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Ian Cross, US Faculty - Baccalaureate Address
The most consistent theme the class of 2018, gave me for this address was: "make it entertaining and don't lecture too much." I can definitely follow through on the latter - as for the former, I suppose we shall see. But first, thank you for the honor of speaking to you, your family, and your friends this evening. When Mr. Downey told me I had been selected my first thought was "Crap, now I have to get a haircut." But, when I ran the idea past my Golden Boots cover band, they voted it down. That's a joke at Mr. Smith's expense in case you missed it; hopefully also a successful icebreaker attempt. Anyway, thank you for choosing me, now onward to the speech.
I grew up on a zoo. Specifically, I was raised at the Fort Rickey Childrens' Discovery Zoo in Rome, NY - "the zoo that's first in fun!" My parents bought it 40 years ago; it is a small, family zoo focusing on creating opportunities for direct contact between children and animals. There are a lot of great stories I could tell about my parents' experiences at the zoo and there is a lot to say about the history of the place (like, why is it called Fort Rickey? Who is Rickey?). But, this speech isn't about either of those things, as far as you know for now, it is about the formative role of the zoo in my childhood, the way it shaped me as a person. I promise this is not a chiefly narcissistic endeavor. You are all about to leave the places where you have begun the transition from children to adults and start living somewhere else. It's all very exciting, but, I hate to tell you this, it also warrants some consideration. I am telling you about my experience because I think it is especially unique and in that way makes the lesson seem more clear. My hope is that when I get around to the conclusion of this address, you'll all be thinking something like, "Yeah, good point, and I feel sufficiently entertained."
So, I grew up on a zoo, let's lean into that a bit. To give you a rough mental picture, there is a half-mile figure eight path through the zoo with exhibits on the inside and outside of the loops. One loop is primarily open and the other is a bit more wooded; on the far side of the wooded loop there is a McDonald's like play structure. In my youth there was also a water park - fountains and geysers, not slides - that has been replaced by a "Pillow Bounce." I'll let you investigate on your own precisely what a "Pillow Bounce" is. There are a couple of ponds where appropriate, a lot of trees, and surprisingly fewer fences than you might be used to when it comes to "wild" animals. Yes, lions and tigers at one point but mostly hoofed animals - deer, goats, alpacas, ponys - things you can let kids pet. Also boa constrictors and porcupines ... that we let the kids pet. No giraffes or hippos, but there is a wolf exhibit. And, fun fact, the zoo has the world's oldest Black Colombian Spider Monkey. My dad acquired Gummy from the San Diego Zoo when she was around 18 or something, now she is in her late 50s - the average life expectancy of her species in captivity is 22 years. She is a real sweetheart, check the website for videos.
Finally, and this is a non-monkey detail, when you walk in the front gates of the zoo, that's where my parents house is. When I said, "I grew up on a zoo," I meant, like, actually physically that is where I slept at night, had meals, came home from school, played, and worked in the summer. We raised a mountain lion in our house when I was 10, which was insane. The wolf exhibit is about 50 yards from my childhood bedroom window, but, sadly, so was a huge manure pile. In the late spring and early summer there was no sleeping in because the peacocks, who roam openly around the property, have a lot to say ... starting very, very early. So, to summarize thus far, zoos: noise, poop, insanity. These were the conditions of my glorious childhood.
Putting aside the tome of eyebrow-raising stories from my youngest days, the experiences that I feel most shaped me began when I was 15 and started working at the zoo. In the summer after 9th grade, my dad requisitioned my services in making water balloons for the "Water Wars" feature. You and a friend stand in cages with backboards 10 paces apart and use big slingshots to launch water balloons at each other. I worked a couple hours a day during peak hours. Once I learned to interface with "the public" and if it wasn't too busy, I was left to operate it solo or with one of my brothers. It was a pretty easy task: make balloons, take money, let the kids cheat if they are playing against their parents. In hindsight, I think it is fair to say that I felt good about helping out. Also, it was nice to have some money, but I think I blew it all on skateboard decks and Magic Cards™ (if you are keeping track, that was the most embarrassing detail of this personal history).
That winter I was further requisitioned to "muck out" the stalls in the barn on Sunday mornings. Which is possibly the grossest, but also a completely necessary, way to say I shoveled poop and pushed a wheelbarrow through the snow. Remember, this is upstate New York, lots of snow. Depending on the temperature, this took somewhere between 2 and 3 hours, although potentially 4 hours if it was really warm out. Why does the temperature matter you ask? Because the ponies, who poop a lot, stayed outside. In addition to only going to the bathroom in an 8 by 12 foot area, all of their pee would freeze their poop to the ground. So, when you got an unseasonably warm day you had to "strike while the iron is hot," or more aptly, "shovel while the dung is thawed." I have formerly accused my father of purposefully leaving the wheelbarrow tire underinflated to teach me a lesson in some perverse way. However, even more perversely, I learned that I enjoy pushing wheelbarrows. I liked the work; it made me feel strong. A quiet pride would fill my heart when I could really run the wheelbarrow far up the manure pile. I got to be alone in the morning, listen to the radio, and as long as it was 20°F or warmer I could work without a jacket. My mom would have warm Belgian waffles waiting for me when I got home and we always had real maple syrup. My dad paid me $20 a week and I think I spent the money going bowling almost every Saturday night. I continued to "muck out" the stalls in the winter for the rest of my high school years. On a volunteer basis, I continued to help out with the stalls when visiting from college or my first job.
As an aside, Mr. Schneider can I get a confirmation that this has been the most that manure has been discussed in a Baccalaureate address? It is? Good. Always feels good to set a record. Ok, moving on.
I think you can all guess where this history goes, it's not an unusual story line. My parents give me greater and greater responsibilities as I age into them. Eventually, I manage the water park and play area; I also become responsible for the bulk of the lawn mowing and other simple groundskeeping. If you have ever seen me pick up a rock on Fogg field, it's because of my lawn mowing days. My dad teaches me how to use a chainsaw and how to update the financial books for the zoo; I also learn a lot by working with Bob, the zoo's handyman. Bob started working at the zoo when he was 17 - he has been working for my dad for over 30 years. As a teenage boy, I remember really looking up to Bob, as I think all teenage boys would, because he was very, very profane. Not by frequency, but by well-timed usage - as Gauss said, "few, but ripe." We actually cultivated a great relationship and I know he took pride in being responsible for me. By the time I graduated from high school, I think it is fair to say that I had become useful enough to my parents as an employee that it tangibly reduced the stress of owning and operating a zoo. I felt good and prideful as a person and as a son.
And now, in the timeline of my recollections, I go to college. In the timeline of this speech, it's where I tell you that the lesson I'm aiming for is NOT "remember where you come from." I've told you about growing up on a zoo because I thought it would be strange enough that you would pay attention - I hope you have. But consider this statement for a minute: I never had to tell anyone in my hometown about the things that I have told you today. Everybody knew who the zoo family was. Everyone at school, or out a dinner, knew my parents even if only just as "the zoo people." My parents were active in the community and most people had been to the zoo at one time or another. The basic concepts of what I told you this evening were essentially presumed.
In going to college, in leaving my hometown, I hadn't immediately realized that all the social knowledge about me being a "zoo child" became something I could choose to include or exclude. I enjoyed being known for the zoo, but I wasn't sure if it was the first thing I wanted people to know about me anymore. It had its limitations. All of my college interviews devolved into me telling admissions officers about the zoo, and nothing about myself. But, the desire, the need even, for me to frame myself differently, had nothing to do, at all, with having a unique childhood. This fall, you will all have that same choice.
You can choose to frame yourself in new ways.
You SHOULD frame yourself in new ways.
Going to a new place where essentially no one knows anything about you is probably a little scary, but the upside is the opportunity to change yourself. I'm not recommending you overhaul your personality. But I am saying you do not want to be the high school version of yourself forever. Here is some more good news, you're not going to get it exactly right next fall, so be ready to reframe yourself again when you leave college, and every time you get a new job, and every time ... well, you get the idea. Hold on to the parts of your personhood that you value and give you pride, absolutely, but also remember that change is good, especially if it is with direction and purpose. You can, in a way, be multiple people over the course of your life. Here's another spin on that message: are you planning on staying friends with the people graduating with you today? You better let them change; let go of the confines built by the last 4, or 8, or 12 years of social momentum.
There are going to be many ways in which external pressures, events, and expectations will force you to change. But don't let reactive change be the only means by which you develop as a person. As much as you can, choose how and why you develop. Make sure that the person you are today, sitting in that seat, listening to Mr. Cross' diatribe about manure, is not the best version of yourself.
Congratulations class of 2018! I hope this is the worst you'll ever be!
Berwick Academy
31 Academy Street
South Berwick, Maine 03908
Contact:
Admission | 207.384.6300
Main Office | 207.384.2164
South Berwick, Maine 03908
Contact:
Admission | 207.384.6300
Main Office | 207.384.2164
Berwick Academy, situated on an 80-acre campus just over one hour north of Boston, serves 520 students, Pre-Kindergarten through Grade 12 and Postgraduates. Berwick students are from Maine, New Hampshire, Massachusetts, and several countries. Deeply committed to its mission of promoting virtue and useful knowledge, Berwick Academy empowers students to be creative and bold. Berwick strives to graduate alumni who shape their own learning, take risks, ask thoughtful questions, and come to understand and celebrate their authentic selves.
