Net Cotton Content

Born To Run

My secret can now be told. I've been running.

Just about every morning, Alisa and I get up earlier than our Usual Early and stretch with t'ai chi and run. We're up to about a mile. With several walking breaks.

It's hard.

I'm Weak.
Former P.E. teachers and high school coaches can tell you that I'm a natural cheerleader, but lack the determination to be a natural athlete. I'm a good target in dodgeball. I was the only upperclassman on the track team not to earn a varsity letter the year we won the State Championship.

 I've never really aspired to be the After Guy in the Charles Atlas advertisement. I found a kinship with the Before Guy. He seemed to have more Zen.

Sweat? I prefer to give blood.

I've never found the joy in solitude or next-day aching that my athletic friends report. I envy them.

Still I Exercise.
Over the years, my athleticism has flared up from time to time. I usually treat it with doses of short-distance jogging, light weight-lifting, casual stretching, and sight-seeing bike riding.

Because "I have a fast metabolism" (whatever that means, I've been saying it for 35 years), I'm a fairly skinny guy. People, all my life, have sized me up, saying: "You must be a runner."

"Not really," I answer earnestly. "I have a fast metabolism." We both nod — with knowing tight-lipped smiles — and move on.

On The Road (Again)
My daily regimen includes: T'ai Chi (the exercise I can do for the rest of my life) and running (the exercise I can do for the rest of the summer, maybe). Plus doses of light weight-lifting, casual stretching, and sight-seeing bike riding.

Why?
Exercise, for me, has never been for its own sake. The Be Here Now Crowd says it should be an end unto itself. Happiness should not be deferred.

But it isn't fun for me. I'm doing it for a Greater Good Farther Down the Road.

In high school, it was a way to be engaged (and maybe meet girls). In college, it was a way to meet girls (in co-ed intramurals).

Since parenthood, it's been a way to be fit enough to perform as a parent. I recall my back hurting too much to pick up our first-born. I started working out.

Now, I'm facing a giant hike with our last-born in 30 days: to the bottom of the Grand Canyon and back. I can't afford the emergency helicopter ride out of the canyon.

So I'm running. But only under the Cloak Of Night.

Why Run At Night?
Because I'm running way too slowly to have the neighbors watching.

The Slowness is awkward twice. First of all, I'm moving slowly. It's embarrassing. That's not good.

Secondly, because I'm moving slowly, I'm visible for way too long. I don't race off into the distance. I run in front of their yards for many long moments before I'm even a little ways down the block.

By running at night, I conserve dignity.

Which Reminds Me of An Adage
Brooks Young once told me — when he learned that I was jogging in the dark years ago:

"There are only two types of people outside at that time of night: perpetrators and victims."

Then, he sized me up:

"And I know which one you are."

Which one are you?

Picking Up The Tab

My friend and mentor, Ken tells me that there is an old Spanish proverb (and it rhymes, so don't complain):

Cuando hay barbas mayores,
no pagan los menores.

Roughly translated: When there are old guys, the young folks don't pay.

Happily, Ken is older than I am. And he has a bottle of Spanish brandy.

When do you pick up the tab?

In Gene We Trust

What can we believe?

Seeing is believing.

But can we believe only what we can see?

If so, can I believe in my wife's love for me? It's not observable in clinical trials. (You certainly wouldn't want to watch.)

Some things require faith. Or blissful disregard, I guess. Like the sun will come up tomorrow. I believe that. Or I blissfully disregard it.

Believe You Me
Good ol' Gene Logsdon — a farmer who's not satisfied to merely be organic, he also feels obliged to blog about it — also writes true stories that he passes off as fiction.

Long-time readers of Net Cotton Content (and now there are hundreds, go figure) remember that Gene and I have already exchanged words.

A more recent email exchange tickled my fancy. Words about belief are bold for your ease:

Gene:
"You will find this very hard to believe (I find it very hard to believe) but once (once) (only once) in college, seminary college to boot, I starred in Wilder's Skin of Your Teeth. Just finished another novel making fun of religion. Sorry."

Artie:
"I find myself at a time in my life where it is no longer hard to believe anything. I now believe nearly everything, even when they are contradictory. Put that in your Smith-Corona and schmoke it!"

Gene:
"It certainly is far better to believe in everything than to believe in nothing."

I keep wishing that I had written the last line. I think that believing in nothing is a grim existence.

This might not be as witty as your conversation at home, but Gene liked it so much, he put it in the dialogue between the main characters of a novel that he's just finished. Pope Mary and the Church of Almighty Good Food (working title) is "a gently humorous examination of both the idiocies and brilliances of Catholicism and it is very very much on the theme of what people believe or don't believe about religion."

Gene adds: "So I thank you 'until you are better paid' as the old farmer I once worked for liked to say. He never did get around to better paying me." (Warning to Gene: If my line is spoken by a braying ass, I'm retaining attorney Doug Morgan.)

"It certainly is far better to believe in everything than to believe in nothing." Given that stark choice, which one would you choose?

On Receiving Harsh Criticism

I've heard Ph.D.s say that we should, before interpreting market research data, throw out the top and the bottom comments.

Throw them out? Why simply discard data?

The reason: there are some people who love everything and there are some people who hate everything. They are outliers and their data is little more than distracting.

So throw them out.

I find it easier to throw out the favorable comments than the negative. Especially when the research is on the topic of my own performance.

I Have My Critics
During the past 12 months, I taught nearly 300 students in four graduate and undergraduate classes at two universities and a college.

At the end of each semester (or quarter), the students are polled by the institution. It is an official check on the otherwise remarkable freedom teachers in higher education are given. Unless the students march on the provost's office in disgust (or appreciation), this polling is the only official way for administrators to assess the performance of the teacher and the content of the class.

I receive my batch of student responses after grades are submitted. They are always anonymous. (In the old days, I could recognize a few for their handwriting, but now everything is submitted electronically.)

Usually, I read them — show them to my family — and then discard them.

Last night, I received this batch from my spring class of students at Ohio State. If you read them all, you'll see very dear, very appreciative comments. My heart swells when reading them.

Not All Roses
Lest you think this also swells my head, one of them stood out because it is negative.

More than negative, however. It is more like a kidney punch. In its entirety:

"He is by far the worst teacher i have had at ohio state, and probably one of the worst people i've met. I have never met such a self centered individual who thinks there is only one way to do things and it's his way. I took the class when Michael Camp recommended it and i had high expectations going into it, and they were totally unmet. The subject matter of the course was uncalled for. I do not care what Artie's sex life is, and i could care less that he doesn't have a TV, or that his kids should never be better than anyone else, because that seems to send one of the worst messages possible, settle for less...way to go artie. I also happen to think that it is entirely wrong for his wife to grade our papers, and he said it himself that she did. He's the most off the wall person I've met, and i wasted a lot of time in his class."

My first thoughts were, in order:

1. Ouch. I could feel "ouch."
2. Are there other comments that are negative? No. Good.
3. Do I have any idea who this is? No. Good, I guess.
4. Let me reread this.
5. Wow. These are words of anger.
6. Wait a minute. I'm "one of the worst people" this student has ever met? I don't think I've ever heard that from anyone. 
7. Overall, this makes me sad. But what can I learn from it?
8. Let me reread the positive comments.

Then, I went to bed thinking about this negative comment.

A quick note about my wife: With her M.B.A. from Columbia, her B.S. in industrial management from Purdue, and her brand new master's degree in nursing from Ohio State, Alisa has been my T.A. for grading for nearly two decades. She is wonderfully able to discern degrees of quality. She grades more precisely and more objectively than I do. We debate individual grades. I'm still responsible for the results.

A quick note about my kids: I've said that my children don't automatically deserve advantages that other children don't get — and that having these advantages (the luck of birth, of affluence) isn't necessarily good for them. (I'll explore this on another day.)

A quick note about my sex life: I refer to all aspects of the human condition, like I do here on Net Cotton Content. I'm more constrained in class than I am here.

I'm one of the worst people this person has ever met?

Why So Nasty?
These days, many people start any argument nastily. That's where they start. They start nasty.

They hear such immediate nastiness in various media. Their role models start nasty.

How sad.

Mind Your Backpack
When I started college-level teaching — it was in the School of Journalism at Ohio State in the mid-1990s — I shared an office with other adjunct instructors. I never met them (because we passed like ships in the night), but one had placed a single student assessment on the otherwise empty bulletin board over the shared desk.

The anonymous assessment was little more than this comment: "This teacher is so absurd and ill-suited to teach. Someone should tell him to wear his backpack with only one strap over one shoulder, rather than both straps over both shoulders."

I'm not kidding.

And I always think of this when I put my backpack on!

Why I Never Throw Out The Nastiest Assessment
Perhaps the appearance of someone who detests me and my teaching is a sign that I was heard and that I took chances.

And, though I want to be liked, my primary purpose as a teacher is not to win friends. My primary purpose is to teach.

A teacher (on the subject of Israel's relationship with European nations) once said that Dale Carnegie's famous title — How To Win Friends And Influence People — should have been slightly different: How To Win Friends Or Influence People.

Because, alas, you can't have it both way.

I guess I do really hope that I'm one of the worst people you ever meet. I'll try to bring up the rear with dignity.

P.S. Don't forget to read the positive comments, too!

To the Class of 2009

In Praise of Speed Bumps
(or "A Summer Breath")

For the Laurel School Class of 2009
on the joyous occasion of their commencement
on June 11, 2009, 10 a.m.,
at Severance Hall in Cleveland, Ohio.

Thank you, Anne Juster, chair of the Board of Trustees, members of the board of trustees, esteemed faculty, the venerable abbott, Miss Orlando, proud parents, loving siblings, grandparents, aunts and uncles. Thank you, Ann Klotz, my college classmate, my teacher, my friend.

And to the class of 2009, in all your wonderful fabulousness, thank you.

Thank you for inviting me to speak today. I am very grateful.

Thank you, also — to everyone in this hall — for bringing these girls to this moment, this recognition of achievement, this launching into the bright and challenging future. That is an accomplishment. You have created active learners who — in the school's rallying cry — Dare. Dream. Do.

So let me start by thanking all of you here, especially the parents, the faculty and the girls. The world needs more educated people, more educated women. Thank you all for rising to this challenge.

No one here in this magnificent hall knows these girls less than I do. That's not fair. I want to know them better, and yet here I am, speaking to them, but not really facing them. So I'm going to set up this little mirror. [Arrange mirror on downstage podium to see girls upstage.] There you are!

***********

I feel like a speed bump.

You all are moving very fast. I can imagine your homes this morning. A frenzy of hustle-bustle. Getting ready for a big day. Families are in town. Our girl is growing up. You must have a proper breakfast. This is the day we've known was coming for many years. Where's Uncle Louie? Where are my white shoes?

Speaking of white shoes, my late father had an expression. You see, we live in a backwater called Columbus. Sure, it is the state capital, but it has none of the sophistication of cosmopolitan Cleveland. (As far as you know.)

My father's expression was "Full Cleveland." That's what my father would say whenever he saw someone wearing a white belt and white shoes. As in, "See that fellow? Full Cleveland."

Either he thought that such fancy people must have come from Cleveland. Or maybe they were from Columbus, but had gotten dressed up to go to Cleveland. I don't know.

"Half Cleveland" meant a white belt or white shoes.

I'm glad to be here today in Cleveland. I'd like to meet anyone who is in Full Cleveland. You know who you are. Come say "hi" at the reception.

Well, anyway, back in your homes this morning, things were moving so fast. C'mon, find your shoes, we have to get going. We're going to be late. We don't want to be late. We can't be late for graduation. C'mon. C'mon. C'mon. We don’t want to miss the graduation speaker.

"We don't want to miss the graduation speaker?"

I know that none of you said that at breakfast today.

You have been looking forward to everything about this day — everything except this speech. You are on a fast-paced journey and are forced to pause for this speech. The very idea of a graduation speech: it's designed to slow everything down.

So, here I am, the speed bump on your race for diplomas. I'm going to play the role to its fullest. Let's slow down.

Let us ponder the lowly speed bump.
According to Wikipedia:

A speed bump — in British English, a "speed hump," "road hump" or "sleeping policeman" — a velocity-reducing feature of road design to slow traffic or reduce through traffic. A speed bump is a bump in a roadway with heights typically ranging between 3 and 4 inches. The length of speed bumps are typically less than or near to 1 foot; whereas speed humps are longer and are typically 10 to 14 feet in length.

Say, is anyone here a transportation engineer? Yes! Isn't this the best graduation speech you have ever heard?

Speed bumps are also known as a "traffic calming device." I like that phrase: traffic calming.

Our lives are spent driving through traffic. Especially since you all got your driver's licenses.

But our lives are spent driving more than cars. We drive ourselves. We are ambitious, so we are driven to achieve. We drive hard through our to-do lists. We drive hard in every aspect of our lives. We are driven.

Some days are so fast-paced that it isn't until night, as you rest your head on your pillow, when you finally think, "What did I do today? Did I do all that today?"

We spend our days as highly functional people, doing many things — doing doing doing — we are humans doing. Dare. Dream. Do!

How do we balance our lives as humans doing with the simple but elusive joy of being human beings? That is, how do we engage in the simple act of being human?

I study creative people. And I find that the most creative, healthiest people understand how to find a moment of calm amid the madness and frenzy of the day.

They Dare. Dream. Do. Be.

We could all stand for a little traffic calming.

So, as today's ceremonial speed bump, I am going to teach you a lesson in calming.

***************

To be calm, one must catch one's breath.
Today, that's a challenge.

This moment is breathtaking. And you are all so breathtaking.

We are all trying to capture this moment as it speeds past. Modern, affluent people try to capture the moment with video cameras. Whenever I see someone holding one, I see a person trying to hold onto time.

Let me offer another way to capture the moment.

It comes from the writings of Thich Nhat Hanh. He's a Buddhist monk, an exile from Vietnam. He now lives in a community he created in France called "Plum Village." He travels the world to teach people — among other things — how to capture time by living in the present.

I know what you're thinking: it's not even noon and you've already come across two Buddhists. What is it? Are they suddenly everywhere? [Look all around, the podium, as if looking for yet another Buddhist.] Here's one! Here's one!

Let me clarify that I am not a Buddhist. (I think, technically, I am a "Jew-bu.") But I do think the Buddhists are very smart and I would like to teach you one small thing that I do know about the tradition.

Before I do, let me add that I'm not recruiting Buddhists. I think of Buddhism like I think of Topeka, Kansas. You want to live there? Go. I don't think it will conflict with your current religion, or your current lack of religion. Unless you are Amish, which might make Topeka the wrong place to settle down. I don't know. 

Anyway, here is most of what I know about Buddhism.
First of all, let's recognize that you are distracted. Yes, you are sitting here in this fancy hall on this important day and there is this goofy guy in a bow tie talking to you. That's what's happening now.

But you are also thinking about another moment — in the very near future, just minutes away — when diplomas will be granted.

And you are also thinking about another moment — a little later — when we will process out of here into this fine day — and then there are luncheons and then parties and then summer — and then packing for college and moving on.

There is much to distract you.

Even I am distracted by this moment in your lives.

But this is the summer of moving on.
The prospect of freedom and opportunity both elates and intimidates. When Ms. Klotz and I arrived at college, the then new president of Yale, Bart Giamatti, greeted us with a speech describing the summer before college. He said this, which I remember vividly: "The worm of apprehension bit deep in the bud of anticipation." (He was a scholar of Dante, so he was allowed to talk that way.)

As you sit here today, all of you are filled with apprehension and anticipation. They distract you from my words, from this very moment. The future calls, and you are tempted to live in the future — When will we move the tassels on these silly hats? When will we throw them in the air? Will I dance all night tonight? Will I like college?

Capturing the moment is a challenge for more than right now. It will be a challenge all summer. How can I keep the summer from simply flying by? How can I leap into it? How can I remember this swim in cold water, this icy glass of lemonade, this moment with my friends?

But a person cannot live in the present, the past and the future all at once.

And our very happiness may be at stake.
Daniel Gilbert, a Harvard professor, teaches on happiness. (Imagine that: he teaches happiness at Harvard. I do hope he is happy.) In Gilbert's book, Stumbling On Happiness, he says that much happiness is lost because we are always deferring it. We eat broccoli now, so we might be healthy later. Then, it finally is later, and we again defer our happiness yet farther into the future.

It's important to plan ahead. Laurel has prepared you for the future. At Laurel, your achievements have been celebrated. But it has also always been critical that you be living good lives, in the here and now, day by day.

The strategy for happy living is to constantly return ourselves to the present moment, so that even this one, right now, is a happy one.

The Buddhists are very good at living in the present.

They teach: Rather than being distracted by anything and everything, choose a single distraction: choose your breath.

That is, all the time, even as I am speaking now, think about your breath. You might think, silently, "inhale… exhale… inhale… exhale…" with your breath. Or "in, out, in, out."

This sounds odd, almost like a medical exam. And it seems like I am suggesting you become distracted by your breath.

I am.

But it makes sense.
Because, after all, we already agreed that we are distracted by the clamor of the day. It's hard to concentrate on the present when the worm of apprehension is biting deep in the bud of anticipation.

So, since we are all to be distracted by one thing or another, we can choose our breath to be the distraction. As a distraction, it's not all that fascinating really, so it remains secondary in our minds. Primary in our mind is whatever we are doing right now. In the present. Like enjoying this moment.

Focusing on my breath to live in the present. It seems very simple, but it is also the most difficult thing I do all day.

Do you want to play the home version of today's game?
Let me teach you a little poem by Thich Nhat Hahn. It works especially well when you are driving.

And, frankly, tuition was expensive. Why not take one more lesson in this last moment of school? It's nice that your final lesson comes as a poem on breathing.

Here it is. (It doesn't rhyme. It's not that kind of poem.) Four short lines:

Breathing in, I relax my body.
Breathing out, I smile.
Dwelling in the present moment,
This is a wonderful moment.

Like much poetry, it is deceptively simple. Let's break it down.

Breathing in, I relax my body.

That's easy enough. Let's do it together.

Breathing in, I relax my body.
Breathing out, I smile.

It's not one of those broad smiles. It's a smile like Mona Lisa's. A smile that is enough to make your body think you are happy about something.

Let's try. Smile.

The last two lines are more conceptual:

Dwelling in the present moment,
This is a wonderful moment.

This just states that life is lived in the present. And this moment is a wonderful moment.

That's easy to agree with right now, during a grand ceremony. But it is also true when washing dishes or sitting with a friend.

As you learn to find simple meaning and enjoyment in mundane moments, like washing dishes, then you become a lot less likely to use drugs and alcohol to spice up your life or — as we see nationally among college students — to use Ritalin or Adderall off label to increase your cognitive alertness.

Oh, I'm all for more cognitive alertness. I've seen how you all drive here in Cleveland. You could stand to turn down the radio and be more mindful about your breath.

Breathing in, I relax my body.
Breathing out, I smile.
Dwelling in the present moment,
This is a wonderful moment.

Two more thoughts about our breath.
The air around us is the same air that has always been around. We have certainly thrown up some ash and soot, but it is the same air.

For example, we are breathing the same air that Mozart breathed. Or Jane Austen! "Mrs. Darcy." "Mrs. Darcy." "Mrs. Darcy."

Here's the second thought: You might be the first generation in your family to breathe. (Your parent's generation didn't even inhale.) Truly, I sometimes feel that it's Friday dinner before I take what seems like the first full breath of the week.

Do your parents breath? Or do they seem like they are constantly holding their breaths? I don't raise this in order to criticize anyone's parents. I raise this to remind you that — as you receive your diploma — you are also expected to choose which attributes you will inherit from your parents.

So, you might pause right now to take a good look at them: and commit yourself to adopting their best attributes. And avoiding the attributes you do not want.

Even if they don't breath, you can.

You can breathe to become more creative.
To regain your childlike grasp on the present.

Laurel has taught you so many ways to strengthen your creativity. I've added one more. I believe the single greatest thing you can do to increase your creativity and your quality of life is to breathe more mindfully. It's like a creativity workout.

Which reminds me of one more thought.

We understand working out. To be more fit, we must work out. To be more creative, we must breathe — to live in the present. It's funny to me how people will work out to be fit, but do nothing to make themselves more creative — and just say, "Oh, I'm not creative."

Doing nothing to consciously strengthen your creativity, yet waiting for a spontaneous moment of creativity, is like not working out, but hoping for a spontaneous moment of fitness.

***************

All right. You've passed the final speed bump.

Bring on the diplomas.

[Deep breath.]

[Deliver as a blessing to the girls with arms gently raised:] May you have a life of beauty, love, satisfaction, peace, health, and happiness.

Congratulations.

Photo credits (Severance Hall): David Shoenfelt

P.S. Read this.

On Writing A Commencement Speech

As my friend Nancy points out in a message this morning, this is a particularly hard week of the year for commencement speakers. This is the week that they are all writing their speeches.

These speakers know:

• Nobody wants to hear it. Students want to get that diploma and go to that party and get to the pool and pack for college. The speaker is the final speed bump.
• Everything has already been said. Can't beat Steve Jobs at Stanford in 2005. (Brilliant speech. And the audience couldn't look more bored.)
• Tough audience. "Too long" and "Bo-ring" are inevitable assessments.
• It will be forever. The graduates and attendees have paid dearly for this speech and will remember it. It might be on YouTube an hour later.

Yesterday, I visited with some of the wonderful girls — and their beloved head of school, Ann Klotz — at Laurel School in Shaker Heights, Ohio.

My purpose: to hear from the girls what's going on, so I can better prepare for next week's commencement ceremony, where I am to address the graduating students, and the faculty, families, friends and other students.

Ten o'clock at Severance Hall. If you want to come, you need tickets. They're free, but you still need a ticket, because it is a fancy place,worthy of security. (Let me know if you want a ticket.)

Can't Deliver What Ain't Cooked
As any pizzeria knows, if next week is the delivery, I have to write the darn thing this week. (Note: I don't really know how long it takes to make pizza.)

What do great commencement speeches have?

• A celebrity. Too late for that. I'm not going to be famous for anything before next Thursday. (My father once told me: "No Jewish family has been in this country as long as we without producing even one famous person.")
• A revelation. Nothing much here, either. While I await an epiphany, I had better pound out a rough draft, just in case. The ceremony will be in Severance Hall, so anything might sound important.
• Respect for time. This I can do. They're only giving me 15 minutes. I will write 14 minutes of something.
• Strong delivery. I'll practice. No do-overs.
• Make people laugh. Since people will be in a pretty good mood, I'll grab for this one. Yesterday, one of the students asked, "Will you be clever and witty? That's why we asked you to speak." I promised to be clever or witty, or both, but not at the same time.
• Be personal. Really, this is all any speaker can do: tell her or his own story.
• Calm. Everyone is anxious, facing the uncertain future. Parents, especially, need comforting.

So, I'm reflecting on speeches I've given to graduating students.
I spoke at my high school graduation (a poorly conceived, forgettable speech), at my business school graduation (the speech was OK, but none of us really wanted to hear it), and at the graduation at my high school about a decade after I graduated.

Of all the speeches I've given, that last speech — at the 74th Commencement of The Columbus Academy 22 years ago — remains among the speeches for which I most prepared. I wrote draft after draft, really sweating everything, running each draft past Duncan McCurrach, the most expensive lawyer I could never afford. (It was cheaper to name our own son Duncan.)

Afterward, I received only one complaint, which I'll recount below.

Now that I've visited the girls of Laurel, I have to get cracking. So I dug out the old Columbus Academy 1987. You can decide whether it's aged like a fine wine. It seems dated to me — but it also seems to predict who I would become as well as some self-imposed limitations.

Here it is. You can use it.

I remember that the entire ceremony — traditionally in the sunshine of the schools central courtyard ("The Quadrangle") —  was pushed inside the gymnasium at the last minute because of rain. I was disappointed, the audience was uncomfortable, and one older fellow collapsed and was carried away just before I spoke. I don't remember who he was or if he recovered.

(Oh, and it was a boys' school, so all the pronouns are masculine.)

If the speech gets boring (it does for me), skip to the phrase "In college you will encounter remarkable freedom." I put it in big red letters, so you can find it easily.

To this day, I remain grateful for Headmaster Bo Dixon, who got me into college and then invited me back to speak a decade later.

Commencement Address
The Columbus Academy
Gahanna, Ohio
June 12, 1987

Two months ago the phone rang. It was Bo Dixon. We got to chatting about things. He told me that it was The Academy's 75th year. I already knew that; I had been celebrating all year. So I told him that it was the 200th Anniversary of The Constitution.

After a moment of silence, he asked me which amendment in the Bill of Rights was -- in my opinion -- the most important. I wracked my brain -- I drifted back to Rainey Taylor's course in American History. Sorry, Mr. Taylor, but I could only remember three of those amendments. So I told Bo that the most important liberty was Free Speech.

Bo said, "Great! See you at The Academy on June 12th."

************

Graduates, this summer adults will meet you, will listen to your description of your plans for the Fall, and will tell you, "Oh what a great time of life. I wish I were you. So carefree. So happy-go-lucky."

I beg of you, don't resort to violence. Often I think the same well-intentioned thoughts that those forgetful oldsters think.

Often I remember my years at The Academy, and my years at college, even my first years in the workplace and I say to myself, "Artie, those were the days. Things were much easier then. So carefree. So happy-go-lucky." The Academy in my faulty memory is a hilltop of pleasure, always lush in springtime. There I am with all my friends. We laugh and sing and play dodgeball all day.

Upon further reflection, however, I remember the true context of all those dodgeball games. There were also those building blocks of character: trauma and turmoil. There was the Junior Speech. There were girls that would not go out with me, especially when I was too nervous to ask them in the first place. There was the Dress Code. There were faculty who would catch me in some mortal crime, point at me and say: "That's Time!"

And there was Latin and there was History -- The Bill of Rights and its, oh, three or four amendments. "What that April, with here shires sote/The draught of March hath pierced to the rote."

Yet, as dramatic as those moments were, I now remember that they paled before the summer spent wondering what college would be like. As our college president put it, during that summer "the worm of apprehension bit deep in the bud of anticipation!" Roughly translated: the prospect of freedom and opportunity both elates and intimidates.

But most people you meet in passing will seem to have forgotten. It's not just when they say, "Oh how I wish I could be in your shoes." They mean, "Oh, how I wish I could be in your shoes knowing what I know now."

Hearing such a glowing appraisal of your predicament can be frustrating. You might think these people knew at your age what they wanted to do with their lives. While it is true that some people know when they are Freshmen in college that they want to be poets or doctors or captains of business, and they actually go on to pursue that goal, that is the exception and hardly the rule.

Indeed, I remember when I first met the president of the company I joined after college. He immediately asked me what my Five Year Plan was. I wasn't thinking five years; I was thinking tomorrow: How could I make my only two suits look different on the third and fourth days of my new job? The only Five Year Plans I had ever heard of were those I vaguely remembered from Russian History, and I wasn't too impressed with the results. I told him that my Five Year Plan was to have a Five Year Plan in, say, five years. Now it's five years later and I'm still working on it.

Having given his question much more thought since then, I think that it's better not to have a Five Year Plan which targets a particular result for your life. As an example, many of my peers have defined Five Year Plans, especially at the Columbia Business School where sixty percent of my class is studying finance and hoping to be swept into investment banking. Their Five Year Plan is to pursue money.

Everybody's talking about money these days. From Bryant Gumble at dawn to Ted Koppel at midnight. That's probably not a surprise. People have always rushed to maturing gold mines. On Wall Street they rush for money just like they rushed for it in Silicon Valley three years ago, or in Texas five years ago.

[Note (2009): Why was I expressing such contempt for money? I think it was a blend of jealousy and my lack of courage to chase such opportunities. -- Artie]

Before that it seems that people all over America aimed for more worthwhile, more substantial goals -- productivity, family, community, quality. And, quite often, money followed their success.

Now people talk about making money as the end in and of itself, as the goal in the new Profession of Making Money.

Don't get me wrong. I like money. But once I had worked for a year and found myself able to afford New York City's criminally expensive slum living, I was no longer captivated by the money my career was offering. Again, not because I don't enjoy what money can buy. Rather, because money is an anti-climactic and narrow goal for your life.

Why am I against any Five Year Plan which dictates specific results for your life? Because having such results-oriented goals while in college or a first job is not critical to your growth and productivity. It is not necessary for happy, responsible living. In fact, it may be a crutch which prevents you from realizing your potential.

I have no regrets for my years in college and in my first job, because those years were by no means wasted. Instead of targeting a particular result for my life, I decided to adopt a two-part code of conduct and let the results follow as they may.

First, I would be confident of my abilities. I jumped from the Central Buckeye League to a national league, a much larger fish bowl. I knew very quickly that The Academy had prepared me well for carving out my own identity in college. Once I saw this, I decided to remain confident. In the end, I proved that the campus community should not be feared as a Goliath. It was a collection of my equals (more or less), challenging the limits of their own abilities and wondering what the future would bring.

Second, I took responsibility for my performance. Because my confidence was -- and is -- not always enough, I had to be willing to make, and learn from, my mistakes. (I've made some good ones that we don't need to go into right now.) But I knew that I had made my own decisions -- so I always knew that I must take final responsibility for my performance -- good or bad.

By being confident, once can best use his abilities. By taking responsibility, one gains self-respect, builds even more confidence, and earns a reputation for honesty. With this code, I continued to pursue a liberal education and experiences that would make me able to do many things, without shutting too many doors of opportunity.

Of course, I could not keep every opportunity available. Some doors of opportunity are genetically shut: I am too small to play N-F-L football; I am too tall to be a jockey. Some doors of opportunity are shut automatically: By taking my time to decide what I want to do with my life, I am too late to be a ballet star. But still I've managed to keep a surprising large number of doors open.

I believe that today, this is the best position I can be in. People of our generation -- you and I -- are expected to have an average of six to ten different careers. Not jobs, careers. We must be generalists ready for the changing world around us.

The Academy prepares you for college, supplying you with the tools you will need. The tools are math and reading and history. They are also sportsmanship and ethics. But the greatest tool is the special relationship that you hold with members of the faculty, staff and student body. Stay in touch with this wealth. To this day, my best friends include classmates from The Academy, some of whom I've gotten to know since graduation. And having known a teacher as a master, coach and friend will forever urge you to meet experts in strange fields.

A liberal arts education aims to make you a generalist. You take the tools from The Academy and then you learn how to learn, how to make mistakes, how to establish your own identity in an ocean of talented people and bozos.

In college you will encounter remarkable freedom.
New thoughts will challenge all you know. Many times, what you hear and see will surprise you with such information that you will have to change your mind. That's O.K. You can change your mind as often as you like. More than ever before, you will be on your own to choose your friends, your course of study, your entertainment, your bedtime.

Will you fight racism? Will you be a vegetarian? Will you support a covert war in Central America? Will you stay up all night? Decisions should be made on the basis of your experience when and as the questions arise. Don't make up your mind before it's necessary, before you are equipped to make the decision. It may seem simpler to face life with clear-cut rules and beliefs, but the costs of being wrong outweigh the benefits of that simplicity. 

Ask for advice from family, faculty and friends. Your best advisers will explain how they arrived at their own lifestyles, and leave you to choose for yourself. No one, no one, no one can tell you what method of living is right for you. When someone or something tries to usurp your right to choose, question authority. Many times, the powers that be are right. But not always. Adopt a way of life that will allow you to use your freedom. Question authority. Relish your freedom. And make choices of which you are proud, for which you will take responsibility.   

It is nine years since I sat in your seat in the sun and listened to some other self-proclaimed expert-on-life tell me how he wished he were in my shoes, how I must be so happy-go-lucky, and only now am I able to begin to see the outlines of the direction of want my life to take. Maybe I'm a late bloomer, but because I remained confident and took responsibility for my delay, I would have it no other way. Everything I have heard in the last nine years has reshaped the context in which I live -- and has demanded that I redirect or finetune my life. And the world continues changing. So, while I pursue a specific career, I will have to remain a generalist who specializes in anticipating what the world may demand of me tomorrow.

You should do the same. After you move from the Central Buckeye League, and then from the N-C-double-A, you will find yourself in a World Series. The world is smaller than ever before, and we must anticipate other economies. Do not believe, as I did, that we can relax and wait for the world to learn English and adapt to our customs. We are a newcomer in the world, and our competition hints that our day in first place might be over for now.

A recent lesson of the costs of deciding too early, closing your mind too early, is offered by a successful Japanese business leader who says, "I have the advantage when I meet an American. He does not know my language; I know his and have come to love his literature and theatre. He does not know my country's history; I know his from its very beginning and have read the U.S. Constitution. I know his culture and can anticipate many of his expectations. He does not know how I think." I was startled when I heard this because I recognized myself as a complacent American who is at a disadvantage to this man, and to the one-in-four students at Columbia Business School who are foreign-born and have fought much harder to go there.

That advice -- learn another language, learn another culture -- is too specific for today's purpose. You will be told that at college. Today, as most days, Conrad's Marlow gives us the best advice. He says, regarding life, adventure, college, "The most you can hope is some knowledge of yourself." And -- I will add -- a little fun.

So relax if you don't know what you will do with your life. College can, and hopefully will, teach you how to learn about yourself. And also how to tell the difference between knowing facts and knowing when to use them. That's the true value of all your knowledge.

************

Which reminds me of a friend of mine who is an actor. He's not a great actor but he is diligent. Every morning he makes the rounds of all the talent scouts in Times Square, knocking on doors asking if there is a role for him.

During another long morning of rejection, he knocked on another door and opened it and asked the talent scout, "Do you know of any parts for me?"

The scout shushed him. He was on the phone. "Uh, huh. Uh, huh," the scout was saying. He covered the mouthpiece and barked at the actor, "You an actor?"

"Yes, sir, I am."

"Yeah, I got an actor...Uh, huh...Uh, huh...(turning to the actor) Can you say, 'Hark! Is that a cannon's roar I hear?'"

"Hark! Is that a cannon's roar I hear?" said the actor, his chest puffing, his brow furrowed.

"Have I got the perfect guy for you," the scout says, and then hangs up the phone. "O.K., kid. This is your lucky day. But you gotta go to Grand Central Station now. Catch the next train to Stamford. A regular actor fell sick at the dinner theater there. Remember, 'Hark! Is that a cannon's roar I hear?'"

My friend rushed out the door and down the elevator. "Hark! Is that a cannon's roar I hear?" He jumped into a taxicab. "Grand Central," he ordered. "Hark! Is that a cannon's roar I hear?" They screeched into Grand Central. He jumped on the train as it lurched out of the station. "Hark! Is that a cannon's roar I hear?... Hark! Is that a cannon's roar I hear?"

"Next stop: Stamford Station!"

As the train arrives at the station, a car skids to a halt and the stage manager jumps out. "Are you the actor?"

"Hark! Is that a cannon's roar I hear?"

"Get in! We don't have a moment to lose!" They speed away as the actor puts on his costume in the back seat. "Hark! Is that a cannon's roar I hear?" They spin to a stop on the gravel driveway of the theater.

The stage manager drags him into the back door of the theatre. "Hark! Is that a cannon's roar I hear?... Hark! Is that a cannon's roar I hear?" They feels their way backstage in the pitch darkness. Al of the sudden, the stage manage pushes him through the small opening in the stage curtain and -- FLASH! BOOM!

"What the hell was that?"

************

Most of us can't play a specific role until we know what kind of characters we are. Until then, be confident and take responsibility. 

Thank you.

I sat down, top students received awards, the diplomae were distributed amid much joy, and Greg Jacobs spoke beautifully for the class of '87.

The Complaint
As the attendees filed out, several said nice words to me. As a relatively unseasoned speaker, I didn't hear the kind words. I heard only the complaint. It was something like this:

"Of course, you overstated the freedom of choice that faces these young people."

I looked quizzically at the man. He explained:

"You neglected to recognize that there aren't as many choices, because God has a plan for us."

Having had my say, I think I said, simply, "Oh."

Well, That Killed An Hour
Now I'd better get writing.

But First This...
Here's the very kind introduction, offered by David Carlin:

When Mr. Dixon asked me to introduce Artie Isaac, I asked him to tell me some pertinent biographical information. I watched a smile grow to a laugh, and I know Bo well enough to realize that I was in for an interesting answer.

He said that Artie was the valedictorian in his class, was the editor of The Academy Life, and was clearly a major spokesperson for his class. Reportedly, his first words to the new headmaster in July, 1977 were, "Hey, Coach, when are you going to remove those ridiculous speed bumps [from the country day school's long driveway]?" I am told that Bart Giamatti at Yale also earned the title and answered to "Hey, Coach."

Mr. Dixon went on to recall that Artie was the school's head cheerleader and took pride in experimenting with the outrageous to incite the Vikes -- including crowning one of his classmates Homecoming King. During basketball game time outs, he would simulate an Olympic sculler -- rowing from the baseline to the midcourt to the delight of our fans. What was particularly educational was observing the various reactions of fans from such places as West Jefferson and Grandview. It was worth the price of admission, and more than once opposing coaches and players would prematurely stop plotting their timeout strategies to gape at this figure gliding across the floor to the rhythmic chant of "Stroke! Stroke!"

Artie graduated from The Academy in 1978, because as he says "growing up was much easier then." After graduating from Yale with honors [Note: This is not true. I think I said, "It was an honor to graduate."-- Artie] in 1982, he joined a small New York based public relations firm and became director of the firm's investor relations division. In 1986, he retired to drive 9,000 miles across 15 countries in Europe. Artie admits that he may not have found himself, but he did manage to deplete his savings and learn how to shrug his shoulders in five languages. He entered Columbia Business School last fall and expects to receive his M.B.A. in May 1988. He calls this summer his last summer vacation and is working in consumer marketing for AT&T International Long Distance, encouraging U.S. citizens to run up large phone bills.

It is an honor for me to welcome back one of our own. Artie's father graduated from The Academy in 1935; his mother, Jackie, has served as President of the Mothers' Association. Mort Isaac '29, Fred Isaac and Tom Isaac, both class of '66 are all distinguished alumni. Please welcome Arthur J. Isaac III '78.

Thanks, David!