Senior Vespers 2014

Looking out, I’m reminded of a development from US history called the Great Awakening, when itinerant preachers wandered the colonies giving four-to-five-

hour sermons. That might be fun to do tonight?

When I was a kid, I used to come home from school and watch a cartoon called The Wonder Twins. It was about a brother and sister who had special powers. Ms. McGowan and I, too, have special powers. Her special power was revealed before we moved here, when we lived in Washington, DC. We often would go for walks or enter restaurants and she would spot famous people—usually famous politicians—that most people couldn’t recognize. She has used this power in southern California too during the last seven years.

How many of you have seen the film The Sixth Sense?

Who remembers what the boy’s special power is?

Well, I, too, have that power: I see dead people. However, I prefer to say that I see ghosts. I’ve had this power—to see ghosts—for as long as I can remember. When I was growing up, my dad’s favorite thing to do on trips was to visit historical sites—old homes, battlefields, museums – things like that. At these places, I always envisioned what life had been like and as I did this, I saw ghosts.

Thus, as surprising as it might seem, what has always drawn me to history is not the delightful process of writing analytical essays and the stimulating reading in textbooks. Rather, it’s my special power—the power of seeing ghosts.

 

When I look out at this majestic valley, I see a time before the orange and avocado groves, a time when the Chumash native Americans harvested acorns from the scrub oaks on the valley floor and tracked deer through canyons.

I see a later people, people of Spanish descent, who entered the valley in the 1800s, in search of productive farm land.

I see the young Sherman Day Thacher surveying this part of the valley in the late 1800s and looking for the best place to start his ranch, a place where he could also take care of his ailing brother.

I see the townspeople of Nordhoff in 1918, who during WWI decided Nordhoff sounded too German and that Ojai would be a more fitting name for the village.

I see the young men whose names Mr. Mulligan just read, boys such as Minot Jones, who was kicked out of school in June of 1918 for returning late from a school beach trip to Ventura because he and a fellow classmate lingered too long in Ojai with “an objectionable person.”

I see Lee Quong and other Chinese workers arriving to Thacher in the 1920s.

I see a young Jack Huyler and a younger Marvin Shagham in the 1940s and 1950s, making their ways to new teaching posts.

And then I see people nearer to the present. A three-day-old Rory McGowan coming down the Denison Grade in 2009 to her new home, Grant and Reed peddling up Thacher Road at the end of their epic bike journey from Oregon; Jillian, Raul and Momo arriving in September of 2010 thinking, “I’m not in New York City” anymore. I see Mahogony, Ciara, Lachlan, Lexie, Madeline, and Mia as ninth-graders returning from Golden Trout after narrowly surviving a harrowing night of cold and winds with Ms. Grant. And I see a fourteen-year-old Aidan Waugh, actually sitting here, just two weeks into his Thacher career, attending a wedding of two people whom he didn’t know because he thought all events on the daily calendar were required.

I’ve learned, however, that you can’t study ghosts forever. When we arrive at a crossroad in our lives—the end of a school year, the end of a high school career, or the end of a job—we’re forced no longer to look at the past but also to take stock of the present and to plan for the future.

Clearly, tonight, we’re at such a crossroad. One where the past meets the present and the present flows into the future.

Here we are in the present. June 1, 2014. We know who we were—the ghosts remind of us of that—but who are we now?

Ninth-graders, you are now both skilled riders and skilled writers. You are friends with people whom you did not know nine months ago. You are no longer half- way members of the Thacher community. You are full-members.

Tenth-graders, you are half-way through your Thacher experience. You are not only talented ball berlers but you are also experienced and seasoned students. You know a lot about places like China, Afghanistan, and Latin America. You are ready for new challenges.

Eleventh-graders, you are the new leaders of the School. You have endured AP this and honors that and are now experts, no longer novices, in math, science, art, English, language, of course, most importantly, history. Others are looking to you for meaning and direction as weapons against cynicism and pessimism.

Seniors, you are at the end of what I imagine for many of you seems like a very quick journey. You are seniors, though for only six more days. You are top-notch and outstanding scholars headed to such an impressive array of colleges and universities. You are life-long friends and you are no doubt looking to the future.

 

Freshmen, sophomores, and juniors, your future is much like five-year-old Rory McGowan’s. It mostly seems like a certain one—at least in the short-term. Freshmen, no more mucking for most of you; sophomores, THE junior year looms; juniors, leadership, college apps, more choice of classes, the Sr. Ex., and, most importantly, your friendships with one another. For Rory, she is certain too that when we get to London, she’ll be taking classes with Hermione Granger, sipping tea with the queen, and sliding down chimneys with Mary Poppins.

Seniors, your future is much like Javi McGowan’s—it is an uncertain one. Yes, you’ll be going to college, but what will it be like; will you like your new school; what will you study?; will you survive the course work? will people like you? who will be your friends?

Needless to say, Javi has not always been excited about our move. When we told him in late February that we were moving to London, he fell into a state of shock, crushed that he would have to say good-bye to Rob, Hayden, the Mahoneys, and the ice cream machine. He was profoundly confused, even about his own nationality, storming off to his room yelling, “I want to play basketball for the USA, not England!” As he has tried to cope with the move, he has convinced himself that his future will one day intersect again with Thacher.

Javi is looking five years into the future when he will be part of the class of 2023. At age 8, he already knows that he wants to come back here for high school. It’s his five-year plan.

If things work out for Javi as he hopes, Ms. McGowan and I might return in five years, too, as prospective Thacher parents. This eventuality would be a welcome one, since we very much look forward to tracking Thacher’s future course. While the values of the School—honor, fairness, kindness, and truth— and core components such as the horse program and camping are constants and permanent, this School will change and grow in order to continue to be a cutting-edge educational institution.

If we indeed do return as prospective parents, I look forward to seeing a school whose dedication to the wilderness will have shifted from the spiritualism of Thoreau and Emerson to incorporate more fully the pressing issues of sustainability and environmental education. I look forward to visiting a Thacher in five years that celebrates these amazing and committed teachers who have guided you this year; a school that provides them with the resources and encouragement to transform their classes into laboratories of innovation and real-world understanding. And I look forward to visiting a Thacher in five years that pushes students to look not only inward but also outward, thus enabling students to become global citizens and leaders in a world so desperate for moral and ethical leadership and vision.

 

In short, when Javi returns in five years to interview, he will most certainly see the barns, the Pergola, and, yes, that ice-cream machine. But he’ll also see a school on the move. This will be true for all of us. Though “our” Thacher—the Thacher of this year, last year, the last four years—though that Thacher will become a ghost, when we all come back here, whether it’s next year – freshmen, sophomores, and juniors – or in five years – seniors and Javi – when we come back here—to this valley, to these hills, to this place—the ghosts will remind us of who we were but also they will reveal to us what we have become, what we have achieved, and what we are capable of accomplishing. These ghosts will be our points of reference, our baselines, helping us to mark change and, we hope, to measure progress.

In conclusion, we want to thank the senior class for this honor of addressing the School on such a sacred occasion. Through our time in the classroom, the dorm, the athletic fields, the trails, the Sr. Ex. meetings, trips to Cuba and Spain, AP Gov, and, yes, even AP Economics, you have become a very special group of people to me and Ms. McGowan, and we wish you lives of productivity, fulfillment, kindness, and love.