Remember that person who arrived in Hanover four years ago? Wide-eyed kid, maybe a little short or skinny, generally traveled in packs? Squirmed around the wacky roommates, called mom and dad religiously and still remembered what it felt like to be the smartest kid in class? Took yourself terribly seriously, and thought sneaking in through the basement door of a fraternity made you completely cool?
Me neither, really. I lost track of that girl a long time ago, in a sea of all-night study sessions, Winter Carnival benders, endless article deadlines and hours swept away in that most productive of all activities, laughing with (and at) the people I grew to love.
As graduates, we are informed in equal measure by where we came from, and what we've learned here. Before Dartmouth, all I could think about was escape. No roads lead into or out of my Alaskan hometown, and I wanted nothing so badly as to experience the wider, more exciting world of an East Coast college. So it's ironic, and probably appropriate, that now I can't comprehend leaving behind the comforting smallness of the Upper Valley.
We got awfully lucky here. For all the challenges thrown at us each day, when I think of Dartmouth, above all I think of its warmth. This is a place where you can meet someone new everyday, but never doubt that there will be a friendly face in each 50-yards. Our college encourages us to feel at ease among faculty and administrators, and employs grill line staff members who see hundreds of kids a day, but somehow still know to act surprised when you order something other than "Cajun chicken, to go."
Dartmouth gave me everything I ever wanted from her. I got to learn about moral philosophy, Irish history, healthcare and Islam. I spent a birthday in Prague, took a sunrise hike in Israel and stood alone on the rural, rain-soaked, western tip of Ireland. I met a New York Times columnist, a former CIA director and the best friends I could possibly hope for.
Nothing could happen quickly enough, but the problem is, one day it all did. And here we are, preparing to depart from a place that we came to for a chance at adventure, but perhaps grew to love far more for its ability to make us feel at home.
We found those moments of solidarity in a lot of different places. And I won't try to list them, but I think there are corners of campus that each of our hearts breaks at the thought of leaving behind. For me, one of those places was on the second floor of Robinson Hall. And for all the unanswered questions of the coming years, in journalism, a field I loved dearly but will not return to, I can take comfort in at least a few certainties.
I figured out that if you ask enough times, you can convince almost anyone to speak with you. I discovered that I believe firmly in an obligation to hear out points of view that make me angry, and I realized that the most interesting people will always the curious ones.
The D taught me to obsess over details and be unfailingly polite, doggedly persistent and around-the-clock available. Oh and, don't be afraid to call back. Again. And again
I learned about office politics, and the obvious, but occasionally challenging, power of being kind to your co-workers. Unless, that is, they continue to run around wrestling each other and screwing with your email account at completely inappropriate moments. On those days, you can yell at them.
One last point: Admit your mistakes. At The D, we had to learn to face up to our shortcomings everyday, and painful though it was, I hope we did it gracefully. Dartmouth doesn't always do such a great job of teaching students to be accountable: We sleep through our classes, bluff our way through papers and don't even clean our own bathrooms. With all that insulation, journalism was the one part of my life where I knew I couldn't get away with anything.
We are leaving behind our security for a world in which our privilege over the last four years isn't going to mean much. Our degrees are great things, but they won't prevent us from flopping at a job interview, or teach us how to deal with that first class of unruly 12 year-olds. We're going to mess up, we'll get frustrated, and once in a while, we're probably going to feel entitled to more than we deserve.
But I'm not really worried about this group. I've been so deeply impressed by the people that make up this college more times than I can count, and the idea of being anywhere else petrifies me.
Class of 2004, we have one day left. Take one last bittersweet stare at the Green, savoring its final hours of pre-Commencement quiet. Think of all of your best times here, and your worst as well. Walk home feeling the weight of joy and sadness in every step. Hug your friends dearly, and for goodness sake, thank your parents.
That's all I have. Good luck to all of you, and please stay happy and in awe through everything you do.
