Table of Contents
Also by Terry McMillan
Mama
Disappearing Acts
Breaking Ice: An Anthology of Contemporary
African-American Fiction (editor)
Waiting to Exhale
How Stella Got Her Groove Back
A Day Late and a Dollar Short
The Interruption of Everything
For the 2002 graduating class
of St. Marys College High School,
Berkeley, California
Introduction
Back in the stone age (circa 1969) I slept through the commencement speech at my graduation. And I wasnt the only one. All we wanted was to hear our names called so we could finally toss our caps into the air and beeline it out of there, sneak and smoke a cigarette (it was cool then) and down something with any percentage of alcohol as our reward for enduring four years of educational tyranny. We were now self-ordained adults and finally free to tell our parents that as soon as we were handed our diplomas, their eighteen-year dictatorships were now over, that from now on, we were calling the shots. We would stay up and out as long as we wanted, we would go wherever we felt like because we had passed enough tests to prove our intelligence (legitimately or not) and had finally earned the right to step into the abyss we were claiming as our future. We all had plans. Big ones. Kmart, Ford Motor Company and a ring from the local diamond jeweler were at the top of the list. I was going to save the world if I remember correctly. I didnt quite know how, but Id deal with the small details when they came up.
I remember being nudged by someone whose last name started with an M: Wake up, Terry! I didnt know exactly what the speaker had said but I knew it was the usual drone of how bright our futures were going to be, with the speakers using him- or herself as an example of how they had achieved success. (Most of the time we didnt think that what they did for a living sounded all that interesting or like it was much fun.) After attending a number of these ceremonies, it was clear to the graduating class of 69 that many of these speakers had nothing else going on, so this was their fifteen minutes and we were not going to be spared the marvelously dull, clich-laden spiel our predecessors had endured of how hard work will guarantee us success.The faces of many Timex watches glowed as we slid the sleeves up and down our rayon gowns to acknowledge that, yes, the infamous speaker was going over the allotted time limit.We all knew we were being lied toat least I didbecause hard work had not paid off in my family. No one I knew was successful. They had jobs, not careers. A real paycheck with a few dollars left over wouldve been nice. I already knew that life was going to be a struggle or at least a challenge, but I was looking forward to it. Anything was possible if only you could just get there, as Id learned from watching 77 Sunset Strip and Adventures in Paradise. The whole idea of not-knowing what I was going to do and how I was going to end up as a grown-up gave me a thrill. I liked the whole concept of not-knowing since up to this point just about everything else in my life had been so predictable. I thought the not-knowing was the whole point of being a grown-up.
I found out by default what rocked me and lit me up inside.Writing felt like it chose me and instead of resisting I surrendered. It is what has kept me sane. It is how I have been able to make sense out of many things I find perplexing, myself included. And it has made this journey worthwhile.
When I was asked to give the commencement speech at my sons high school graduation in 2002, I politely declined. I wanted to sit in that audience like every other parent and wait until they got to the Ws to watch my son march across that stage with the special honors colors on his tassel because he turned out to be much smarter than his mother, all by his own volition. And he was going to Stanford! Months later his high school called back. They hadnt been able to find anyone and asked if I would reconsider, assuring me that the speech could be as short as seven minutes but preferably ten or twelve, and that Id still be able to sit in the audience and watch Solomon march. I asked my son would he mind and he said no, as long as I didnt say anything that would embarrass him. And I said, Me?
All I knew was that I did not want my speech to put anyone to sleep. I thought back to the speeches we had heard and how little insight they had given us on what it was really going to take to deal with the chaos, uncertainty and insecurities many of us didnt even know we had. I didnt want to be boring and since it was a celebratory occasion and these kids had parties they were itching to get to (one of them being at my house later), I didnt want to talk about me. I wanted to tell them the truth. But I wanted them to feel good about their fears and uncertainties, to let them know that despite their insecurities, they stood a chance of being successes. Mostly, I wanted them to know that first they had to find their own comfort level of what success meant to them, but I also wanted to have some fun and let them know that I wasnt born yesterday and that here we are today, and this little booklet is what I wished someone had told me centuries ago. It was very cool how most of these 168 graduating students as well as their parents were actually listening.
These tips are no panacea.They are no guarantee for anything, but what I hoped they would do is cut these kids some slack when jumping into the sea of uncertainty called life without a raft, and that they know that this is what the journey is all about; that its OK to be scared, but just paddle, and here were a few things to watch out for while they searched and sometimes stumbled while finding their very own little patch of the world that made them light up inside.
It has worked for me.
My son actually hugged me afterward. He told me he was very proud to be my son and that I was the coolest mom hed ever had. I have not met The Others, but he will graduate from college in June 2006, and he has stuck by this very deep comment. It continues to tickle and amaze me, watching him discover who he is. I made it very clear to him early on that I couldnt tell him who he should be because I didnt have that right nor was I clairvoyant. Even if I was, Id keep my mouth shut. I want him to ride these waves until he can stand on his own. So far, hes doing just fine. He makes the coolest beats ever and there is no major at Stanford for what he loves to do. But I told him that it was OK. He does not have to prove how smart he is to anyone or to apologize for not being a scholar. This is his life and he has the freedom to make decisions as well as change his mind. That is the luxury of being young. But I told him a little secret: that holds true at fifty and sixty and seventy, too. The goal, in my estimation, is to continue to evolve and change and renew our thinking and feelings so that we do not remain static and stuck about anything. Its how I measure my own evolution and as long as what he does pleases him and one hopes will benefit others, then he will have added something sacred to the world. I still would like, however, to have a serious conversation about those misplaced modifiers and those gerunds he insists on using at the beginning of sentences, which drives me nuts. Perhaps over dinner (hot dogs and fries) at his crib, we will sit on the sofa since there are no chairs or table and toast the brightness of both of our uncertain futures: Would you prefer your water in Styrofoam or plastic, Mother? But then again, maybe not.
