Chapel Talk by Todd Feitelson

Each year at this time, I become resigned to the fact that no institutions of higher education are going to call me up and ask me to speak at their graduation and offer me an honorary doctorate. Their loss is your gain – I offer you tonight, my commencement address. My remarks will be wise, thoughtful, insightful, uplifting and pandering, and they are dedicated to the greatest senior class in the history of Millbrook School, the class of 2011.

Here it is:

 

Faculty, parents, alumni, students, friends, Mom, Dad, President Obama, Mark Messier, the entire infield of the 1986 World Champion New York Mets, Jimmy Neutron, Wilma Flintstone, that one woman from that bank commercial, and most of all, the distinguished class of 2011. I want to admit that my words today are based on a potentially faulty premise: I am going to assume that your thoughts and feelings today, on the cusp of your graduation from high school, are similar to mine as I graduated from high school 32 years ago, or college 28 years ago. I’ll let you know what those feeling were in a bit, but first I need to tell you some stories.

 

I remember 1977, age 15, 10th grade, sitting in the back of Mr. Margerison’s math class with my friend Larry, using a magnifying glass and a sunbeam streaming through the window to burn paper. Smoke billowed up from behind the desk; Mr. Margerison, my inspiration for the career I have chosen, never said a thing.

 

I remember 2005, age 43, Millbrook School, sitting in the back of faculty meetings playing full games of Scrabble with Ms. Connell on my PDA.

 

I remember 1979, age 17, returning home a little later than I was supposed to, and sneaking carefully up the squeaky staircase so as not to wake my parents.

 

I remember 1994, age 32, sneaking out of Jonah’s room after putting him in his crib, crawling on my elbows and making my way carefully down the creaky stairs so he wouldn’t realize I had left his room, and thus start crying. I had a success rate of about 80%.

 

I remember 1974, age 12, 7th grade. My teacher had sent me from the middle reading group to the highest reading group, and I remember the feeling of pride I had as I walked down the empty hallway to join my new class.

 

I remember 2003, age 41. I ran a 90-minute workshop for about 60 math teachers, and I remember how much fun it was to see all of those educators getting into the games I had designed, and the pride I felt when many of them came up to me afterward and told me how much they’d enjoyed it and how they were going to use what I’d taught them with their students.

 

I remember 1975, age 13, 8th grade social studies class. I had been made the defense attorney in our class’s mock murder trial. At the end, after my client had been found guilty, guilty, guilty by a jury of my peers, I remember my teacher gently pointing out the obvious piece of evidence that I had missed that proved the innocence of my client, and how I felt like an idiot, beyond a reasonable doubt.

 

I remember 2004, age 42. I ran another workshop for about 60 math teachers called (big surprise) “How I Learned to Love Matrices.” I misjudged their ability to deal with the difficulties of probability, and after an hour and a half of what felt like mutiny, a woman came up to me and said, “Thanks for making me feel stupid.” Once again, idiot.

 

I remember 1973, age 11, going to Rangers game at Madison Square Garden, and after warm-ups, catching a puck that one of the players tossed into the stands. Here’s the puck.

 

I remember 2009, age 47, going to a Mets game and catching a batting practice Home Run ball hit by Daniel Murphy. Here’s the ball.

 

I remember 1970, age 8, 3rd grade. My teacher, Mrs. Bonafair, caught me talking one too many times, so she put masking tape over my mouth. I discovered that if you licked the bottom of the masking tape, you could ruin the glue so that the tape would unstick from your bottom lip, and you could still talk. Burn, Mrs. Bonafair.

 

I remember 1986, age 24, Millbrook School. I was teaching a course in computer literacy. One day I was demonstrating how to properly format a business letter. On the big monitor in front of the class, I typed a letter addressed to Mickey Mouse, The White House, Washington DC. “Dear Mr. Mouse, You are my favorite mouse. Yours truly, Todd Feitelson.” Just to show the proper formatting. For some reason, I printed it. Then for some reason, I mailed it. In a Millbrook School envelope. The next I heard of it was when the headmaster called me into his office to chew me out – the letter had been returned “No one by that name at this address.” He was not happy. (That was the old headmaster, not the one we have now.)

 

I remember 1979, age 17. It was my last youth hockey game, what I assumed would be the end of my hockey career. I remember I had a hat-trick in a season-ending tournament championship game as we beat a team that had beaten us twice during the season.

 

I remember 2011, age 49, about three weeks ago, Men’s league hockey. I scored a sweet goal, pushing the puck past one defensemen at our blue line, beating the other defenseman with a little inside outside move, and then sliding the puck back-door through the goalie as I cut across the crease. It was awesome.

 

I remember 1974, age 12. I was home sick, so I memorized the ingredients in a Big Mac – backwards. “Bun seed sesame, ….”

 

I remember 1989, age 27. I remember memorizing the ingredients in my shampoo during showers in the old gym. Mr. Mackenzie can confirm this. The only ingredient I remember is methylchloroisothiazolinone.

 

I remember 1972, age 10. It was minor league baseball, and I was playing third base. I remember when we made the last out in the championship game, I threw my glove in the air – in part because I was excited, but mostly because I knew that’s what you did when you won a championship. I remember the trophy we got – back then, you had to earn your trophies.

 

I remember 2005, age 43. I went with my men’s league hockey team to Lake Placid for a Can-Am tournament. There was a skills competition, and three of my teammates and I won the relay race. Here’s that trophy.

 

I remember 1973, 6th grade. I had a crush on a girl I’ll just call “Diane.” I remember trying to find a place to sit in class so that I could gaze at her through the day.

 

I remember 1985, age 23. I had a crush on a woman I’ll just call “Kathy.” I remember looking up to see if the light was on in her window in Clark, so that maybe I could go say, “hi.”

 

I remember June 1979, age 17, high school graduation, and I remember May 1983, age 21, college graduation. I remember that I was feeling a lot of things – fear, terror, excitement, that kind of excitement that’s a lot like fear, and so on. But the feeling that I remember most is one I can only describe as sadness – specifically, the sadness of the loss of childhood.

 

I was in no hurry to grow up. I loved being a kid. I loved the independence, I loved the lack of true responsibility, I loved the carefree attitude that I could live by every day. So my message tonight is for any of you who are feeling this sense of impending loss of childhood, even a little bit, as you approach graduation, whether it’s days away or years away. And frankly, I think that means all of you. I have three things to tell you:

 

First: When I was graduating from school, I was sure that my life was going to be different. I want to tell you that I was right, but not in the way I thought. Adulthood brings joys with it that were inconceivable to me, as I know they are inconceivable to you.

 

I remember 1979, age 17, meeting my college friends for the first time. I have known them for over 30 years now. I’m not going to try to explain how amazing decades-long friendships are – you’ll need to return back here in the year 2041 in order to find out. And you will.

 

I remember 1991, age 29, 20 years ago next month, standing right on this spot and getting married. The rabbi asked his “will you marry this woman?” question, and I shouted “YES” and everyone laughed. Marriage is the greatest thing there is, and you’ll find this out.

 

I remember July 19th, 1993 and September 25th, 1995, the birth of my children, and the joys that followed – teaching them how to talk, how to walk, how to factor quadratic equations. You need to experience this to know what it’s like – and you will.

 

But for you, those are abstractions: Here’s my more concrete message number two: When I was graduating from school, I was sure my life was going to be different. I want to tell you that I was wrong. The things that I feared I was leaving behind – the adventures of childhood – were really the adventures of life. And not some grown-up version of those adventures – the same adventures. Whatever you define as childhood, you can and will have as an adult. You can score a goal in a hockey game; you can get your mouth taped for being bad, you can get a baseball at a Mets game, you can goof around with a friend in the back of a classroom, you can win a trophy. You can even marry the girl you had a crush on. I loved being a kid, and I love being an adult, and for the same reasons. And you will, too.

 

Here’s the third thing: I’m not telling you this just to help you feel better. You may not know this, but my son is also graduating with you later this month. I’ve started to feel a lot of the things that I felt when I was graduating, so my thoughts tonight are as much for you as they are for me. I remind you, too, that your own parents are feeling like I do. Think about that when they ask you to pose for one more photo, or to sit for five more minutes before running off with your friends. 

The wonders and thrills of childhood are there for you always, and the best part is that you don’t even need to work hard to find them – they will find you – all you have to do is be willing to see them.

 

So I remember Valentine’s Day, 1981, age 19. A friend and I anonymously posted a list of friends at college around campus, inviting them to a mystery Valentine’s Day party that we had no intention of throwing. It was at our 20th reunion that we finally confirmed that we were the culprits. Why did we do it? Just to see what would happen.

 

I remember spring 1991, age 29. The seniors had spelled out “Seniors ’91” in rock salt on the side of the field where the turf field is now, so you could see it all the way up on campus. That night, Ms. Havard and I went down and switched the “O” and the “I” making it say, “SENOIRS” – just to see what would happen.

 

I remember 2011, age 49, when I gave a chapel talk and started by getting the boys all out of dress code – just to see what would happen.

 

I remember all of these things, but what I remind myself every day is what every child knows – that the most important thing to remember is being right here, right now.

 

Thank you.