But it is indeed time to move on. You are on the verge of graduation. And what does that mean, really? Most literally, a thing is graduated if is is measured, divided up into discrete bits. In this case, your graduation implies that your life so far can be measured into two distinct sections, portioned out into your time before leaving Hufford, and your time after leaving. For most of you, this is a function of learning: you have done the work, jumped through the hoops, demonstrated your proficiency in a whole host of tasks, from playing soccer in a field, to doing basic algebra, to passing a test on your state and national government. Some of you will be graduated only in a physical sense: you have aged, and scraped by, and now must leave, whether your academic skills are ready for what is to come or not. And for all of you, you have passed through another series of tests and measurements: that of becoming an adult. You are starting to leave the wonder and obedience of most children behind. You are learning what it truly means to live and work in a society of others. You are exploring the boundaries of what it means to be yourself. You are figuring out what makes a truly lifelong friend, outside of shared experiences. You are, in short, growing up.
And watching that happen has always (to my surprise) been the best part of the job. For I get the pleasure of seeing you as you are, and will be: your personalities are mostly formed. I get to see your pride, and shyness, and humor, and sarcasm, and interests and dislikes. I get to see an adult who is a bizarre combination of absolute confidence and none, of heedless optimism and ridiculous caution. I get to see who you will ultimately become, if only as a glimpse of a possible future, but not the path you will take. I get the hint of possibility, knowing that who you are now will absolutely be a part of who you will become, but that the becoming is a mystery to me.
So, I will tell you all this: you have no idea how much I hope I impacted you in some small positive way. How much I wish that, because of me, your lives will be a little easier and a little better. Because, the real truth of it is, I loved teaching you all. The easy students, and the hard ones. The ones who cared, and the ones who didn't. I will forget your names, sooner than later in some cases. I will over time forget faces as well. But I will never forget those times where I got to come to work to do something important, with important people, and that I loved pretty much every moment. I may forget things ABOUT you, but I will remember every single one of you for the rest of my life.
And so with that, allow me to give some advice. As you move on, graduated and measured, there will be ways you measure your own life, with successes and failures, triumphs and regrets. You will find your life stretches behind you far further than you ever imagined it could. You will wonder what else would have been, what might still be. There will be moments where there are nothing but questions, and seemingly few answers. I encourage you, as you look back, to avoid the trap of regret. Those things you miss, and wish to return to? They are still there, now and forever. If time is a (relative!) dimension, then those moments you long for are still there. They happened. In a sense, they still happen, fixed forever back along the track of your life, perhaps out of reach to relive, but nonetheless real for all that. They are not gone. They are sometimes not forgotten. No matter what the future holds, they will continue to exist, somewhere back there. But on the flip side, for those mistakes you make: learn from them, but do not dwell upon them. While the moments that make up our personal and shared histories may exist preserved behind us, you will never be able to return to correct your errors. So accept them. Improve upon them. Do not repeat them. But do not waste the time that remains for you in only looking backwards towards what pains you. Make your lives the best you can.
With all affection,
Mr. Stevenson