Sunday, March 19, 2006
A commencement address nobody asked me to give
I went to a prep school outside Detroit. Its seal featured Acestes, a character from the Aeniad, kneeling on one knee, drawing a bow with the arrow pointed straight up. This was subscribed with the motto “Aim High,” which we understood was what we were supposed to do. (We were also admonished, though without illustration, to “remember who you are and what you represent,” a lot to ask of adolescents with a shaky understanding of the first and none at all of the second.)
Acestes, or at least who he was and what he represented, was an important figure for those of who were still impressed by dead white Greeks. His power was undiminished even by the work of some uncultured lout at the athletic clothing factory, who made one batch of sweatshirts in which Acestes wore a feather on his head. (Hey, any naked guy in Michigan with a bow and arrow is an Indian, am I right?)
This was the deal: Acestes and three others were in an archery contest. A bird was tethered to the end of a high pole. The first archer’s shot split the end of the pole. The second severed the cord. The third shot the bird in flight. Acestes, having no target left to shoot at, was undaunted. He knelt and sent his arrow as high as he could, straight up into the air. The gods, impressed by his bold spirit, tipped the arrow with fire, and when it returned to earth the judges awarded him the prize.
What a pernicious story!
Because mostly that isn’t how it happens. Zeus is only at the contest to keep Hera off his back, and is deeply involved in a fantasy about a couple of Danaids in Accounting. Artemis keeps looking at her watch. Hermes, always a little dim, has a hard time understanding the point of the contest, much less how to score it. After the bird gets shot they assign a couple of demi-gods to hang around until the credits roll, and slope off to happy hour at the Olympus Marriott. No arrow gets tipped with fire.
Most of you will find, if you haven’t already, that the gods’ attention wanders. Being first in line counts for a lot. Grand gestures end up looking stupid. The plan that’s just crazy enough to work doesn’t.
So you pull your arrow out of the dirt – maybe you try to pretend it isn’t yours or you were just clowning around – you wipe it off, go home, nuke the lasagna, get up tomorrow and go to work. And the same thing is probably going to happen next time. Live with it.
So what am I saying? That you should aim low? Aim moderately? Remember who you are but forget what you represent?
You’re the graduates. You figure it out.
Don’t shoot the arrow. Or shoot it if you want to, shoot it straight up. But shoot to feel it leave your fingers, hiss of the feathers past the bow, shoot because it’s the only way you can watch an arrow fly, shoot because it’s more fun than not shooting.
No gods. No fire. No prize. Nothing but arrow.
Acestes, or at least who he was and what he represented, was an important figure for those of who were still impressed by dead white Greeks. His power was undiminished even by the work of some uncultured lout at the athletic clothing factory, who made one batch of sweatshirts in which Acestes wore a feather on his head. (Hey, any naked guy in Michigan with a bow and arrow is an Indian, am I right?)This was the deal: Acestes and three others were in an archery contest. A bird was tethered to the end of a high pole. The first archer’s shot split the end of the pole. The second severed the cord. The third shot the bird in flight. Acestes, having no target left to shoot at, was undaunted. He knelt and sent his arrow as high as he could, straight up into the air. The gods, impressed by his bold spirit, tipped the arrow with fire, and when it returned to earth the judges awarded him the prize.
What a pernicious story!
Because mostly that isn’t how it happens. Zeus is only at the contest to keep Hera off his back, and is deeply involved in a fantasy about a couple of Danaids in Accounting. Artemis keeps looking at her watch. Hermes, always a little dim, has a hard time understanding the point of the contest, much less how to score it. After the bird gets shot they assign a couple of demi-gods to hang around until the credits roll, and slope off to happy hour at the Olympus Marriott. No arrow gets tipped with fire.
Most of you will find, if you haven’t already, that the gods’ attention wanders. Being first in line counts for a lot. Grand gestures end up looking stupid. The plan that’s just crazy enough to work doesn’t.
So you pull your arrow out of the dirt – maybe you try to pretend it isn’t yours or you were just clowning around – you wipe it off, go home, nuke the lasagna, get up tomorrow and go to work. And the same thing is probably going to happen next time. Live with it.
So what am I saying? That you should aim low? Aim moderately? Remember who you are but forget what you represent?
You’re the graduates. You figure it out.
Don’t shoot the arrow. Or shoot it if you want to, shoot it straight up. But shoot to feel it leave your fingers, hiss of the feathers past the bow, shoot because it’s the only way you can watch an arrow fly, shoot because it’s more fun than not shooting.
No gods. No fire. No prize. Nothing but arrow.
