Tayari's Blog: GCSU Convocation Address

In preparing for this address, I talked to a lot of people, and asked them what they wished they had been told at the start of their college careers. I asked people at all different stages, people with varying degrees of what you might call success, and of course, I mined my own memory, and tried to boil it down to something concentrated and meaningful. There will be contradictions in what follows, but that’s to be expected.

Your parents and your communities have worked hard to prepare you for this moment and you have no doubt worked hard to prepare yourself. The admissions committee of this university selected you based on your applications, your test scores, your fine essays, the letters written by your teachers and counselors, vouching for you. I think of this, as your history. All you have learned this far as gotten you where you are today, seated in this beautiful courtyard, with your life’s work ahead of you. Embrace it—your memories, your triumphs, the values taught by your home communities. Be grateful for these because this is what has made you what you are and will be the foundation for what comes next.

While I am not asking you to forget everything your parents taught you, or to disregard these values, I want you to question them. I don’t mean pose soft-ball questions, I want you to shake them from the bottom up and see what happens. College is the perfect place for that sort of exploration work. Your helpers are seated all around you. Explore a new way of talking. Even when the conversation is heated, listen to the other person. Don’t let your mind race ahead, trying to come up with a counter argument. Instead just listen, consider, and prepare for the possibility of being wrong. There’s no shame in growth.

All of you are talented. If you weren’t you wouldn’t be here. Some of you might already know what your talent is. I was invited to speak to you because I am a writer. I’ve always known that writing is my passion and hoped that it was my talent. But what I’ll tell you next may come as a surprise. When I started college, I declared myself to be a pre-med major. I checked that box by pre-med, because somewhere I had gotten the impression that smart people majored in the sciences. I was on this path for about three excruciating weeks until I finally accepted that I wasn’t the best student in math and I didn’t really like it, so I changed my major: to political science. Why Poli Sci? Because once it became clear to me that I wasn’t going to become a doctor, I thought that maybe I was supposed to be lawyer. What motivated me in these choices? I wanted to be successful, whatever that meant. I wanted my parents to be proud of me. I wanted to make money when I got out of school.

I had been a writer since I was eight years old, stapling together storybooks and distributing them to my grade school peers, but when I started college, I never considered it as a real career path for myself. When switched over to the English major, I was still holding on to that law school dream. Luckily, as I was enrolled in those literature classes, calling myself preparing for the LSAT, my true passions called out to me. I loved literature for its own sake, not just because “good writing skills will help you get into law school.” I wrote because I love it, because I felt most alive when I was writing stories. I was in my sophomore year in college when I stumbled on the kernel of an idea for Leaving Atlanta. I tucked it away in my heart and never said the words law school again.

To be fair, I didn’t exactly shout from the rooftops that I planned to make my life as a writer. I knew the question would be “then how do you plan to make a living.” And that brings us to my next contradictory thought. Of course, we all want to take care of ourselves. The purpose of an education is to prepare you for life and living life involves money. I am sure that you don’t need to me tell you which professions pay and which don’t. On my home campus, there was some sort of professional organization passing out flyers telling students which medical specialties are most lucrative. I picked up the flyer, even though it is a little late in the game for me to change course, but I was attracted by all those dollar signs. Who wouldn’t be? There’s no shame in being interested in money.

The highest paying medical specialty was eye surgery. I couldn’t help thinking that if I ever need surgery on my eyes, I hope I am not going under the knife of a doctor who was drawn to the field for the money. I want a doctor who is fascinated by the miracle of human vision. I want someone infinitely fascinated by the delicate construction of the retina. Give me a doctor that works abroad in the summer correcting the vision of children in developing nation. I would never trust my eyes to someone that I knew was just trying to make a buck.

My generous mentor, Pearl Cleage, told me, way back when I was a junior in college. “You want to get paid for your writing, but you don’t want to have to write for money.”

I have been out of college for almost twenty years now, but I am still in touch with my mentor, Pearl Cleage. It’s easy now to see that she was an excellent choice of a mentor, but when I was in her class—she had not yet written the novel that would be chosen by Oprah, her plays were not yet performed all over the world by award winning actors. When I was a student in her class, she was a young professor, teaching part-time. I didn’t read her resume and decide that I wanted to learn whatever she had to teach me. I looked at her, and I didn’t see what I hoped to accomplished. I looked at Pearl and saw what I wanted to be—a real artist, scholar and activist.

One weekend, she invited the class to see a show she was putting on. I think it was called “Live at Club Zebra.” The performance was fantastic. There were poetry readings, political satire, and choreographed dancing. When the artists took a bow at the end, even the waitstaff joined in the standing ovation. The following week in class, I complimented her on the show and said something stupid like “There were so many people there, you must have made a killing.” She laughed and said that most of the cover charge went to pay for the space. “But I think we broke even,” she said. I was floored and excited and the same time.

Another piece of advice she gave me. “Follow your passion. You’ll figure out how to make a living from it.” I did and I have.
I would like to add to this, as it is only fitting that each generation improve upon the lessons passed down. If you follow your passions, they will enrich you, but you then have an obligation to use those talents to enrich the world. We are citizens of our individual communities, but we are also citizens of the globe. No matter what you choose to study, what line of work you choose to pursue, the world needs your gift and needs to desperately. Let’s say your passion leads you to plastic surgery. Although much of your work day may be consumed by frivolous procedures—a little lipo here, a little botox there and many many trips to the bank. Humanity still needs you. There are people all over the world unable to lead normal lives because of facial deformities. Simply put if the physicians from Doctor 90210 have something meaningful to offer the society, then certainly every person in this class has a gift, a talent, a passion, that can make this world a better place and a safer place for the generation to follow.

But let’s not get ahead of ourselves. Or I suppose this is another of my contradictions. This is a time in your life to look to the future, but at the same time live in the NOW. You will meet people who will tell you that college is not the “real” world. They will drive you crazy, probably, tell you that the “real” world is like this, or like that. Let me tell you. The life you are living right now is real. Embrace it. The friendships you make here will matter and will follow you forever. People will tell you that college is easy, that you are living in a cocoon. You are not. The next four years will be some of the most challenging and rewarding of your entire life. Of course, there is a another built in contradiction. In many ways college can be like a cocoon, but only if you are fearful and construct your experience in such a way that you avoid challenges and shy away from risks.

Allow me to share a message I received from a young man who is a student at the University of Maryland. Dwayne Betts is an unusual undergraduate, not only because he is twenty-eight years old, but because he got himself into trouble when he was a teenager and spent six years of his life incarnated in the state of Maryland. I asked him if there was anything that he could think of that I should be sure to tell you all today. Let me read to you the letter he sent:

My sentencing judge told me “I’m under no illusion that sending you to prison will help you, but you can get something out of it if you choose.” I think in college, a lot of people come in with the idea that it’s there to help them. Help them be smarter, be a better person. But it’s not. You get something out of school if you work hard toward it. Make sure that you tell the students at Georgia College and State University that the contract they have with the school is for the degree only, and anything of else of value-- from traveling abroad, to building life long relationships with peers and professors, and even to finding a sense of self-worth.-- these things are only part of the deal if they work to put it in place.

Dwayne Betts taught himself the craft of poetry while he served his sentence and now he has won a scholarship to The University of Maryland and he is on the verge of publishing his memoirs. He was written up in the Washington Post for his work with young people. Think about this: if he could make his time in prison enrich him, just imagine what you can do with the opportunities afforded you by this great university.

So this ends my address to you, the outstanding class of 2012. I know this message has been meandering and overrun with contradictions. I’ve said nothing this evening that will easily lend itself to a bumper sticker. I encourage you to sort through these remarks and retain what works for you and disregard the rest. This is college. It’s time for you to chart your own path develop your own thoughts.

As much I have encouraged you to part with the familiar, I would like to end on a note of tradition. For years deans and convocation speakers have ended the evening with a scare tactic. The students are told to look to the left and then to look to the right. Then, they are reminded of the grim statistics about college graduation rates. According to tradition, a craggy old dean would tell you that one out of every three of you will not be seated here in four years on your graduation day. I, on the other hand, look at such statistics as mere information and not prophesy. So please, if you will, indulge me here.

Members of the class of 2012, look to your left. Now look to your right. What you have seen are the members of your community. For the next four years, and even beyond, this is your family. And it is your responsibility to make sure that all of you—three out of three of you-- are here in this courtyard in 2012, on your graduation day.