Prima Ballerina

Being a high school graduate doesn't make you special.

If you haven't heard about the commencement speaker (and English teacher at the school) who gave the "You're Not Special" speech to a graduating class, you can watch it here.

Essentially, the speaker is saying that just because you now have a high school diploma, you are not spectacular. There are millions of other people with high school diplomas. So how will you go from here to make yourself stand out?

"Across the country no fewer than 3.2 million seniors are graduating about now from more than 37,000 high school. That's 37,000 valedictorians... 37,000 class presidents... 92,000 harmonizing altos... 340,000 swaggering jocks ... 2,185,967 pairs of Uggs. But why limit ourselves to high school? After all, you're leaving it. So think about this: Even if you're one in a million, on a planet of 6.8 billion that means there are nearly 7,000 people just like you."

Some people are offended by the speech. Either because there are some that never get to graduate high school, because it is an achievement to graduate high school, or because someone told them that the world didn't owe them anything just cause they passed algebra. 

I find the speech amusing to say the least, and didn't really think much about it beyond, "Right on, brother! You got people to remember something about a commencement speech."

But THEN I read this article. And I liked it.

So it got me thinking about how I was raised. My parents have always been supportive and loving, and always worked very hard not to miss a chorus concert, soccer game, volleyball tournament, honors night or anything else I've ever even hinted that they should attend.

So this is not to say that my parents aren't supportive, but they don't tell me I'm the best. At least not at everything. They tend to avoid negative words, but they aren't known to fabricate encouragement for the sake of my fragile psyche.

For example: In 6th grade I was in the play "Oliver Twist" as an orphan. I marched in down the aisles amongst about 30 other orphans. We were all dressed in the same grey, intentionally mangled sweat suits, carrying identical bowls of "gruel." I was the literal opposite of a stand-out.

Now I carried that bowl like a champ, but it was known that I was not the star. So mostly my parents and I talked about the making of the play, the different songs, the sets, etc. There is a way of being supportive without fawning over your child's every move.

Example 2: After my high school volleyball team won the state championship my junior year, I decided to hang up my knee pads and pursue other endeavors. So I joined the church choir (a mediocre second soprano) and started taking hip-hop classes.

Now I wasn't allowed to join the advanced dance class (an obvious mistake on the part of the dance company), so I joined the intermediate class. So here I am, 18 years old, 5'8", 140 lbs., joining in a dance class where the next-oldest person is 12, standing at about 5 feet. The little girls would stare at my keys when I walked in and ask what it's like to drive. When we got fitted for our costumes I had to get XXXL pants because the sizes were kids' sizes and they didn't make pants for people with 36" legs. You get the idea.

So when the year came to an end, my parents (and friends who had figured out I was having a recital and therefore attended to gain ridicule rights) not only came to my recital, but sat through the endless numbers of 2-10 year-olds spinning in tutus to see me dance to an edited version of "Sexyback."

After the debut of my artistry, I met my friends and parents outside the theatre in anticipation of a shower of roses followed by countless offers from Broadway scouts.

"Oh, I'm so flattered, but no thank you. I'm dedicated to my studies and have always dreamed to go to college, dance is just my gift, that I must now re-gift to the world," I would say in my smokey, old-Hollywood voice.

But, alas, I didn't actually expect any of this to happen because I knew I was bad. And so did everyone else. My parents had laughed with me every week when I came home and told them how class went, so they knew I'd be no good. They had acted impressed when I told them that our number started off with me jumping over one of the girls' head, but then did their best not to laugh when I told them that said-girl was only 4'2".

My parents did not praise me the night of my recital. They probably asked if I had fun and said they enjoyed the show, which in-itself is no more than a half-truth. Telling your kid they're the best at everything they do isn't fooling anyone. Especially not your kid. So if they do something terribly, tell them it wasn't their best and a little hard work will make it better next time.

The point of all this is, very few people are special. That's what special means. And it's great to tell you're kid how special they are to you, or how good they are at math, or how much potential they have. But don't get all cranky when someone tells your kid that in order to be outstanding, they need to make themselves stand out. Like I would have if they'd just put me in that damn advanced class.