The Graduate Without Awards, published in the Boston Globe circa 2005
I am watching the boy, or girl, in the third seat in the fifteenth row. I am the master of ceremonies at one of the many awards assemblies that occur in high schools at the end of each year, where students are honored, cited, recognized, and celebrated. All schools have awards ceremonies, and there is always someone in the fifteenth row. Kids are honored for their achievements in Mathematics, Science, English, Language, History. For their positive attitudes. For their steady improvement. For being “a member of the Junior class who, through academic achievement and concern for the community has demonstrated the potential for leadership.” Or for being “the Senior who most exemplifies the qualities of intellectual curiosityand commitment.”
But the boy--or girl--in the third seat in the fifteenth row is not going to be called to come up to the podium and shake my hand, and bask in the warm glow of audience applause. He watches passively, and applauds politely. His mind may be busy thinking about, or suppressing the fact that, he’s not going to get any recognition tonight. I watch him all evening, and wonder: who does know him, his talents, his interests; who lets him know that he’s doing a good job, and finds some medal or plaque--even if it’s only metaphorical--to give him a feeling of affirmation? Who is there maybe just to say “You didn’t screw up this time the way you did last time, and that is a major accomplishment?”
As the year ends we strive mightily to honor students for their good works and talents, and there is joy in these events, as well as flowers, ribbons, punch and cookies. And there is the necessity of discriminating and measuring, for if we were to honor everyone, the value of truly remarkable academic or intellectual achievement would be diminished. Life is, at least in part, a competitive business, and some students are more successful than others when they are in high school. We have established certain measuring sticks and incentives from the earliest grades, perhaps more by instinct than intent, and at the end of high school we admire not only the fruits of students’ labors, but the fruits of our own system of categorization and recognition. It is the same system that we ourselves have either flourished in or endured, so it is not surprising, nor is it inherently bad, that we recreate it each year.
But I am left with the problem of the boy or girl in the fifteenth row. Who really knows him? Who knows that he wants to succeed as much as anyone else? Who knows what is special and unique about him that is there to be identified, nourished, and celebrated, even if quietly. Who is there to say to him, when the ceremony is over, and everyone is filing out, “You know, you have the kind of talents that don’t fit in easily to the categories and standards we’ve developed, but that doesn’t make you less important or worthy than anyone here. I know how hard school is for you. I know how hard it is to speak up. I know how hard you worked on that assignment. I know how hard it is to observe how popular other kids are, or how easily success seems to come to them. This isn’t your problem, it’s our problem, because we just haven’t gotten to know you well enough yet to find out the ways you already are, or could be, successful. We haven’t been able to expand our definitions of success enough to recognize what you’ve already accomplished. We haven’t been able to help you trust your own abilities, and we haven’t been very good at helping you feel okay about yourself. But we’re going to keep working on it. Your time will come.”
I was talking to some parents the other day, and asked them what sorts of successes their daughter had had in school during the course of the year. She’s a diligent worker and a responsible and really nice kid, but she struggles with a learning disability that keeps her from succeeding, at least in conventional ways. They told me that the high point of the year for her had been when a photography teacher had said “Hey, you really have talent. I hope you stick with it and take a more advanced course next year.” That simple comment, sincere and heartfelt, easily given but doubtless forgotten by the teacher the very next day, was the high point of the year for this girl, a private Awards Assembly, a meaningful message of affirmation that she will always remember.
So, as the year ends, the dust settles, the confetti is swept up, and the trophies and plaques are placed in family rooms or bedrooms across our towns, I’m still left with the image of that kid in the fifteenth row, and I just want to say “Keep working, keep trying, don’t give up. We know that, in your heart, you want nothing more than to be good at something, or lots of things. We just haven’t really and fully recognized you yet. But your time will come.”