Connections

Commencement address delivered at PAL (Project for Alternative Learning), Helena, Montana, June 2022

Hello, graduating class of 2022! I know firsthand how important this day is, and I’m honored to be here celebrating with you. 

Like each of you, I took an alternative path to my high school diploma, and there were many moments along the way when graduation wasn’t guaranteed. My adolescence was—at best—turbulent and—at worst—pretty bleak. I didn’t think I’d ever emerge into an adult life where I had my own home, my own family, my own career, that list of accomplishments Matt just read. Honestly, I didn’t think I’d be around at all. I lived with my mom and dad; I had some friends, good ones even, and still—I felt deeply and utterly alone.

The path from who I was then to who I am now was not easy or smooth, and I want to share it with you through three stories: my nontraditional high school experience, a terrible mistake in college, and an age-old favorite: misguided love. 

My sophomore year of high school was incredibly difficult on a personal level, and I lived through a traumatic experience the following summer. Come junior year, I couldn’t face the crowded halls of Helena High. I’d always done well in school, and I’d been able to put on the appearance of an engaged, happy student, but after the events of that summer, it was just too hard to pretend that everything was okay, that I was okay. I refused to go back, and—after several arguments—my parents finally agreed to let me stay home, as long as I figured out a way to graduate. Fair enough.

I found a distance learning program, but I couldn’t get my diploma through them, so I met with Ken Stuker, my former principal at Helena High, and he helped me devise a graduation plan that included my correspondence courses, a few independent study classes with PAL staff, and one summer course to finish out my English requirements (my memories of that summer class are pretty amazing; we were all miscreants who’d left school or failed the final semester of senior English; and this probably isn’t an appropriate place to talk about what all went down during our 15-minute breaks).

Anyway, I finished. I graduated. And I was able to reach that accomplishment because my former higher school principal—who I didn’t even know when I was a student at Helena High—was willing to build an alternative path for me; he was willing to recognize that I needed something different, and because of that willingness, so many doors that could’ve closed remained open.

Which brings me to story #2: After high school, I went to a little college in Oregon for my freshman year, and though my academic road led me toward literature and writing, the two people who made the most impact were my math teacher and the manager of the campus computer store.

On the day of my math final, I somehow managed to sleep through my alarm and wake up two-hours late. I sprinted across campus in my pajamas and burst into a room of students knee-deep in their exams. Very disruptive.

My math teacher took me out into the hall, told me to go splash some water on my face, and come back—“Don’t worry,” she said. “It’s fine.”

Because I was late, everyone finished before me, and my teacher asked if I wanted to come finish my exam in her office or stay there alone in the classroom. I was having trouble with one, four-part problem. My math book was in my backpack. If I could just look up one word, I knew I’d be able to figure it out. I told her I’d stay.

You can see where this is going.

I was just opening my textbook when my teacher walked back in.

I’d taken the easiest math class I could, and in my mind, I couldn’t get less than an A. There was still a part of me that felt compelled to play that perfect student role. I fight that part even now. The people-pleaser, the conformist.  

I put my head on the table, defeated. I’d just been caught cheating on a final exam in college—the antithesis of academic integrity. I would get kicked out, I was sure. I would never finish my degree. I’d ruined everything—my entire future, gone.

My math professor put her hand on my shoulder and said, “Go take a shower and talk to someone you trust.” (Clearly, I was a dirty mess with all these hygiene tips she was giving.)

I showered, got dressed, and went to talk to my boss at the computer store, where I had a work-study position. She listened attentively before asking me what I thought I should do.  

I’d been hoping she’d tell me that, but once she asked the question aloud, the answer was obvious.

“I should get a zero on the final,” I said, and she agreed, and when I told my math teacher, she smiled as though I’d just aced her most challenging class. She hugged me and told me I was all right, this was all right. People make mistakes, and they’re still good people.

I didn’t expect to remember these two women, but I will remember them forever. They met me on shaky ground, and taught me lessons I didn’t know I needed to learn. 

I have one C on my college transcript. It’s in an introductory math course, and I own it like a prize because it’s an emblem of second chances. I could’ve lost everything in that moment, but I didn’t. (Also: cheating is bad and you should never do it.)

Even with those lessons, I still made plenty more mistakes, which brings me to story #3: The following summer, I fell for a fellow juvenile delinquent, and I made the horrible decision to move with him to his hometown of Lima, Ohio—everyone’s dream destination. We lived in a tiny apartment in a terrible part of town. I worked at Perkins and delivered newspapers, while he smoked pot in a friend’s basement. It was not a life I wanted, but it wasn’t as bleak as those high school years because I wasn’t entirely alone, and not because of the dirt-bag I was living with. No, it’s Dave and Judy I remember most from that time—my downstairs neighbors who’d moved to Lima from Brooklyn, and insisted on being my “adopted parents.” They cooked for me; they asked about my days; when their cat Smokey died, I helped bury him in the backyard. They watched how much I worked and told me I should leave my boyfriend. When I finally did, Judy and my mom talked every day, giving each other updates on my progress across the country. When Dave died years later, I was one of the first people Judy called.

So, what’s the common denominator in these stories, in this motley crew of people—my high school principal, my work-study boss, my math professor, my downstairs neighbors? They are as different from each other as possible, yet they share a particular trait: they saw me for who I was, who I am, and who I could be. These unlikely friends and mentors knew me as a flawed and semi-broken individual, yet they still saw a bright future for me, and it was those connections—those relationships—that got me to where I am today—a partner, a parent, a homeowner, a college professor, a published author, a forty-two-year-old—all things I never thought I’d be. 

You’ve found those same connections here at PAL. This community believes in you—and I guarantee you’re going to find innumerable other people who believe in you as well. Wherever you go—whether to college or a career or some other adventure—I challenge you to make connections with the people you find there—your classmates, your teachers, your bosses, your advisors, your neighbors, your coworkers. These are the people who will carry you through the next round of difficulties—because those difficulties will come; I wish I could tell you they won’t, but they’re there, lurking around the corner; the world is pretty damn hard right now. But if you’re open to those connections—both in receiving and giving—you’ll have more tools for overcoming and persevering. These connections show us that we have worth. You have immense worth. Share it. 

And—be gentle with yourselves. Be kind. There are so many paths that can get you where you want to go, and sometimes, we take the wrong ones. Sometimes, we go backward, even when our intention is to make progress, and should you find yourself there—somehow in a place you never thought you’d be (like Lima, Ohio)—lean on the people around you, learn the lesson, grow, and go on. You’ve already proven you can.

Here’s to the next chapter!