Thankfully, I’m in my first of two years in an MFA playwriting program. I say thankfully because in the four weeks and five days since my school announced its transition to online learning, I’ve seen the second-year students’ dreams evaporate. Their thesis projects- full-length new plays- were to be presented by professional actors in a live reading in May. Now, like so many other aspects of our pre-Corona lives, they’ve been cancelled with no sign of rescheduling.

As a life-long theatre dork, my heart goes out to all the high school and college seniors who’ve had their own shows cancelled. The magic of standing with your community for the last time on the stage that shaped your education is a rite of passage. Some of my favorite memories are ugly-crying through my final high school and college performances- Fiddler on the Roof and Ragtime respectively- while secretly clutching my best friend’s hands on stage. We then transitioned to the local IHOP, where we could ugly-cry louder in public with the whole cast.

However, even more heartbreaking than cancelled shows has been the nationwide cancellation of commencements. More universal than theatre, or sports, or even senior prom is your long-prophesied graduation; the day celebrating your hard work and accomplishments when you finally receive the slip of paper that certifies you as a whatever-your-heart’s-desire-is.

While I’m not graduating again this year, when I moved home for the quaran-times I rediscovered my yearbooks in the time capsule that is my childhood bedroom. As I flipped through pages upon pages of spring activities, lost to the class of 2020, I’ve found myself thinking about commencements a lot.

I only recently realized it was odd to enjoy binging commencement speeches on Youtube the way my friends binge Vine compilations. Especially since I was never a valedictorian, nor gave a speech, at any graduation I’ve attended. Still, the hope, humor, and big ideas of these speeches have always drawn me in. No speech does this more so than the late great David Foster Wallace’s commencement address This Is Water, which he gave at Kenyon College in 2005. The essay was so memorable that it was later turned into a book, which is available on Amazon here.

The tag line of the book is “some thoughts, delivered on a significant occasion, about living a compassionate life.” I would argue that here and now is a pretty significant occasion, and I have some thoughts on this topic as well. So here is a commencement speech for those of you who might not otherwise get one, and those who just need to hear one. Whether you’re graduating or not, for the first time in a long time all of us humans are commencing a new stage in life together.

To understand the title This is Water, I have to preface by saying Foster Wallace begins his speech with a story. To briefly sum it up, two fish swimming in the ocean come across another older fish swimming in the other direction. In passing, the older fish remarks “Morning boys, how’s the water?” Later one of the younger fish turns to his friend and asks “What the hell is water?”

The purpose of this story is to help understand the meaning of living intentionally. Foster Wallace stresses that tiny gestures, everyday occurrences, can hold great importance on our lives. We underestimate the value of the totally obvious, because we operate on our default settings, to the point where we can miss details as apparent as the air- or in the fish’s case, water- we breathe.

Even though the adjustment to quarantine has been tough and unbelievable in so many ways, I still find myself slipping into routines. Now, entering week five of my quarantine, I can say for sure I’ve built myself a default daily setting.

It wasn’t hard. In fact, with everything going on in the world it felt at time like it was all I could do to be mindless. Then I rewatched this speech, and it catapulted me out of my comforter cocoon faster than Ron Weasley realizing he’s covered in spiders. I did it again, I thought. I took the easy way out.

This is Water posits that the real value of education is in teaching us awareness; how to pay attention. At just two years out of college, even I can support Foster Wallace’s assertion that much of being a “real adult” is boredom, routine, and petty frustration. Still, even he admits it’s unimaginably hard to remain conscious & aware in the adult world day in and day out. Which means you must constantly exercise your education throughout your entire life. We have to keep reminding ourselves over and over: “This is water.”

We can choose to make meaning out of the little things in our quarantines. Even things as monotonous and frustrating as being stuck in our parents’ houses or an endless cycle of daily Zoom calls. The key is to never be certain what’s coming next. As Foster Wallace says, “Absolute certainty is total imprisonment.” If you don’t consider the possibility of experiencing this time as anything other than miserable, that’s all it will ever be. Not to mention, lonely and self-centered, as our default worlds always are (I’m looking at you, sulking voice in the back of my head). You could have that long-overdue conversation with your Mom instead of using the same time to re-marathon Friends in your room. If you learn to be aware, you’ll see you can assign meaning to these bizarre times.

You hold the superpower of being able to make the ordinary sacred through simple awareness. That is what education gives you, and this awareness is real freedom. Awareness makes you able to truly to care about other people, which is what the world needs right now more than anything. It’s something you can practice from the safety of your own home; something we can all do, no matter how far apart we are or how long our social distancing lasts.

Who knows, maybe you’ll all get a delayed ceremony next fall. Maybe the curve will magically flatten just like the mystical “flat belly” we all so desperately seek, and we will be back in our respective dorms and apartment buildings tomorrow. Or maybe I’ll still be sitting in my childhood bedroom next year laughing at my optimism in this moment as I bemoan the impending death of my own thesis reading.

I don’t know. Neither do the world leaders, the scientists, or any other fallible human being alive on this planet right now. If they had, maybe I wouldn’t be sitting in my parents’ house flipping through my high school yearbook instead of seeing the Broadway musical Company tonight. But if this last month has taught me anything, it’s that David Foster Wallace knew what he was talking about when he said “blind certainty is total imprisonment.”

It’s when we become most sure of our place in life that the world likes to smirk and throw in a plot twist. The twist will be so brilliant and terrifying that you’ll drop the default manual you’ve clung to your entire life. And as terrifying as your new life without a manual will be, it could also be thrilling. For the same reason we attend horror movies and amusement parks in droves, we could view this time of change as exhilarating. We can become insatiably curious and compassionate. You can also focus on becoming more compassionate to yourself. Lord knows how many deep breathing meditations, puzzles, and adult coloring books I’ve completed in the last four weeks. Remember, your kindness can have a ripple effect.

So do what you need to do. But I beg you, don’t fall back into your default settings. You don’t have to focus on productivity. Focus on compassion. Get your older neighbor those groceries. Drink water, take a walk. Take a deep breath. And afterwards, take a second to look around your enclosed space and remind yourself:

This too is water. This is water.
Congratulations Class of 2020. Here’s that speech link again.

Yesterday a friend shared an article with me entitled “How Millennials became the Burnout Generation.” At first I rolled my eyes and thought about skipping over it, thinking it must be just another baby boomer accusing millennials of being lazy or whiny. Instead, I found myself reading an essay which perfectly encapsulated the existential dread I’ve been feeling in greater and greater doses since elementary school. 

The author, who wrote from the opposite tail end of the millennial generation as myself, had somehow still experienced the same guilt as me. The same inexorable fear of menial tasks and periods of complete inability to accomplish tasks. This same depression sent me to therapy last year, where my therapist posed a simple but loaded question to me: “why does everything have to be productive?” Always poised to rattle off a vague answer which would redirect the conversation, I began to speak only to be cut off by the therapist again. “-No. I want you to go home and think about it. We can talk about it when I see you next week.”

That was the worst thing she could have said. Letting it stew in the abyss of my mind for a week meant that I would most likely have even less of an answer when the time came. After all, my false confidence would wither under direct scrutiny from its biggest enemy- myself. Sure enough, when the time came for my next appointment my quick-witted response had evaporated and I was still left without a clear answer for her question. Why did I have to be productive all the time? Why were my phone notes filled with to-do list for long term goals, short term goals, schools to attend, classes to take, drawers to clean out, letters to write, foods I needed to eat, movies to watch, books to read, people I had to see, in list after list next to boxes waiting to be checked?

I had turned everything in my life into a task. Sometimes I would tell myself it was a game, but then, why wasn't I having any fun? The author foresaw my question once again. We were all raised to be work machines. We know nothing else. And so we become uncomfortable with the idea of not accomplishing something constantly. Every hour of our existence has been planned since we were old enough to be placed into ballet classes, piano lessons, softball games, and figure skating. Increasing homework loads have made it impossible to be doing anything other than studying for most of your waking hours, and this transfers to working late hours and obsessing over self-improvement when we were finally spit out into the “real world.” We don’t know how to have fun for happiness’s sake alone. Happiness, to me, only came in the form of an accomplishment. I had achieved, and made those around me proud, so I could be happy. I was allowed to be happy. But only for a short time, before the urge to do came biting my heels once again.

Of course, this lifestyle is not sustainable. It’s what led to the week-long period of sudden impairment throughout which I could do nothing but lie in my bed as I missed the appointments and meetings I’d set for myself. I was loathe to label it as depression, a word which had haunted my friends and led to medication disasters and dreaded therapy experiences. But what else could it be? How had it crept in out of nowhere, I wondered, and how could I slough it off so I could go back to being productive?

It should be noted that during this time of isolation I still managed to put up dozens of items of clothing up for sale on Poshmark and marathon two seasons of a show my friend had been pushing me to watch. Even with a feeling of complete helplessness weighing on me like a tight winter coat I couldn’t shove off the feeling that I had to get something done. I hardly ate, drank, slept, or moved for four days in my apartment, but I needed an excuse in case anyone followed up on my progress.

Ah yes, the imaginary grader who follows me everywhere. Nice to see you again. He’s the one who sees every mistake I make and marks it down so the world can see what a screw-up I am. But if I accomplish enough menial tasks, sometimes he’ll leave for a coffee break while I sleep. He counts up my progress and tsks at me when I ask myself if I’ve done enough to deserve a break.

After breaking down and calling my mom, who quickly agreed I was always allowed to see a therapist, I thought perhaps I would solve it. After all, I would have 9 sessions with the therapist before I graduated, that had to be enough time to get rid of the pesky depression puffer-coat and get on with my life, right?

The sessions were good. I graduated. I moved on. I ignored it for another six months. I was the friend who had it all figured out in the freshman year of life my friends had dreaded. I had an acceptance letter to graduate school, two jobs to pay for it, and a zero-cost room at home to squeeze every penny into my bank account possible.

Then I saw myself reflected the Author. 

And I looked back at those stats. 

I’m working seven days a week to save for a graduate program which will still put me in debt for years to come and most likely not lead to a job post-graduation. 

I have to drive almost an hour to see any of my friends and I often feel isolated at home.

I have no idea what the future holds after I graduate, I am simply hopeful that I will figure it out along the way. But aren’t we all?

So this year I have set just one new year’s resolution for myself: Be Impulsive. 

I’m going to do something when it pops into my head instead of putting it on a to-do list that I never finish. I’m going to stop building myself a mind prison of tasks and calendar invites and emails. To-dos lead to somedays, which can easily lead to never.

Perfectionism is a lonely road to procrastination.

Instead, I’m taking it one day at a time and, for the first time, that’s alright by me.

My middle school days coincided with what I have calculated to be the height of the Food Network’s reality gameshow stint. We’re talking the inaugural seasons of timeless classics like Chopped, Cupcake Wars, The Great Food Truck Race, Iron Chef, and the holy grail: Food Network Star. Yes, I can acknowledge that Iron Chef has one of the best intros of all time. Yes, beating Bobby Flay circa 2008 seemed comparable to winning a gold medal at the Beijing Olympics, but the winner of Food Network Star got their own TV show!

Because this prize was so mind-blowing for my twelve-year-old self, an aspiring film star, I was often flummoxed by how bad the contestants were at speaking on camera. We’re talking CATS the movie kinda bad. Public speaking obviously hadn’t been an integral part of the chefs’ culinary training.

Their discomfort on-screen lead to flustered conversations with judges, uncomfortable silences in their on-camera segments, and their inevitable dismissal from the competition. Still, there were a few standout performers every season, and Jeff Mauro quickly made himself someone to remember.

In the first few weeks of the competition, contestants usually tried to impress the judges with show-stopping dishes and presentations. Jeff walked in on day one and made the judges a freakin’ sandwich. And they loved it. Because Jeff knew what the others didn’t: it’s not about the food. The best chef is hardly ever the one to win the competition, because hosting a show on the Food Network requires far more than just culinary skill. Storytelling drove Jeff to the top.

Not only was he charismatic on and off camera, but he also knew what he wanted to cook and why. The same day he made that first sandwich he proclaimed himself “The Sandwich King.” Jeff knew how to craft his story and sell it, and this skill was far more appealing than any well-plated dish.

Throughout the season, Jeff rejected criticisms that there wasn't enough to say about sandwiches. He argued that they could easily fill out an entire show, because any handheld "meal" could be classified as a sandwich. And for awhile, this mantra pushed him forward. His simple subs beat out duck confits and prime ribs, elegant entrées and gourmet appetizers alike.

Still, it wasn’t until mid-season that Jeff solidified himself as my idol. The week’s theme? Desserts. Judge Bobby Flay, who thought Jeff was boxing himself in with the whole “everything is a sandwich” concept, smiled smugly. He thought the jig was up. Sandwiches don’t make tasty desserts after all! What could our hero do now?

This moment would have been an understandably easy time for Jeff to give up. He could have said “Okay, fine. I’ll show the judges I can cook things other than sandwiches, and then I’ll go back to making subs next week.” But if he’d strayed from his story then he wouldn’t be the self-proclaimed Sandwich King. Jeff was on the edge of glory, and his next move, though he didn’t know it at the time, would define his career. So how did this Sisyphus conquer the mountain?

He made whoopee pies.

As in, dessert sandwiches.

Thus, his brand was crystalized. By adapting his story to a new situation instead of trying to start from scratch, Jeff was able to prove his versatility. In this way, I believe we can all take something away from the Sandwich King. It’s not about changing yourself to fit every challenge, it’s about using the challenge to showcase your strengths.

The problem with the other seemingly un-charismatic chefs wasn’t usually their ability to speak in public, it was their lack of storytelling. They didn’t have a vision for what made their cooking stand out from the pack, and too often they relied on their dish’s taste to make it to the next round. However, when it comes to selling food on TV, the audience can’t taste it themselves. You can’t rely on flavor alone- no matter how high the quality of your product. You must become a great storyteller; one who can make your audience get to know you and your product through vivid language.

In his triumphant final challenge, Jeff proved he knew how to package himself and his show into a thirty-second pitch for Rachel Ray. He clinched his win with the final phrase: “I’m going to show you how to make any sandwich into a meal, and any meal into a sandwich.” Once again, Jeff’s ability to market himself and his cooking in a unique way proved to be the mark of a true star, and the judges rewarded him for it.

The name of his show? “The Sandwich King,” of course.

It was only after his win that I discovered Jeff Mauro had graduated from my high school. Fortuitously, he came back the two years later to serve as a speaker in our annual “Tribute to Excellence” ceremony for prestigious alumni. He cracked jokes about the cafeteria food and encouraged us to chase our dreams, but most importantly he urged us to get to know ourselves. He made me realize that when you understand your own story, what makes you unique, you can turn it into a superpower. It may not be sandwiches, but a well-crafted story can be just as appetizing.