Faculty address

Good morning and welcome to our distinguished guests, coworkers, friends, and family. Thank you for attending Marshall Islands High School’s 44th Commencement services.

To deliver a speech in this position is never easy. Therefore, in honor of being asked to deliver the faculty address, I have decided to teach one last lesson to our graduating seniors before I no longer have the privilege of teaching them any more. And in the spirit of the Marshall Islands, I will begin by telling a story.

Twenty-one years ago, a woman named Li Xiaowei made an impossible decision; she chose to leave the comforts of her native homeland so that her child could have opportunities in his life that she never had in hers. She left China and went to America. In her right pocket she had a slip of paper with a phone number written on it. In her left pocket she had her entire life savings, a twenty dollar bill. When she arrived in America, she called the phone number in her right pocket and was given directions to an apartment. With the twenty dollars in her left pocket, she transported herself to the apartment where she found a sleeping mat, and nothing else. At the age of 32, Li Xiaowei’s life had begun for a second time.

One year later, Li Xiaowei was joined by her five year old son, Li Ruochen. Li Ruochen began first grade in America armed with the only English word he knew, “bathroom.” He came home crying the first day because his classmates made fun of his name. That night, Li Xiaowei gave her son an American sounding name, Richard. And, because family names in America come after given names, she switched the order of her son’s name. Li Ruochen became Richard Li.

Because I didn’t speak English I was very quiet and shy in class. I never asked questions or answered when called upon. My teachers quickly concluded that there must be something wrong with me and placed me in special ed. As I grew older, and graduated from special ed., I became more aware that I was different from everyone else. I looked different. My hair was different. My skin color was different. My customs were different. The food I ate was different. My mom was different. She spoke a different language. She wore different clothes. When I watched TV, no one looked like me or my mom. No one spoke our language. No one had our customs. It did not take long for me to believe that my first grade teachers were correct; there must be something wrong with me because no one else was like me.

Afterwards, I tried as hard as I could to be like everyone else. I wore their clothes. I ate their food. I even colored my hair. And I never ever let anyone meet my mom. I never told her when PTA meetings were. I never invited my friends to my house. I was ashamed of her, of her customs, of her clothes, of the way she spoke English. I was so ashamed of her that I even made fun of her. This was how I felt, and I felt this way every single day, until the day I graduated from college.

That night, Li Xiaowei and Richard Li were eating dinner celebrating his graduation. I felt the same way I always did when I was around my mom, embarrassed and ashamed. I wanted that dinner to end so badly because I didn’t want to be seen with my mom, and her clothes, and her customs, and her language. However, this night would end differently, because my mom told me a story, a story that she had never told me before. She told me about twenty-one years ago. She told me about the phone number in her right pocket. She told me about the twenty dollars in her left pocket. She told me about the sleeping mat and nothing else. And then she told me 3,000 stories just like those. And she told me that all those stories existed, that she put her entire life savings in her left pocket, just so I could have dinner with her that night, with my American college diploma in my left pocket.

At that moment, I again felt embarrassed and ashamed, but not of my mom; I felt ashamed of myself. I felt ashamed that I ever thought there was something wrong with this woman in front of me, this wonderful, remarkable, miraculous woman. I felt ashamed that I ever thought there was something wrong with anything connected with this woman, especially myself. This woman gave me life, so how could there be anything wrong with me? There was nothing wrong with my hair, my skin color, my customs, my language, for they all came from her. For the first time in my life, I no longer wanted to be anything else, because I understood that nothing else could be as good as what my mom gave to me.

Three years ago, I began teaching at Marshall Islands High School. I taught English to sophomores, now the 161 students you see in front of you. One of my best students was a girl named Amy. One day she wrote a story about the first time she met a ripelle. Amy elegantly described the ripelle woman’s beautiful hair, her light skin, and the language she spoke. It was a brilliantly composed story, clear and clever. Then I reached the end, and Amy’s last sentence took my breath away. There, she had written, “I wish I were a ripelle.”

What Amy had written about the ripelle woman was not simply what she observed, it was what she wanted to be. I was stunned, motionless, thoughtless. I wanted to scream, but no voice came. I wanted to cry, but no tears came. I wanted to forget, but no strength came. Instead, all of my energy was dedicated to the realization that I knew exactly how Amy felt, and why she felt that way. I knew why Amy wanted to be something else. And I knew that if Amy felt this way, many of her classmates probably did as well, and still do. My students are hurting. I see the hurt as I read their essays about themselves and where they come from. I hear the hurt as they talk about themselves and the people around them. They are hurting in the same way that I had hurt, the kind of hurt you only feel when you’re convinced that who you are, is not good enough.

Therefore, I need to say something right now. I need to tell you, Amy’s classmates, one last thing before you stop being my students. It is something I wish someone would have told me a long time ago. This is my last lesson to you, and don’t you dare forget it:

Class of 2008, YOU ARE BEAUTIFUL!

Everything about you is beautiful. Your hair is beautiful. Your skin color is beautiful. Your culture is beautiful. Your customs are beautiful. Your language is beautiful. There is nothing wrong with you. In fact, everything about you is just right. If you don’t believe me just look at the people who have come here today. They are your parents, grandparents, aunties, and uncles. Do you even know how beautiful they are? What are their stories? What is in their pockets? Ask them. Discover their beauty. Their beauty is your beauty. And once you know how beautiful they are, how beautiful you are, you’ll understand that no one on Earth is as beautiful as you.

Students, you don’t have to change yourself for anybody. You don’t have to compare yourself to anybody. And you certainly don’t have to be like anybody else. In fact, everybody else should have to be a little more like you.

God made you look the way you do. God gave you the language you speak. God made you act the way you do, think the way you do, and be the way you are. You are not the same as everyone else, and what’s wrong with that? There is no shame in that, there is only pride in being God’s unique creation. Be proud that no one looks like you or speaks your language. I know that it can be difficult, because you see things on TV and hear things from people that make you believe there’s something wrong with being the way you are. Don’t believe them. Don’t ever believe them. They’re just first grade teachers who don’t know anything. They don’t know your stories. They don’t know what’s in your pockets. They don’t know that the shy kid with the funny name who they placed in special ed will graduate from college and spend three years teaching the most beautiful people in the world.

Soon, you will march out. You will march out of the gym, into the field, into the workforce, into college, and into the world. And when you do, I want you to march in the only way that befits people of your grace, strength, and promise -- with your chest towards the horizon, your chin towards the sky, and your eyes towards the future.

So explore. Discover. Go. Find all that there is to find. But wherever you are, always remember who you are and where you came from, for these are the sources of your power. So explore with courage, but return with pride. Discover with ambition, but come back with humility. Go to learn, but do not learn to forget just how beautiful you really are.

As for me, I will be leaving as well, as others have done before me. However, I always found it strange that, when a lot of those people left I heard them say that they committed themselves, dedicated themselves, or even sacrificed themselves to be here with you. Please excuse my language, but that’s the biggest load of crap I have ever heard. Committed, dedicated, sacrificed – these words suggest that there’s something else, something better, that these people could have done with their time, that somehow, you were lucky to have them. Nothing could be further from the truth. You were not lucky to have them. They were lucky to have you. You do not have to be thankful because they entered your lives. They should be thankful because you let them enter your lives. And anyone who comes here, and thinks differently, does not deserve you.

Class of 2008, these past three years, there is nowhere better I could have been, than right here. And there is no one better I could have been with, than you. I am so lucky to have had you. And I am so thankful that you let me into your lives. You are beautiful. I love you. I congratulate you. And God bless you.