Convocation Remarks, 2001
August 31, 2001
We mark today-by this convocation-the beginning of William and Mary's 309th year. Quite remarkable when you think of it. In those three centuries, this building, which we rededicated today and in whose embrace we gather-has seen it all-hope and despair-glorious triumph and utter ruin-sublime nobility and consuming selfishness-much happiness but more tragedy. You can study the history of this place and learn-not just the story of our country-but vital lessons which will open doors to understanding the heart of humanity.
But this is much more than an occasion to recall institutional history-it is also a time to consider what this day and this place mean- or should mean-to every one of us. And for every one of us-that meaning is different.
To the helplessly elderly-like me and not a few others here-it is a moment to feel the power of memory's lengthening shadows and to confirm our resolve to deserve by our conduct the privilege of being here.
For those of you new-or almost new-to us-to those of you who have come here for the first time-it is a moment at once daunting and exhilarating. You know in your bones-you know it now-before it happens-that what you learn here will change you forever. You understand-not in detail but surely in spirit-that when you leave us you will look back in vain for the person you were when you first came. Now, I know that these thoughts may not be especially comforting. Young or old-we fear what we do not know; young or old-we know that change is inescapable but not always for the better.
The result of all this is, of course, anxiety- and anxiety does not produce ease. But first-class education is not about reinforcing old habits or confirming old prejudices long mistaken for serious ideas. Robert Kennedy used to say that his job as a political leader was to afflict the comfortable and to comfort the afflicted. And today I must tell you that our faculty's job-and they do it brilliantly-has more to do with affliction than with comfort. The affirmation of all that you now believe is no part of William and Mary's obligation to you.
Believe it or not, I am trying to lighten your load-not add to it. Frankness-I think-is in the long run more comforting than soothing, sugar-spun rhetoric which hard reality soon betrays. Your gifts are many and glorious-but glory also has its burdens. And you are learning now that the present weight of glory's burdens often seems more real than the distant prospect of glory's consolations.
In the end, what William and Mary offers you is a chance for greatness. Thank God for that. And greatness we define here not as a cookie-cutter, story-book virtue-but as a state of mind and heart that draws from each of you-and then makes real-the best of your ambitions and the truest of your feelings. And in the pursuit of that kind of greatness-a little anxiety does weigh down the scale.
I have been here thirty years-and thirty years have taught me some things that are true. One of them is that the challenges each of us finds in the quest for greatness are remarkably consistent-over time and among us all. I want to talk to you briefly about some of those challenges-not because I believe you will believe me now-but because, if remembered, what I say may prove useful when hard experience persuades you of what my words cannot.
The first-and the greatest challenge-is the challenge of fear. You are all high achievers. You are accustomed to success. You have come to a new place. You are acting on a larger stage and in a more complicated play. For many-perhaps for most-there is a powerful instinct in such circumstances to limit risks-and therefore to constrict opportunities. After all, why chance a large disaster to win a great victory against long odds-when a miniature triumph can be had at small risk of failure? That may seem a clever strategy-but it is too clever by half. You are preparing for life, and that is far more different and more difficult and important than building a resume. Don't choose courses-or careers-or even out-of-class activities-because they are safe and promise to spare your vanity the pain of possible failure. Courage is its own reward-but it is more. Courageous, principled choices in aid of great ambition always lead to something better-even if failure is the first consequence. Great failures are rarely final, but they are an an indispensable part of living a great life-quite simply because those failures teach lessons that lay the foundation for later and greater victories.
The second challenge is the challenge of self knowledge. I have spoken a good deal-perhaps too much-about change and transformation. To be sure, it would be a poor college that gave you four years of education and left you unchanged. Had you ever doubted- you know now-we are not one of those places.
But you bring to us special qualities-and core beliefs-that are uniquely yours and thus for you uniquely true. To grow intellectually and morally does not require that you discard everything you now believe. Far from it. Your family and your teachers and your mentors have taught you things so important that you will never forget them and that for a lifetime you will strive never to betray. What are these things-among others-the transcendent power of love, the honor of truth, the sacredness of compassion, the necessity for charity.
Nothing you will learn or experience here, should degrade or diminish those things. But the longer you live- the more that happens to you as your life lengthens-the greater the danger that the vitality of those beliefs will wane-or be corrupted by a consuming cynicism. Fight-fight always-against the failure of faith in the rightness of those sacred things you learned when young from those who loved you most and who first dreamed the dreams that now belong to you.
The third challenge is the challenge of humility. Some of you must have seen those pillows sold by our alumni gift shop which are embroidered with the slogan: "It's hard to be humble when you come from William and Mary." That is true, of course, it is hard to be humble when you come from William and Mary. But, taken too far, it is also dangerous. I have spoken truthfully about your great talents. The College to which you come is likewise accustomed to the rewards which attend high achievements and high standards. But the habit of success-just like the habit of command-can breed at first an unthinking arrogance-and later-a self-consciously inflated view of how great we are and how important is the work we do.
It is better to remember that however much we know-what we don't know is probably more important than what we do. It is better to understand that while we have done much, there are millions who have done more. It is important, too, to remember that the life of the mind is not the whole of life-and that intellectual distinction-without character-without heart-is really no great thing. And never forget that the talents with which you are blessed were not a reward for peculiar virtue-but the result of God's grace-if you are religiously inclined-and the accidental blessing of random chance-if you are not. Finally there is practical value to humility. For humility far more than arrogance is likely to inspire genuine greatness. This is so because to be truly humble requires a resilient sense of humor and a durable sense of proportion-without which I do not believe it possible to live a good and happy life.
In the last week-probably in the last few months-you have been bombarded by more advice than you could possibly want-or absorb. I am keenly conscious that what I have just said only adds to the overload. I am not sure why-but there is something irresistible for those of us who have blundered through our own lives-when confronted by the opportunity- to give a captive audience of the relatively young-the dubious benefit of lessons learned from our own errant experience. In this, I am grateful for your patience-but do be sure-your turn will come.
For you there should be consolation in this: all who have offered counsel and advice-care deeply about what happens to you-and wish for you only happiness, useful work and great success.
What you do with your life-and the gift of great talent-is for you to decide. And you will. Those of us who coach from the sideline-can offer suggestions-can give warnings-but the decisions and the consequences are for you to make-and for you to live with.
May I share with you something Joseph Conrad wrote a long time ago. I keep it close to me-and found in it a consistently wise way to think about life. Perhaps you will too:
"What one lives for may be uncertain. How one lives, is not. Man should live nobly though he does not see any practical reason for it, simply because in the mysterious, inexplicable mixture of beauty and ugliness, virtue and baseness in which he finds himself, he must want to be on the side of the virtuous and the beautiful."
As the rest of your lives unfold, choose always to be on the side of the virtuous and the beautiful. You will never, ever regret it-whatever fate befalls.
