I've always had a little fantasy about giving a graduation speech. It was not unlike the vision of the humble, stalwart hobbit, Sam Gamgee, who in Return of The King dreamed of using the power of the magic ring to make the world into a beautiful garden. Like Sam, I fantasized about smiting my foes—putting the guys in the suits in their place—and making a garden of academic virtues by standing up for the integrity of our teaching and the rigor of our scholarship ... in rural northeast Arkansas.
When I became president of the Faculty Senate, I got the opportunity to live that fantasy in front of an audience of about 5,000 people at the spring commencement. I asked advice of former Faculty Senate presidents, and, yes, of those men in suits who were the objects of smite in my fantasy, and they all said one thing: Keep it short.
I tried to remember the dozens of graduation speeches I had heard in my 20-year academic career. The most memorable was indeed the shortest. The novelist John Grisham, who grew up near our Jonesboro campus, said in his speech that the best thing a young person could do was to "get out of town." He didn't mean that they should flee their families and homes; he meant that they should see the world. His speech took about three minutes.
The second most memorable, and for me the most meaningful, was by a recently retired colleague, Marlin Shipman, who gave a heartfelt speech about the importance of remembering your academic mentors. I felt a deep debt to mine, without whom I would probably be working some dead-end job in some cubicle in my native Connecticut.
So, in preparing my own talk for that spring commencement, I listed the most important people who have helped me, living and dead, and made a speech about my journey to Arkansas. It clocked in at about seven minutes during a practice session.
I thought that was about right. I rewrote it several times before the first of our two graduation ceremonies. When it was my turn to speak, things didn't proceed as smoothly as I had planned. In fact, I hemmed and hawed and rambled for nearly 10 minutes and received polite applause.
During the break between the two ceremonies, the provost beckoned to me. He put his arm around me and said, "You know, it's up to you, but I really think you should cut your speech." I looked at my hastily scrawled script and just put some big X's on some of the paragraphs, and somehow it turned out to be almost cohesive. After it was done, I got some polite applause, and some nice compliments from colleagues and students.
Our summer commencement came the day after a big concert and fund raiser for another local legend, Johnny Cash. Our university is working with his family to rebuild his boyhood home, and many Cash family members and famous musicians graced our Convocation Center. Some of the photos I took circulated nationally at some major media outlets. I used the opportunity and the day-after buzz to talk about making the most of your opportunities, and I discussed the importance of marketing and branding in a difficult economy. Again, I got polite applause and a few compliments.
A few weeks later, a statewide alternative newspaper called me for a quote on some academic issue or another, and in the comments section afterward a reader slammed me, not for the quotes in the article, but for my graduation speeches. "If you've ever sat through an Arkansas State graduation, you know he has nothing to say," the poster said.
Yes, I know that the comments sections of newspapers attract many cranks, and I know that even the best presentations draw critics, but still, I felt stung.
So this past December, when it came time for the fall-semester graduation ceremony, I wanted to say something memorable. First and foremost, I knew whatever I did, it had to be brief. I again asked faculty members, friends, and even students, one of whom looked at me and said, "We just want to get out. There is nothing you can say that we really care about at that point. Get over it."
That wasn't the first "it's not about you" bit of advice I had received, but it was the most succinct. And the student was right. It's not about me, or about "we the faculty." The graduation is for the students. I decided to let them know that sometimes the faculty do, indeed, get it.
My speech took me about three drafts and about 120 words. I acknowledged our winning bowl-bound football team, led a cheer, and said that graduation was a day for the students, and I promised not to waste time. I said the best thing I could do for a holiday commencement was to give them a gift on behalf of the faculty: relief from boring faculty speeches. I took off my academic cap, pulled out a Santa hat from my pocket, and said "Happy holidays." Then I sat down.
After a moment of confusion, I got the most applause I have ever received for something like that. The vice president for student affairs, whom I sat next to on the stage, looked at me and said, "You're a hit, man. A real hit."
I wore the Santa hat for the rest of the ceremony. "Next year, bring hats for all of us," our chancellor said.
