On May 21 at 6 p.m., people around the world celebrated when the Rapture did not occur. I was not one of them. Sure, life would go on longer than predicted, but I knew the expiration date was nigh. For I, Emily Hirshey, can see what is coming: On June 12, 2011, the world will end. G-Which-Must-Not-Be-Named is rapidly approaching, and there's nothing we can do to stop it.
In the face of the apocalypse, I find myself thinking a lot about regret, and the first thing I regret is never being able to speak at graduation. In high school, that meant I wasn't cool enough to get elected (obvi it was rigged). In college, it means I'm not smart enough (again, valedictorian selection is indisputably corrupt). Well guess what? Imma address you now because I can, bitches.
To the Class of 2011:
First of all, I am honored to be so unanimously beloved that you chose me to speak regardless of my fairly average GPA and social standing. At first, I was far too modest to accept the invitation, but your insistence that graduation simply could not go on with "anything less than my epic brilliance" made me realize that you truly needed me. So, I will give you my words, though I ask for nothing in return. (If you insist, you may make out your checks to "Martyr.")
Over the past year, I've been grappling with the feeling that I did college all wrong. And I've been tempted to express my anger at the select few I feel were at fault for this failure. But naturally, I'm above base emotions, so I choose to offer forgiveness instead:
- To my freshman year advisor: I forgive you for never telling me to think about my major or distributive requirements. Of course, it was unnecessary to consider what I wanted to study even A LITTLE BIT before the week my major card had to be filed. And naturally I should have known that every class I would ever want to take was a SOC distrib and that I would never be able to barter for other distribs with, say, my firstborn.
- To every boy who neglected to send any girl her rightfully deserved Morning After Blitz: I forgive you for your upbringing. Surely the wolves that raised you could not have taught you any manners or how to properly type an email (#pawproblems). Please let go of the guilt you felt for 0.5 seconds after bailing while she was asleep you can't have that on your (utterly invisible) conscience.
- To certain professors: I forgive you for banning the use of computers in your class. The idea that any one of your students would rather play TextTwist than listen to your monotonous ramblings on Oh, shit. I guess I was doing a crossword puzzle.
- To Bieber: I forgive you for sowing your wild oats while you soar to the height of fame. Don't worry I'll be here at the end of it all. True love waits.
- To the Class of 1953: I forgive you for failing to warn me that a particular Homeplate panini would be my last. Why would I want to enjoy food when a beef samosa is so easy to microwave?
- To my many pong paddles: I forgive you for not accommodating "specially" sized hands such as my own. In turn, I hope you can forgive me for calling you "racist" on occasion.
- To my many pong partners: I forgive you for not believing me when I told you that I'd be standing still and would not be attempting a save under any circumstance. It's not your fault you are incapable of trust. Just as it's not my fault that I'm a woman of my word.
- To Hanover weather: I forgive you for being awful for 80-90 percent of my time as an undergraduate. It gave me a profound appreciation for Vitamin D pills.
- To the people who talked about the weather every time it was bad: Shut up. You're awful.
- To Novack: I forgive you for making us fat and giving many of us food poisoning. We may have made questionable decisions around you and you mustn't shoulder all the blame.
- To FFB: I forgive you for being unfailingly noisy and making it impossible to concentrate. You've given me years of shameless facetime and for that, I am grateful.
- To the Sun God: I forgive you for making me waste many hours crying and/or trying to avoid you. But please, don't come to graduation. Conan's very squeamish.
- To skiing, frisbee and other outdoor activities: I forgive you for being the thing everyone does here and for making me too lazy, afraid of decapitation and/or high-maintenance to understand your popularity.
- To the "You don't ski and you hate the outdoors?!" people: I'd rather you talk about the weather.
- To the people who didn't tell me every Friday that my column was BRILLIANT: Not only do I forgive you but I am generously giving you another chance.
- To the gym: I forgive you for having at least three out-of-order machines at all times and for playing the oh-so-motivational Sarah McLachlan during peak hours. You make being fat seem like a good option and, for that, the good people at Keystone send their gratitude.
- To my friends: I forgive you for not telling me everyday how much you love me. That would have been creepy. Which I learned when you told me to stop saying it so often. (Besides, we're past words. I can see it in your eyes.)
- To time: I cannot forgive you. (And no, it's not because I'm jealous you can fly.)
So, my dear Dartmouth, no hard feelings. We all have faults (or so I've heard), and it is in these imperfections that we find beauty. I would never have had the balls to design my own major if it didn't seem like an absolute necessity. My right hand would never have stretched to twice its size if your paddles weren't shaped for giants. And I wouldn't be as utterly perfect as I am today if you hadn't pushed me to find my voice. So, to the Class of 2011, I ask you to forgive whoever or whatever at Dartmouth has caused you grief. That way, if you're as lucky (and bat-shit) as I am, the greatest grief you'll feel is leaving this place. Because, after four years, I must admit the truth:
Dartmouth is my favorite.
