Commencement Speech: How to Write One as a Guest Speaker

Good morning, President, members of the faculty and staff, families and friends, and the Halbrook State Class of 2027.

Let me start with some honesty. You have probably never heard of me. I am not famous. I did not win anything, and nobody asked me for a selfie on the way in. I'm told I was picked because I'm a Halbrook graduate, class of 2003, and because I was available. I'll take it.

Since I wasn't here for your four years, I asked the provost to fill me in. She told me about your first semester, when the old library flooded and you studied in the basketball arena for a month. A month! Anyone who has tried to read a chemistry chapter while a team practices free throws deserves a medal.

She told me you raised money to keep the campus food pantry open all summer. You looked after each other when nobody required it.

And she told me you are still arguing about whether the new dining hall is better than the old one. I'm not going to settle that today. I have a long career ahead of me and I'd like to keep it.

I also heard what it took to get here. Many of you worked twenty or more hours a week on top of classes. About a third of you are the first in your families to earn a bachelor's degree. Some of you are parents. Tuition went up twice while you were here, and a lot of you took extra jobs just to stay enrolled. That is not a small thing. Please let that sink in for a moment.

Now, I'm here to give you one piece of advice. Ask the question you think sounds dumb.

I'm a civil engineer. In my first year on the job, I was on a bridge inspection crew, and I was the only woman on it. I wanted badly to look like I belonged. One day, a bolt reading looked off to me. Something about it just seemed wrong. But everyone else seemed calm, and I was too scared of sounding stupid to speak up.

So I said nothing. For two days, I carried that question around like a rock in my shoe.

Finally, I asked. It turned out to be a real problem. We caught it before the bridge reopened.

My supervisor didn't scold me for the two days. He just said, "The question you don't ask is the one that costs money." I'd add that sometimes it costs a lot more than money.

I have asked every dumb question since then, and I have built a career on it. Most of the important things I've learned came from asking something I was embarrassed to ask. And here is the secret. Almost every time, other people in the room were wondering the same thing. They were just waiting for someone else to go first.

So be the one who goes first.

Before I finish, I want to say thank you, because none of you got here alone.

To the faculty who stayed in your offices late, answering one more email and explaining one more time: thank you. To the dining and custodial staff who kept this campus running, often before the sun came up: thank you. You are part of this graduation too.

And to the families, partners, and kids in the audience: you covered shifts, gave up weekends, and heard "I can't, I have to study" more times than you could count. Thank you. Graduates, when you cross this stage, please know that you are carrying them with you.

Class of 2027, you are heading into hospitals, classrooms, labs, small businesses, graduate programs, and jobs you haven't even found yet. In all of those places, you will meet moments when you don't know something.

I hope you ask anyway. I hope you admit what you don't know, out loud, without shame. And I hope that when you see a scared person in the back of a room, hand half raised and then lowered, you help them. Ask for them. Or just say, "Good question."

You studied in an arena. You kept a pantry open. You worked, parented, and paid more than you planned to pay. You already know how to do hard things together.

Congratulations, Class of 2027. Now go ask something.

Good morning, Principal, faculty and staff, families, and most importantly, the Kestrel Point High School Class of 2027.

I'm Tom. I graduated from this school in 1998, and I'm told I was invited because I'm a local business owner. That means I'm the guy who got the call when nobody more impressive was available. I'm fine with that.

Let me say what I know about you. You painted the senior rock 47 times this year. That's a school record. I'm not sure that's school spirit or just a really bad paint job. Either way, I respect the commitment.

And the balloons. Your senior prank filled the front office with balloons. The principal told me about it, and I want to point out that someone had to show up early to do that. Keep that in mind. It matters later.

You also spent most of junior year with substitutes in math because of a teacher shortage. That's not easy. You got through it anyway, and I know some of you very well, because two of you work at my shop.

Here's my message. You don't have to be the smartest person in the room. Be the one who shows up on time and does what you said you'd do. That alone will put you ahead of most people.

I know because I graduated from here with a 2.1 GPA and a car that didn't start. My first year out, I swept floors at Hank's Garage for minimum wage. Years later, Hank told me the only reason he kept me was that I showed up early every single day. Not talent. Early.

Twelve years after that, I bought the shop from him. The sign still says Hank's, because he'd haunt me if I changed it.

I want to thank Mr. Galloway, our auto tech teacher, who has sent me my best mechanics for 15 years. Thank you, sir. To all the teachers and families here, thank you for getting this class to this stage.

Some of you are going to college. Some into the trades. Some into the military. And some of you will be working at my shop next week. You know who you are. Please be early.

Wherever you go, I hope you show up, keep your word, and learn to change your own oil.

Congratulations, Class of 2027.