offering help, unasked, is a greater act of generosity than we may know; the one we help touches many other lives.
Is there a book in here somewhere?
There is. A few days before graduation, I finished The Lifeboat, a first novel by Charlotte Rogan. According to a recent review in The New York Times, Rogan spent decades working on this off and on while she raised a family. I wonder if the timing of its release, to well-deserved enthusiastic reviews, was meant to take advantage of renewed public interest in the sinking of the Titanic, on its hundredth anniversary: The Lifeboat takes place a few weeks after that tragedy, with the sinking of another luxury liner.
I'm not giving away anything the dust jacket doesn't, in saying that the protagonist, Grace, is a newlywed and now a widow, who survives to face a trial for murder, along with two other women on the lifeboat. In the weeks adrift we spend with Grace, who narrates the story (and it feels like real time, even though this is a fast read), we are simultaneously invited to connect, to identify with her-- and to judge her at arm's length. Could this be me? Is this really what I would do? we ask ourselves.
Obviously, the fates of the thirty-nine people on the lifeboat are entwined, regardless of the different ways they respond to their ordeal; but Rogan is going beyond the obvious here. She doesn't package her boat with obvious heroes and villains. She raises, through Grace and the other characters, questions of moral obligation to self and others in a situation of mortal danger from nature and from society. She shows how hard it can be to know our own intentions, let alone our obligations. She encourages us to question what gives a person authority, what we want to rely upon, what leadership means. She invites us to consider how we see God. A being we can petition? A force of nature? Something within ourselves? Do we have the capacity for that kind of goodness?
The prose itself is like the sea, rising and falling in cadence, clear and yet hard to see through its depths to a simple statement. It's beautiful, and it makes you think.
