I am a professor.
I know it's hard to believe.
But I'm a professor.
And every year-- there's probably
professors in this room, right?
And every year, commencement, you
put on your robes, your fancy robes with the regalia on.
And then you go up to sit on the stage
and watch everybody get their diplomas.
And it's like a big moment for the people
getting the diplomas, right?
So person after person, a huge moment, right?
But for the person sitting there,
you, it's like four hours of listening to people read names.
And it's tough.
Because, 95% of the people, you don't even know who they are.
But you have to look very interested, you know?
Because it's rude to not look interested and especially
when somebody is like moment after moment, right?
So the other year, I did this thing.
And then but I decided I was going to try to write a poem.
And you can't like be checking your phone or whatnot.
So I was-- not that I would ever do that.
But so I brought a notebook.
And I just took notes.
But look, with this kind of glassy like face of interest.
And I took notes.
And then I took the notes home.
And I wrote this poem.
So I mean, I do love commencement.
It's not that I don't love it.
It's just it's a lot.
You know?
It's like it's a lot to sit there for a couple-- there's
a professors in here, right?
You know what I'm talking about, right?
It's like it's a lot.
It's hot.
So anyway.
"Graduation Day."
Drawn by ceremonial obligation up from sleep,
I woke and stepped into the borrowed black robes, all ghost
bureaucrats trained to redirect dreaming,
pretend we do not like to wear.
I drove my black car to the stadium to sit on stage
and be watched, watching young, expectant spirits, one by one,
with dread certainty pass before me, clouded in their names.
Then listen to no one in their speeches
say you're welcome for allowing us not to tell you it's already
too late to learn anything or defend whatever
accidental instrument in us causes
all these useless thoughts.
Like, if you walk for hours through the vast black avenues
of those server farms all of us built
with our endless attention, you could almost
feel the same peaceful disinterest
as when your parents, talking and smoking,
raise their heads for a moment to smile and tell you,
go back upstairs and read the book
you love about myths that explain weather and death.
Now it is almost June.
And they're finally the children they always were.
So more precise than anyone has ever had to be,
go forget everything we told you.
So you can fix what we kept destroying
by calling the future.
That's not going to be a popular one at the next commencement,
I don't think.
So--