Address to the Class of 2015
Mary Ward C.S.S., Toronto
Friends:
In the heart of cottage country is a place called Camp Oochigeas. Camp Ooch is like most summer camps, where kids spend two weeks canoeing, swimming, and learning that their pottery blew up in the kiln — except that if you’re an Ooch camper, you have been diagnosed with cancer.
The good news is that nearly all kids survive their illness and go on to lead a long, rich, beautiful life. But most is not all, and the sad reality is that occasionally throughout the year camp counsellors will receive an email in their inbox with a subject line that reads, ‘Friends Forever.’ We know well what it contains — news that a camper has passed away. These emails are rare, but they do make up a part of the Ooch experience.
I want to tell you about Ethan. He was a camper in my cabin last summer. Ethan has a knack for bad puns and has a way of ducking out of early morning swims. During free time, you’re likely to find Ethan on his bunk, his nose in a book, a headlamp strapped to his head, hairless from his latest round of chemo.
But then there was the day Ethan blew us all away. At Ooch there’s this adventure course challenge called the Leap of Faith. It involves climbing to the top of a sort-of telephone poll. You’re in a safety harness, of course, but that’s small comfort when you’re standing on top of a narrow, wobbly poll thirty feet up. And as if this isn’t terrifying enough, you can then choose to dive off the pole to try to smack a plastic buoy dangling in the air about five feet in front of you. The leap of faith.
Most campers choose just to stand at the top for a while before climbing back down. I tried once, and I think I got about halfway up when I hugged the pole and said, “Ok, yeah, I’m good right here, thanks.”
But not Ethan. Not that morning, when Ethan stood high above his counsellors and cabin mates with his arms outstretched and said, “Guys, I’m gonna do this.”
The others were psyched. “We’ve got your back, Ethan!” they shouted from below.
“I know,” Ethan said. His voice and hands shook. “That’s why I’m gonna try.”
And he jumped. And he missed. And it didn’t matter.
“Did you see that?” he said from where he dangled in his harness. “I frikkin’ JUMPED.”
OK, here’s where we get to the moral of the story. So here it is, class of 2015.
I hope you all fail.
Let’s be clear: your crossing this stage is the result of years of grit and discipline, and it’s a feat of which to be proud.
Because you’ve done something right to get here. You’ve done many things right.
In fact, maybe you’ve done too many things right, and not enough things wrong.
See, we hate failure. We fear it. Your parents and your teachers: well, we fear it even more than you do. So we try to protect you from the consequences of making blind leaps. Because what if you fell? What if you didn’t hit the buoy? What if you got a zero? Or decided not to go to university right away? What then?
No, you have not failed enough because you have not been allowed to fail often enough.
So this morning I urge you to convince yourself and those who care for you that it will almost always be worth making some mistakes — smart mistakes. Mature risks.
Like when Bea Serdon decided to pick up a camera. Or when Georgia Dominguez ordered her lunch from the cute waiter, en français. Or at Woodland Trails when Yousef Safar forgot his speech, so he improvised it — to a standing ovation. Or when Ms Keenan finally gave in and let us throw her a retirement party. Or when Mary Ward herself chose to live the gospel — and break Church law — by leaving the confines of the cloister.
None of these people achieved what they achieved by staying comfortable. None of you crossing the stage this morning got here by playing it safe. You were scared. Scared to slip, to jump, to miss. To say something wrong. To be judged. To get hurt.
But what matters is that, as you came face-to-face with your fear of screwing up, you acted anyway. You had that tough conversation with your TA. You stuck with Extended French. You tried out for senior basketball — and got cut.
It’s the only way. Stay comfortable — play it safe — that’s when you really fail. Because you have only failed if you fail to try.
And what’s more is, what you fear most — hitting the ground — it can’t happen. Not when you’ve got faith. Not when, like Ethan, you’ve got your harness and your team.
Now, I ask you all to kindly raise your hand if: you are related to someone in a blue robe; you have been their teacher or TA or principal; you have been a friend.
There you go, grads. There’s your team. So go ahead. You might not hit the buoy but, either way, we’ve got your back. And at least you will have tried.
One night three months ago I found two emails sitting in my inbox. The first was from Ms. Schwan. The subject line read, “Grad Guest Speaker Invitation.” I was absolutely humbled by the honour.
The second email read, ‘Friends Forever.’
The time is now, class of 2015. Climb. Jump.
