The Commencement Address

Welcome family, friends, students, and faculty.

As we spend a day celebrating the accomplishments of these young people, I find myself musing: “What is an accomplishment?”

Is it something that you can point to with pride?  Or, rather, is it something that impresses others?  Does accomplishment live in the heart of the accomplished, or does it live in the heads of those who judge it?  When you hold it up for all to see, does everyone have to be duly impressed?  Or, is it something you need only hold close to yourself?  Is it beating your chest in pride, or bathing in the praise of others?

I submit that a true accomplishment cannot be belittled.  If you have achieved something of which to be proud, no one can take that pride away from you.  So, today, on the morning of your graduation, allow me to put it to the test.

Let’s see if I can diminish your accomplishment.

Firstly, I submit that High school is hard. For. Those. In. High. School.  We throw secondary education at students when they are least prepared to receive it.  Teenagers, by their very nature, are crazy people.  Many think that a teenaged brain is just a really new adult brain, fully functional, but with a lot fewer miles on it.  They are wrong.  Scientists have proven that the teen brain isn’t fully connected, yet.  The part that’s not connected is the exact part that makes “teenager” a pejorative.  It’s the part of the brain that forces one stop and think.  It’s that little voice inside that asks “is this a good idea?” before one makes a choice that lands in hot water.  In a teenager’s head, not only is that voice not easily accessible, it is drowned out.  They are full of raging hormones.  They are enslaved to the eternal popularity contest.  They are obsessed with being up-to-date on the latest, the greatest, the coolest, and the hottest. We take these young people, whose heads are full of static, who are going to make bad choices as victims of their age, and force them to make room in their already-overloaded brains for such  things as reading, biology, algebra, government, writing, and more reading.  These are not a priority for the American teenager.  Hell, they barely register on their top twenty worry list.

For teens, the future is something that happens to other people.  Right now, I have a text.  Right now, I just broke a nail.  Right now, that guy just said something nasty about the Ravens.  My phone won’t charge, my best friend is mad at me, there was a fight this morning and oh my god did you see it?  Right now, my shoe is dirty.  Why is Thompson bothering me?  Oh, yeah, my grade.  I’ll make that up, later, but not RIGHT NOW.

Because of this, I concur that High School is hard for those who attend high school, but that doesn't make high school an accomplishment, does it?  Let's explore.

The first question: Did you think High School was hard?

If the answer is "no," then you've accomplished nothing and we're done.  If it was easy, then what are we celebrating?  You not dying before your twelve years were up?  In that case, we can celebrate your survival until the end of this address, too.

Ok, so you found high school to be difficult.  Why?

Do you have a learning disability OTHER than being a teenager?  If so, then I could see how high school could be an accomplishment for you.  If you struggled with class work and achieved despite your impairment then I commend you.

Did you make challenges for yourself?  Did you go above and beyond what was asked to take charge of your own education?  Were you a high achiever because that’s what was expected of you and that’s what you expected of yourself?  If the answer is ‘yes,’ then you already know more than I could ever teach you.  You already have what it takes to succeed and the will to make it happen.  Congratulations.

If you’re not a go-getter, and you don’t have another difficulty, then why did you find high school so hard?  Was it because you had to PUT UP with everything that was set in front of you?  Did you find it taxing to show up, every day?  Were you (gasp) bored?  Did you have to scramble at the last minute of every marking period to get your “make-up work” because of all the assignments you blew off or ignored?  Here’s the hardest question: Did it take you longer than four years?

If this is the reality, then it’s not congratulations that are in order, here.  Condolences are more appropriate, because life is about to kick you in the teeth.  You will no longer have anyone hounding you to do better, be better.  You will no longer have someone seeking you out to make sure you get what you need to succeed.  No one tells you what you need to know and you usually find out way too late.  You are about to be amazed at the rage you feel as you jump up and down and scream at the sky about how it’s just so damned unfair.  When you’re all done with that tantrum, you’ll look around to realize that no one is listening.  Except you.

Things are about to get bad, and then they are going to be worse.  Unlike your high school career, where you simply had to put up with it and it took care of itself, life has a way of holding you accountable.  Ignoring it doesn’t work in the long run, and the long run is all that counts.  You won’t be able to reason with it.  You won’t be able to beg for leniency.  Your promises of doing better next time hold no water and there’s no one to take your promises seriously in any case.  Except you.

I’m about to tell you something you don’t want to hear: no one, and I mean nobody, cares about your high school diploma.  It’s a box you check on an application, a gateway to college.  That’s it.  Whatever it means to you, it means less to everyone else.  It’s worth solely depends upon how you feel about it.  Nobody else cares.  Except you.

Accomplishments, true accomplishments, don’t just help you get a better job, they help remind you of what you are capable.  In the future, as you hold up that magic leather-bound document, is it going to give you strength?  Are you going to take it as a harbinger that you can handle what life throws at you?  Or, instead, is it an piece of paper someone gave you, handed you?  Was it earned, or was it awarded?  Is it something or nothing?

So, did I belittle your accomplishment?  You decide.  You also decide if things are going to be different from now on.  As of this moment, ALL of the decisions are yours, right now.  The future depends on what you do, right now.  The past is gone and the future is heading at you at a full run like a freight train, RIGHT NOW.

Just like high school, life is what you make of it.  You decide if you’re going to ride the train or be crushed.

Right now.

Update on the dog thing.

I was charming, understanding, and firm.

They saw things my way, and we left with a better appreciation of each other's needs.  I gave the guy my phone number and told him to call me whenever the dogs are acting up and I'll put a stop to it or I'll hold accountable whoever is home if I'm away.

They were satisfied.

I have yet to receive a call.

This is from the, "I'm gonna get 'em" category.

We have been getting letters about our dogs barking from the HOA, who confirmed, when I called, that it's our next-door neighbors who are complaining.  Yeah, our dogs bark, they're six months old.  Yeah, we're doing everything we can.  Well, now we're being threatened with $150 fine and another $100 for every week we do not "fix the problem."  The letter says that the dogs are barking "constantly."

Ok, you wanted a fight, you got one.  There's a hearing on the 3rd.

I made up questionnaires that asks questions like "have you ever heard our dogs barking?" then goes on to nail down the time of day, the frequency, how long, etc.  I even put a comments section in it just in case I didn't cover everything.

I took this to the neighbors.  So far, the two people who live two doors down, on the other side of the neighbors who are complaining, said that they have NEVER heard our dogs barking. They are two sisters, one who runs a daycare while her husband is overseas with the Army and the other who works third shift.  I'm fairly certain that if our dogs were barking "constantly" they would have had something so say about it.

But, I learned something else while I was there.  It appears that the same neighbors who are complaining that our dogs are barking were also responsible for getting letters sent to these people for parking too close to the lines.

Hmmm.

Today, I went across the lot to the guy whose house sits directly in front of my own.  He is always outside smoking.  When asked, he, too, said that he has NEVER heard our dogs barking.  When I first started questioning him, he became visibly agitated.  The man is Filipino and has a very thick accent.  At first, I thought it was because he didn't want to get involved.   It turns out it wasn't me.  He cut me off and asked who it was who was complaining.  When I told him, he said, "Excuse my language, but I don't like that mutherfucker, either."

Some time ago, this guy had lots and lots of exotic flowers planted around his property.  Then he got a letter.  It appeared that he had flowers beyond his property line.  The ONLY other thing on that side is the parking lot.  No other house, nobody else's yard, just the parking lot.  He had to pull out all of his plants.

I see a pattern.

Lastly, I called up the neighbor who lives on the other side, as she is out of town.  She said that she hears the dogs "sporadically," throughout the day on the weekends.  She's only home after 8PM most weeknights, and she said she will sometime hear them, then.

Ok, this was not unexpected.  I never said the dogs didn't bark.  But, they don't bark "constantly."  I know what constant barking sounds like and our dogs don't do it. Furthermore, you could be the biggest dog-lover in the world, and a constantly-barking dog will drive you up a tree.  Well, this isn't what is happening, as proven by the neighbors I've interviewed.

The other weapon in my arsenal is Stefan, who recently testified FOR the HOA against a guy who was claiming racism on the pool staff.  Well, if Stefan is trustworthy enough to vouch for you, he must be trustworthy enough to vouch for me, right?

Lastly, I HOPE they bring up the smell.  We got a letter saying that there was an odor coming from our property that was clearly dog waste. It turns out it was a contaminated sump pump, as testified by the plumber that our landlord called in to investigate.  So much for jumping to conclusions, huh?

I also plan to tell them that I got the dogs on recommendation from my therapist, and that the letters have only caused me to increase my anxiety medication.  I'll list everything we've done to reduce barking, including bark collars that didn't work, muzzles that are considered cruel, and paying the neighborhood kids to run the hell out of them so that they sack out and shut up.

Lastly, I'll tell them that, since they are still puppies, that the situation will only get better.

When I get done putting my spin on this, they'll wish they'd left us alone.

If they don't, then I'll bring all this other shit up when I take it to court.  I'll line up neighbors who will vouch for the fact that these two are just a big pain in the ass. 

On walking the dogs, and being a parent/great uncle/adult.

There is not a person in my house who has not said, at one point or another, “I hate those damned dogs."  My mantra has become, “Relax, they won’t stay puppies forever.”  It’s true, and both dogs have gone through some serious changes since we got them about three months ago.
At first, it was pure novelty.  “Oh, how cute!”  “Oops, get the paper towels!”
Then, the novelty wore off.  “Christ!  Won’t they EVER shut up?!”  “Again?!  You were JUST outside!”
The dogs have destroyed a pair of glasses, a bottle of allergy medicine, the legs on both the coffee table and the kitchen table, a box of ramen, a bag of potatoes, and Natasja’s homework.
“Relax, they won’t be puppies forever.”
Tonight, with the help of a couple very inexpensive retractable leashes, I took the dogs for a walk.  I say walk, but they ran, tugged, sniffed, fought, tried to eat weird crap, fought some more, and ate weeds.  My shoulders are tired from the tugging and my feet hurt, but I wore those dogs out.  We came back in, and they both went right for the cage.  Mission accomplished.
I’ve seen enough natural progression in their development to know that, in the future, they’ll be easy-going, laid back, and well-trained.  We’re not there yet.  Not by a long shot.  But, the wild energy they exhibit and the strange situations they put me in make it worth the time.  I had to jump the leashes several times, got my arms criss-crossed, and had to un-hogtie both of them.  There will come a time when I’ll take them out and they’ll sniff, pee, sniff some more, and head back in.  They won’t stay puppies forever.  It will be easier on me, but I won’t have nearly as many stories to tell when I come back.
At age forty-five, it’s really easy for me to look at things at a distance.  I met Erica’s kids when they were all teens.  It hasn’t always been easy.  Being a stepfather is a weird situation.  Nothing can be assumed.  I had to find my own relationship with each of them, and they had to figure out what to think of me.  We’re very different, but I do believe we’ve come to the place where we all feel secure.  It’s a kind of acceptance that comes from being family.  As they each grow into the person they want to be, there’s been plenty of head-butting.  I don’t always handle it the right way.  Who knows if I ever have?
I’ve heard Erica say countless times: “I don’t know what to do with that child.”
And I say, “They won’t stay puppies forever.”
Within the next three years, the nest will be empty.  With school years popping past like slats on a picket fence, I know that I’ll be looking back pretty soon, wondering if I did my best.  I’d like to think so, but I’m not perfect.  (Erica will tell exactly how if you ask.)  But, when things get tough, and tempers are flaring, I have to remember, they’re going to move on, grow up, and keep getting better.  I’m counting on it.  I can safely say that they’ve never disappointed me.  I mean that.
Last night, although I wasn’t there to share in the joy, I became a Great Uncle.  If there is one thing that proves life will march on whether you’re a part of it or not, it’s a baby.  A baby is a little steam roller that will flatten any preconceived notion of what you thought your life would be.  Hell, I’m on the outside and I’ve noticed that, just from watching all my pals become parents.  I’ve seen frustration, anger, exasperation and pure unadulterated joy.
Any parent reading this can tell you stories that were anything BUT funny at the time, but they can’t help but laugh at, today.  I’ve noticed a lot of part-time dads like to think of themselves as heroes, swooping in to save the day when things get tough.  Maybe some do.  But real heroes, like my friends who are parents, are there every day.  They may not always be available.  They may not always get there in time.  They may not make all dreams come true.  But, they show up.  They try. They do their best.  All of those small victories, clawed out day by day, add up to a life well-lived.  And, Lord, they have stories to tell.  They bare their scars proudly.
I’m sure Connor will give Ashley many sleepless nights in the years to come.  She’ll know terror, despair, and disappointment.  She’ll hear herself saying the same damned things her mother did.  She’ll also get to experience some things of which I've never had the pleasure: first steps, first words, first day of school, first love, first everything.  She’ll get to watch a life take shape, guided by her hands.  It’s the best and worst full-time job.  There will come a time when she’ll be at her wit’s end.  But, she’s a Thompson.  She’ll show up.  Every day.  She’ll make mistakes, all parents do.
The best advice I can give: Enjoy the ride. They don’t stay puppies forever.

The Navy taught me not to be co-dependent.

In the Navy, I learned a Mantra.

It was a simple one, but it’s really helped me out through the years.

        When you’re in boot camp, your overseers are called Company Commanders or CC’S for short.  One day, we had a senior chief come to us to train us in the proper way to commit suicide.  It wasn’t some black ops info in case we were captured by the enemy, it was the most brilliant use of reverse-psychology I’ve ever seen before or since.

You see, there’s always some guy who realizes what he’s gotten himself into a little too late.  He’s already signed the papers, he’s already sworn in twice.  Once you raise your hand, swear the oath, and sign that contract, there’s no going back.  Senior chief was there to inform us that even suicide, or, more specifically, a failed attempt at suicide, wasn’t going to do anyone any good, and that if we REALLY wanted to die, he was going to tell us the proper way. He told us many ways, actually.  He even told us how many minutes we were expected to live after cutting here, and here, and here, and there.  If you failed at suicide, he outlined in detail how you would be punished, what you would be put through, and where you would eventually end up.  “Down in the psych ward with those guys smearing shit on the walls.”  I’m not sure how accurate that last bit was, but it really drove home the fact that a failed suicide was just the beginning of your problems.

But, the one thing he kept saying throughout his talk was, “Fuck you.  Nobody gives a fuck about your dumb ass, anyway.”  Meaning: your life is your own.  If you don’t value it, nobody here will, either.

We heard it again and again.  “You want to die?  Fuckin’ great.  Nobody gives a fuck about your dumb ass, anyway.”

You’re probably trying to guess just how this could be beneficial.  How can such a callous attitude be useful towards someone who obviously needs help and possibly sympathy?  Well, that’s just the point.  No where is it written, in law or otherwise, that you are responsible for the choices of another person.  It’s not your fault that someone is angry.  It’s not your job to “fix” individuals.  You don’t have to feel sorry for people when they’ve done the damage to themselves.

Mind you, it’s not my first response.  It’s actually pretty far down the list.  But, there comes a time when you’ve done all you can and have to convince yourself that it’s just not your responsibility, anymore.  A person needs to hold himself accountable for himself.  It allows me to say, “I’m not going to do it for you” or “I’ll be here when you’re ready to listen.”  It takes me to the other side, to the place where I am not invested.

If you don’t value your life, no one will value it for you.  If you don’t value your education, nobody will cram it down your throat.  If you won’t get your ass out of bed, nobody is going to pull you to work.  If you are unwilling to help yourself, you have no right to ask me for help.

Sometimes I get caught up.  Another person’s goal becomes my goal, and I know they can do it.  I’m certain that they really can succeed if they’d just do more, be more, have a better attitude and just stop . . . “Fuck you.  Nobody gives a shit about your dumb ass, anyway.”

I won’t feel sorry when you hit the wall.  I won’t feel responsible when your time runs out.  I won’t take ownership of your failure.  I’ve done enough.  I’ve done more than enough.  It’s time for you to do something.

And if not?  Fuckin’ great.  Nobody gives a fuck about your dumb ass, anyway. 

Irregular Forever!

A few words on why the original Irregulars were much cooler than the kids today.

The first question to answer is, “Who the hell are/were the Irregulars?”  It was me who actually coined the term.  I thought it would be neat to name our gaming group in the ‘80's and drew inspiration from Sherlock Homes’ Baker Street Irregulars, a bunch of street kids who occasionally did jobs for the World’s Greatest Detective.  Originally, there were five of us, but we kept adding “members” throughout our teens and into our 20's.  Membership was not voted upon, there were no initiations.  If you thought what we did was cool, you were one of us.  Anywho, what began as the Stewartstown Irregulars was quickly shortened to “The Irregulars.”  The name stuck.  More importantly, it fit.  None of the guys in our troop were normal, mainstream or (to our sorrow) popular.  There were about six of us, originally.  We were all white, lower middle class, and honorable.

Why were we so cool? Well, we weren’t.  That’s what made us so cool.  Confused?  Well, think about all the comedians, actors, writers, musicians, and successful artists out there.  How many were popular?  How many had plenty of friends and were captain of the football team?  How many had girls calling and crying and making fools of themselves for them?  Am I hinting that being an outcast builds character?  No.  I’m coming write out and fucking saying it.  All the beautiful people grew up to own shit, run shit, and be shit, but I’m going to go so far as to say that they never really DID shit. These are the people who go to Ireland to SAY they’ve been to Ireland.  These are the people who throw parties and invite the office.  Not that there is anything wrong with that, but I think there could be if you don’t have any actual FRIENDS to invite as well.

To this day, even the friends I hang with from other states (and in some cases from other countries) tell me the same story.  They were last when picking teams, they were picked on for being smart, and they were never, ever, the homecoming king.  Throughout my life, I’ve watched all of the “plastic” people continue to be plastic while I’ve consistently gravitated toward the people with character, the “irregulars” of our society.

So, why were we cool?  It’s because we didn’t know how to be.  We were just being ourselves, not knowing that we would one day look back and long for the days when we were poor and happy, ugly and cheerful, country and carefree.  Because of this.  We did stuff.

We built our own cars.
Before you go lumping us into the redneck grease-monkey click, well, we were.  But, it wasn’t out of love of the automobile.  Well, it was.  But it wasn’t JUST that.  We patched together cars, vans, and muscle machines out of necessity.  We had minimum-wage jobs and had to save up for parts after which there was no money left over for labor.  We swapped engines and transmissions, welded and bonded, busted knuckles and cursed like sailors.  We could tell you stories of electrocutions, near-death experiences, and how it felt to spend and entire Saturday fixing a problem that was still there Sunday morning. We didn’t think it was “cool” at the time.  Hell, it was a big pain in the ass.  But, in a world that gave us no power over our own destiny, we took our dreams on the road.  We launched cars over hills, played weird songs through the horn, and put more than a few cars in the ditch.  We slept on the hood, got drunk out in the middle of a field, and made love in the backseat (not with each other).

Why that makes us cooler than today’s kids:
You can’t build a car like you used to.  They’re much too hard to understand.  Nowadays, kids think swapping the taillights and slapping on a chrome tip equals “customization.”  Putting in a stereo and spending God-awful amount for rims makes your car “cool.”  The engine and transmission are untouchable for the average kid, so it’s all talk about “chips” and shit.  Going to a junk yard for parts is out of the question.  So, other than the cosmetic crap, “fixing” a car means taking it to a guy and paying that labor we were trying so hard to avoid back-in-the-day.  The kids still give it a good try, though.  But, they’re just never going to have the experience of coming together to break two cars down to make one that runs over the course of an evening. Most importantly, for today’s youth, working on a car is done for acceptance, to “look good” in front of their peers (notice I didn’t say friends).  For us, it was about having transportation to work or putting four wheels worth of freedom on the road.

We were products of our own imagination.
If I were to mention, say, the comic book Saga to you, would you know what I was talking about?  Speedball?  Jack of Hearts? Iron Fist? No?  If so, then I’ll still count you among the elite who still actually read the comics instead of watch them on TV and the movies.  Think of the average 14-year-old, today.  If you add up all of the video games, movies, TV series, general tasty sci-fi stuff available, it’s almost as if one would have to specialize within his own specialty of geekdom.  “Oh, I’m not into Star Trek, I’m a Doctor Who guy.” As a matter of fact, there is SO much sci-fi and fantasy out there, today, that being a “geek” has gone mainstream.  Could you imagine getting kids to sit down to a game of D&D, when they could just as easily pop online for a WoW raid?  Why think? Why do math?

There was a time when X-men and The Avengers were both one of those things only a select few knew about (For proof, I can name about 25 avengers, including the short-lived West Coast branch.) There was a time when we would pile into the car for a trip to the comic store and spend the rest of the afternoon, get this, READING.  We knew we weren’t the only ones. We were wide-spread, and we were legion, but we weren’t organized and we damned-sure didn’t have clubs or cosplay. We were just a pocket of geeks.  We played tabletop D&D, Car Wars, and Rifts.  We talked about it non-stop.  It wasn’t just a passtime, it was a hobby.

How much has it changed?  THERE WERE NO GIRLS.  The elusive “gamer chick” was like a unicorn. Once we ran into a girl who played D&D down at the beach.  None of us knew how to act.

Computers were new, exciting, and practically useless.
Today, the iPhone has more processing power than the bank of computers NASA used to put a man on the moon. I was never into computers like some other pals of mine, but I remember respecting the brain power it took to write code, flow charts, and programs. One of my truly “geek” friends actually programed his calculator to roll random 20-sided numbers.  Note, this was BEFORE math coprocessors.  The games were intricate and slow.  The home consoles gave us blisters on our thumbs.  I remember putting about 60 hours into a game and was nowhere CLOSE to finishing it at a time when buying a game meant buying a stack of 6-inch floppies and staring at 8-bit stick figures.

How does this make us cooler than today’s kids?  Because we were made fun of for it.  Sitting around playing video games or learning programming was for the nerds and the virgins.  Getting drunk, high, and committing vandalism was the cool way to go.  We chose to do intellectual things (and, yes, the games WERE intellectual) and use our imagination while the “cool” kids wanted to stomp us for being different.  Nowadays, knowing about computers MAKES you the cool kid. Again, just like with the cars, having the newest gadget is a way to show off.  The kids with the flip phones are ridiculed.  I guess not much has changed as far as D&D goes, though.  So, kudos to those geeks, I guess.

We wore what we wanted to.
High school kids always have to be on top of the latest trends, spending way-to-much on clothes you are going to hate when showing your kids the photo album of the good-old-days.  This has never changed.  The Irregulars, however, never went in for fashion.  Ok, I’ll admit there was a period of time when I jumped feet-first into acid-washed jeans and big heavy-metal hair.  But, in my own defense, it was BECAUSE I had stopped hanging out with the Irregulars for a time.  They made fun of me. It hurt.  Anywho, when your parents are poor you either pay for stuff yourself or you wear what Grandma bought for you at Hills Department store.  I still think I have a pair of Husky’s around here, somewhere. They were indestructible.  It was lack of options that kept us out of the fashion trends, I have to admit.  I just can’t see today’s kids NOT wearing their pants down past the crack of their asses.  We used to abuse kids who did that.  Ask me someday about “Butt-hole Bob” and the tater-tot incident.

I’m going to cut this short before I start splitting hairs. Suffice to say that, in a world where we didn’t have much, we had more than we could possibly need.  We made our own fun, made our own rules, and made due with what we had.  We didn’t know that MOST of what we did was going to become “cool” one day.  That’s what made it so special, then.

Looking back, that’s what makes it so special now.  And, if you knew me back then and WEREN’T one of us, well, I guess you just weren’t cool enough.  I really hope that the outcasts of today will be able to find the same kind of pride tomorrow.

Here’s to the Irregulars.  Then, now, and those yet to come.