This spring, I was a finalist to give the commencement address.
I tell you this not only because I’m still a little bit bitter, but also because it wasn’t a surprise to me at all. I had watched at least a dozen prior speeches to figure out what I had to do to get noticed by the selection committee. Pithy introductory story about my extracurriculars to frame my speech? Got it. Reference to a philosopher? Got that. Quote from a dead Duke president? Yep. Duke basketball joke? Absolutely. Ending with a grand call to action despite the fact that I was a 22-year-old with a nascent bachelor’s degree and was in no place to be imploring classmates with seemingly sage wisdom about how to live their life? Check, check and check.
Despite the fact that I had figured out the equation to achieve a perfect commencement address, I was passed over for a different classmate. And despite the fact that I auditioned the same speech for my major graduation, I was rejected from that too. Still persevering like a good transfer student, I managed to take my talents to the big stage—class day, to be exact. And if you’re asking yourself what class day is, you’re not alone. So was I. But I delivered my speech to an exuberant audience of giddy parents and classmates, many of whom I had forced to come nonetheless.
That room of laughs gave me a high unlike anything I’ve experienced before, but time and the number of instances I’ve watched the speech on my private YouTube link remind me that the speech was pretty pedestrian at its core. It achieved everything it needed to and nothing it didn’t, using the sorts of language and philosophical references that would make any liberal arts professor proud. The problem was that in perfecting my pristine address that culminated in a grand conclusion and call to action that would inspire others for years to come, I gave up what made Duke so special to me and all my classmates: all the messy parts in the middle.
This will serve as my last column in The Chronicle, and perhaps—for fear of exposing my true political beliefs to the rest of the world—my last column in any newspaper ever. And while I’ve loved this little reprieve back into the heaven that is Durham, North Carolina, I need to move on and to move forward for myself. Moving on from college—no matter where you move to or how many of your best friends you move in with—is a process of loneliness, confusion and sometimes regret. I’m learning to move forward and I say the word “Duke” fewer times each day. But there are things I wish I’d done, Lucky’s sandwiches I wished I’d had and some Happy+Hale salads I wish I hadn’t.
Each of my columns in this “Duke, forward” series should serve as a mini graduation speech that will never be. I don’t doubt that the lessons the 2018 commencement address will bestow unto the class of 2018 and their families will be uniquely impactful. But high philosophy or an acronym for Go Duke! is not enough to comfort anxious graduates gripping the edge of their seats, fearful of what’s to come. That’s why this series explores the messages that I think are important—actually, really important—to any Duke student looking for a message from the great unknown that consists of being an alumni.
It’s why I wrote that you should appreciate Duke for what is, and that the real world is notably bereft of Larry Moneta. Or that it’s okay if you lack some grand life plan, because sometimes it’s worth it to wait for success. And most importantly, outrageous ambitions come with outrageous failures—enough that they should be embraced, rather than hidden in shame.
For my final mini-graduation speech, I’ll bestow upon you—my last readers ever—the greatest lesson I can impart to anyone looking toward the future. It isn’t about success or finding the truth or failing. It’s about finding solace in the little things. While my time in Durham was tied up nicely with a degree, the fake leather cover with an engraving of the chapel hardly represented the experiences that got me there. By the time I reached that particularly hot and pretty miserable Sunday in May, Duke wasn’t about the classes or the grades or the amalgamation of poorly done problem sets that had (by a miracle) gotten me there. It was about the people who sat beside me, the agony and ecstasy we’d shared, and the collective experiences that came to shape our lives as students.
My Duke degree wasn’t just about “pubpol”—a loaded term that most people will learn the hard way means nothing in the real world. Rather, it was about the other seemingly trivial things that propelled to graduation day. I had discovered “my people” and “my place” through a string of lesser paramours. I found solace in thai sweet coconut chili wing sauce in a backyard on Clarendon Street and a lot of clarity in houses with names like “The Compound,” “The Hall” and “The Church.” There were cruises around Durham in a Lincoln MK-X that couldn’t have been safe for the environment, late nights over ginger tea at apartments on Main Street and Central Campus, and a three-hour seminar that would transcend time and best friendship. The paper-thin walls at Erwin Mills weren’t so problematic, considering that meant only about an inch of budget drywall separated me from some of those I cared about most. Elmo’s brunches, Wednesday Night Senates from Schiciano, rides from Central Campus to Wilson, “Sexual” by NEIKID, late night post-Perkins trips to Cookout, one vacation in the mountains of Gatlinburg and an iconic hotel in North Myrtle Beach add up to three years well spent.
I could go on for hundreds more words, dropping hints at stories I know will mean something to individual readers, hoping they find them and fondly remember some good time we had together. All this is suffice to say that college isn’t just about the way classes and grades and activities and internships add up on a resume. It’s about the way Duke made you feel, and the experiences outside class that made this feeling so significant. The early days of the real world—you know, the ones pre-marriage, pre-promotion and pre-children—aren’t totally bereft of these sorts of instances. They simply just aren’t as concentrated.
So with whatever time you have left, I beg and plead that you do something sort of useless and fun with it. Do what you love with whom you love—and if that means staying in Perkins LL2 until 4 a.m. alone while working on a problem set, so be it. But if that means sitting on a couch with your friends all afternoon watching YouTube videos or walking the WaDuke trail to avoid your responsibilities, go unto those without abandon and appreciate them while you still can.
I sincerely miss you and every experience that made you, my Dear Old Duke.
Annie Adair is a Trinity '17 graduate, and a former Monday Monday. This is her final Chronicle column, and she, too, will be quite missed.
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Annie Adair is Trinity '17. Her column, "duke, forward," runs on alternate Fridays.