Dear Class of 1988

This week our middle son, Harris, graduated from Parkview High School in Lilburn, Ga., with all the usual pomp, circumstance, cheers, tears, and, of course, speeches.

Parkview’s graduation speakers included the valedictorian, salutatorian, and several members of the senior class who were selected from two-minute auditions. Harris’s speech, titled “Unlimited Potential” was chosen, and he delivered it beautifully, receiving an affirming response. (You can see the entire speech, it’s about three-and-a-half-minutes long, at my post on Facebook.)

At my alma mater, Lake Wales High School in Lakes Wales, Florida, graduation was held in the winter home of the Black Hills Passion Play, an outdoor amphitheater tucked away in a giant orange grove. Against the backdrop of downtown Jerusalem, the speakers were the valedictorian and salutatorian. I graduated third in my class – the first boy, as my mother liked to point out – just out of the running to give a speech.

At the time I don’t remember being all that disappointed, but after seeing Harris knock it out of the park, it made me wonder what 18 year-old me would have told the Class of 1988. So let’s climb into Marty McFly’s DeLorean – a warm-up cultural reference to get you in the right mindset to revisit 1988 – here’s my undelivered high school graduation speech, with the benefit of hindsight but the hindrance of 35 years of elapsed time:

Class of 1988, you did it! You made it to this night earning your high school diploma. You are now officially educated. The piece of parchment Mr. Windham will hand you on this stage in just a few minutes is an official testament that you have completed the requirements for high school set by Polk County and the state of Florida.

And honestly, that’s about it.

This diploma does not mean you are smart. Regardless if you are wearing a National Honors Society sash or honor cords or if you have some Latin words following your name in the program, I know from experience you are an intelligent group, smart enough to achieve whatever you set your mind to. You are capable people with a variety of gifts and abilities, and academics and credentials don’t even begin to convey your intellect. 

This diploma does not mean you possess good character. The decisions you have made inside and outside of the classroom these past four years say way more about your values and beliefs than passing 12th grade. When you made poor choices, you learned from them. When you made good choices, hopefully you were appropriately rewarded. You know right from wrong, and you have the capacity to make the world better.

This diploma does not mean you are talented. I’ve seen what you can do. From our gifted athletes to dedicated musicians to our service club members to home economics experts to members of the workforce and Future Farmers of America, you have displayed an array of gifts not measured by red ink on test papers. You are the future workforce and creators ready to fill floppy disks and VHS tapes with ideas and innovations and creative expression. You possess all the talent you need to make your mark.

This diploma does not mean you are a good friend. I experienced the best of what the Class of 1988 can be in loving and accepting each other when I transferred to Lake Wales High School my sophomore year. I knew maybe five or six of you, and still, you welcomed me with open arms. Whether it was Miss Lee’s AP calculus class, the yearbook staff, the basketball and football teams, the Academic Team or FCA, I never felt excluded and always found a friendly face in every group. You have demonstrated care and concern for each other, and that will take you far.

And finally, this diploma does not mean you have the faith you need to see you through life’s challenges. Obviously, y’all heard my dad Sunday night at Baccalaureate, so you know how I have grown up. Being a preacher’s kid does subject you to scrutiny and can make you feel isolated. But in addition to being friendly, what I saw in the Class of 1988 is a yearning for faith and a commitment to God that transcended denominations and worship styles. As a group, you have a foundation to build on and to draw on when you face difficult days.

So I leave you with this bit of wisdom I heard from Coach Hale back this summer during two-a-days while running wind sprints at the end of practice. With temperatures in the 90s and relative humidity hovering around 100%, he blew his whistle and yelled: “Sometimes you’ve got to puke on the run!”

I’m not sure I fully appreciated that sentiment at the time, but today, on our last day of high school, I think it means you have to be resilient, have fortitude, persevere. That diploma you are about to be handed doesn’t bestow it on you, but it’s a pretty good indication that at one time or another during these past four years, you’ve had to puke on the run.

Congratulations, Class of 1988. It’s been real.

As I recall, Kendra Lawrence and Esther Wine gave appropriately inspirational speeches without any references to vomiting, so it’s probably a good thing I didn’t get to give a speech. 

Congratulations to the Class of 2023!

Did you give a speech at your graduation? What did you say? Have you had a burning desire to pass on your wisdom to your classmates? Leave a comment with excerpts from your own undelivered speech and join the conversation.