Dear James Madison University Class of 2013,
It’s been a few weeks since graduation. The celebration is
slowly ending, you’ve given yourself a break and it’s possible that the panic
of the real world feels like it’s closing in like a crushing, mystical
fog. Don’t worry. I have now spent as
much time in the “real world” as I did in Harrisonburg. There was a blog post
last year about how the rest of your life is going to be terrible after JMU. I’m
here to tell you that you’re going to be fine.
You are to be congratulated for graduating from the greatest university
in the country.
I know. If someone
had said this to me four years ago, I would have scoffed. I was filled with
some impending dread that the real world was hovering and I hadn’t attended an
ivy league school or intensive music conservatory. At the time, our frequent
boast was that JMU was ranked number six for campus food in the country. This
claim to fame suddenly seemed hollow as I was completing a resume. I couldn’t
picture future employers and casting directors saying, “She was so happy and
well-fed! A STAR IS BORN!” Though, to be fair, had they experienced Buffalo
Mash, I could have been the Aladdin to their Jasmine, leading them to a whole
new world of culinary bliss. But I digress.
Eighteen year old Sarah was a genius. I was accepted to a
very prestigious music conservatory. My visit was filled with speeches about
competition, drive and glory. It was cold, gray and everyone appeared manic
from paranoia or bravado. A few weeks
later, John Kownacki led me skipping through JMU’s campus on the kind of
perfect, Shenandoah spring day they don’t make in other states (the quad…you
saucy minx! Your siren call beckons still, years later!) and I fell in love
with the people I saw. They were happy, confident and friendly. So. Friendly.
Mr. Kingett, after having a door held open one weekend said, “This place is
like Disney World with alcohol”. Very astute, Mr. Kingett.
As an adult, I can’t believe I had the foresight to invest
in the right life as a high school senior. Here were two distinct paths: the cut-throat
conservatory life that was supposed to guarantee a brilliant musical career and
this small, unknown university filled with relentless, effervescent drive to
build community. Community. Blech. That word feels so corporate and pallid,
like “synergy” or “flow”. What we built at JMU was a tribe.
My whole family came to move me into Potomac Hall my
freshman year. Beaming faces in brighter yellow t-shirts greeted us at every
turn. Students gave up pieces of their summer vacation to help move freshmen
into dorms so quickly that I can’t say with confidence I touched a single box
as it moved from van to room. When we say we bleed purple and gold it may just
be a reference to the deluge of color t-shirts that swarms and overwhelms like
a cicada invasion. Nay, a frog invasion, for that’s what our FReshman
Orientation Guides were called (this is still a bit thin, guys. We can find an
R). Then, we all filed tentatively into the Convo Center for the Frog Dance
life hadn’t prepared us for. Hundreds of college kids who were supposed to be
cooler than me decided that without dignity, there was no shame. Justin
Timberlake and Usher blared, lights raved, choreographed dance moves abounded
and the place was electric. I say electric because you were either energized or
terrified that you’d suddenly found yourself in that summer camp from The
Addams Family Values.
My brother’s eyes were wide as saucers, shimmering with a
wild energy that usually led to a night of blue and red lights or nonsexual nudity.
“THIS IS PARADISE! I HAVE FOUND IT! Henceforth, I will let nothing stop me from
being a part of this magical place!” He then high-fived a FROG who thought he was
a freshman and Jim told him he loved him. My parents shoved Jim into the car
like he was Daniel Day Lewis in Last of the Mohicans, screaming, “I WILL FIND
YOU (JMU)! NO MATTER HOW FAR!” I can’t say with confidence who was more
devastated to be pulling away from campus: my mother leaving her first-born
child and only daughter or Jim leaving JMU. No, no, wait. I’m pretty sure it
was Jim. Jim was more devastated.
The FROG experience was the tip of the iceberg. If you’ll
let it, JMU will grab you by the hand and pull you into a tribe that will love
you unconditionally and, most importantly, specifically. It is not a place that
says “We love each other because we’re people in a community and we have to”. It
is not a place that says “Look to your left and right. This is your competition”.
This is a tribe of people dedicated to the idea that the most important thing
you can do is “be the change you want to see in the world”.
This is the most important thing I learned at JMU. You
cannot change the world. That belies an arrogance, a God-complex, an ego that
will ultimately lead to destruction. Your life doesn’t come to fruition with an
accomplishment. Change is not a moment. Your life is not a moment. Your life is
a state of being, a state of good you are building that is inextricable from
your tribe.
It’s stronger than “friend” or even “family”. It’s a web of lives connected by something
deeper than school spirit. At JMU, I invested in people. I learned how to love
everyone by getting specific. In a small space with little anonymity, we can
either throw up walls or we can learn that every person we encounter, if we
dig, has something valuable to offer. There is something in them that doesn’t
just make me better, it contributes to the tribe of us that are striving to
achieve a better way to exist and coexist.
The coolest kids on campus were, in a word, involved. Most campuses
revere their athletes but we loved our ambassadors.
During Christmas break of my senior year, someone broke into
my home and murdered Jim and my mother. A lot of people didn’t expect me to
return to school immediately but I couldn’t imagine being anywhere but with my
tribe. With Jim’s tribe. In the darkest
times, a real tribe bands together and knows that your pain is their pain and
their strength is your strength. Sometime while my head was spinning, my people
moved my apartment, contacted counselors, fixed my schedule, threw parties,
organized A Cappella benefit concerts but most importantly never ever let a
moment go by where I felt like I had lost everything. My tribe reminded me at
every turn that the bigger we are, the stronger we stand. The deeper we love,
the bigger we build. When devastation rips those we love from us, it’s only by
investing and building in love that we mitigate the loss. Somewhere, amidst the
sorting of emotional debris and the reassignment of values, my tribe taught me
that love was my purpose. Being the change I want to see means living together
honestly, loyally and fiercely as one.
After JMU, I went to a fancy-schmancy conservatory to get my
masters in music. My tribe came with me. They grounded me in a big city where
people can crumble from loneliness and vicious competition. Months go by and
someone has a concert, a promotion, an event or even just a guest and it’s as
if Ron Burgundy has yelled “NEWS TEAM! ASSEMBLE!” My fiancé is overwhelmed by
it. “I’d never even heard of JMU and these people are everywhere!” We’re not
big but we are fiercely present. Knowing that we have this makes it possible to
do the impossible. I’m proud of the friends who are on Broadway, National
Tours, Wall Street and attend Columbia and NYU. I’m equally proud of the people
who came to NYC with one goal and suddenly found themselves counseling, DJing, building
businesses and rising to management positions on new adventures. I’m equally proud
of my tribe all over the country starting churches, going to graduate school,
writing blogs and having babies. (I just
got off the phone with a friend I haven’t spoken to in years from JMU who has a
masters, a marriage, a baby and a house and said, “I’d love to keep talking but
I have to go tile my kitchen floor” We also talked about our friend who is a happy
hipster nomad. There’s no wrong way to eat a Reese’s).
I think about our tribe right now and I
realize none of us are sinking or trapped. We won’t let each other. We turn to
each other and say “You are amazing and I love you and I want to slap you for
not being awesome right now!” Then, we do it. We are awesome. We applaud the
awesome even when it’s not our type of awesome. I feel loved when I know YOU
don’t like contemporary classical vocal music but you were willing to come to a
recital at Lincoln Center put on by two Dukes because that’s what we do in this
tribe. I cried when I saw my best friend and roommate in Newsies. I cried when
I saw my best friend in Jersey Boys. I didn’t cry when I saw Book of Mormon
because it was too funny. I wept openly to the concern of audience members
around me at the first two because I was SO. HAPPY. I was up there with
them as they are there with me. Their strength is my strength, my joy is their
joy. It’s that simple. And it’s what life is really about.
You don’t have to go far to get a lecture on what a terrible
country our generation is receiving. The idea of rehashing that sends my body
into conniptions because it’s not sure whether to vomit or roll my eyes so far
back into my head that I retain some permanent “Children of the Damned” look. I’m
annoyed because I don’t think we’re that destitute. I’m convinced that we’re the solution.
There’s got to be a more eloquent way to say this but the
American Dream is just a stupid joke with a devastating punch line. I’ve met a
lot of very “successful” people with nothing but screaming behind their eyes.
That, or a terrifying blank space. Take a step back. Doesn’t being a part of 1%
just sound really f*&king lonely? Why on earth did our parents beat into our
brains that a career would fulfill a sense of purpose? I’m not just talking
about the parents who forced us to be doctors and lawyers, I’m talking about the
parents who forced us to be performers instead of artists. The generation ahead
of us who told us to get something instead of build something. As if life and achievement
were about grabbing a limited spot at the top. As if we’d get a promotion, a
role, an opportunity and then life would plateau into some white, boring, cruise
control of pleasantness.
You know better. You know that you’re not seeking to change
things, you want to BE change. Dukes know that building a life is kinetic, people-centric
work. You know your life is about
others. You are creators, connectors, innovators. You’re not afraid to say, “I
was supposed to want this thing over here. It was supposed to make me happy. It
doesn’t seem very important somehow. Let’s create a new adventure and let’s
start by figuring out what’s truly valuable”. You’re not afraid because you
know you’re never, ever going to be alone.
I have news for the non-Dukes. That right-winged nut job on
your news feed talking about abortion mills with their AK-47 in hand? That
communist, Obama-loving, left wing hippie who thinks we should let kids pick
their own names? They’re a part of your tribe. They contain something beautiful. They are a change YOU need in order to build something greater than yourself.
Sorry, Oprah-fans, but you are not enough. You can’t do this alone. You don’t
have all the answers. Does anyone accomplish anything alone short of havoc? This foolish pride and prejudice is a
depletion of our greatest resource and it’s of far greater concern to me than
any other kind of sustainability.
I have MORE news for non-Dukes. You went to a school like
JMU. You were raised by people who taught you how to love fiercely and
specifically. You dare to be awesome. We want you. We’re adopting you. We are
not an exclusive club. We do it every day and we’re excited about it. When we
find the people who love the spark, live for connection and for each other, we
grab you and we don’t let you go. We know we need you to build something better
and we’re fired up about it.
It’s time to love by being specific. We don’t love everyone
because they are people. Try as we might to be good people, it’s not compelling
enough to be a real catalyst. We love each person because we take the time to
find the spark and then we throw all we have into actually igniting something.
I think about the JMU commons all the time. A tiny courtyard
where an uninvited preacher could spew sermons about the sexual abominations of
our generation right next to a Gay? Fine By Me table and a Women’s Rights
campaign. A place where multi-cultural fairs were celebrated without riots, all
sorts of religious and political groups could recruit and there was none of the
visceral, hate-filled word vomit that dominates our news networks. It wasn’t
NYC where everyone turns their head the other way and opinions in public make
it possible to confuse you with the homeless. She could join CRU and he could
join LGBT and we could all go grab a table at DHall together. And seriously,
the Buffalo Mash was incredible.
Sure, it’s idealistic. Sure, we live in a giant bubble at
JMU. I don’t think it’s unrealistic if we continue to approach the world with
the mentality that you and I are in this together. Your strength is my strength
and my pain is your pain.
You’re scared. Yes, you need a job. Yes, this is a terrible
economy. Unlike your parents and the New Yorker, I’m not frightened for you. You're not going to make the change, you are going to be the change. You are going to build a life, a country and a
better world because you started by building a tribe. We’re already out here
and we’re excited for you to be a part of it. It's hard work and we're not there yet. We need you here. And this is
why:
There are people out there who need to know they’re not
alone, need to know they’re valued so that they stop destroying classrooms of
children, breaking into homes and murdering families or even leaving a wake of
emotional destruction just to get noticed. There are people being labeled and
abandoned because no one will take the time show them what they have that
sparks, what they have to contribute.
You’re a Duke. You would never relish in a fellow Duke’s
demise because it doesn’t just diminish your degree, it diminishes you by
extension. You come from a school with a mission statement focused on building
global community one student at a time. All Together One. You’re going to go
out there and let everyone know that we need them specifically to be a part of
something great. Even if that something great is just a society where lives are
measured by the size of their tribe and the beautiful intangibles instead of
long resumes and cold assets.
You don’t know me but I already count you as mine. I can’t
wait to see what we build together.
