Commencement and Senior Night
Commencement Speeches
Seniors, it is a delight and an honor to be with you here today, celebrating. I have been so lucky all year to see your leadership, kindness, good humor, creativity, and humanity. This is the time of year when we are called on to look back at how far you have come, and look ahead at who you are and will be in the world. I hope that is something you will be able to do in depth with your families as they celebrate you today. Stories of the little people you once were, before you could walk, your first day of school, that one special trip you all took, the books you used to read together, the concerts and games and presentations here at school when your families got to see you becoming yourself more and more, year by year. And now here you are. We are all so proud of you, and you make us all so optimistic.
It is a complicated time to be growing up. I suppose every generation hears that, and there’s no question that being a human on this planet—no matter the circumstances—carries a lot of complexity with it. But we are in a period characterized by divisiveness so intense that even observing it threatens to lean into a political and therefore untouchable conversation. Some adults have a habit of thinking that if students are not in active debate and disagreement with each other, then perhaps there is no diversity of thought. But I believe something else is at work. I believe some of you are rightly seeing that speaking your mind in certain places is not worth it, and so you wait until you are in a better spot—one that allows you to be you, to question and challenge, to think out loud, to imagine a world different from the one we live in now.
For many of you, Beaver has been such a place. And for many of you, college will also similarly be such a place. Here, you have been able to talk about immigration; build robots that walk, fight, sail, and collect things; propose a company that will solve a vexing problem; read challenging literature about lives very different from yours; build programs for underserved populations; propose changes to the criminal justice system. And really, this is just a start. You have asked so many questions, you have stretched your thinking and, in the process, you have stretched everyone else’s as well. This is part of your legacy. And it is what you can do for others as you go forward in this world as well.
I’ll come back to what this all adds up to in a minute, but first I want to take us back to the beginning of April, when the Artemis II mission launched the Orion spacecraft to circle around the far side of the moon and come back again to Earth. The last time we sent a rocket that far beyond Earth’s orbit, and to the moon, was in 1972. The Artemis II four-person crew set a number of records, most especially that this was the farthest any manned spacecraft had ever gone, and the first time that any human had seen the far side of the moon. Something about that flight, about the positivity of the astronauts and the excitement of the endeavor, seemed to captivate us all. (You would be forgiven for not remembering a lot of it, honestly; April is a busy time for seniors, with college and classes and prom and whatnot.) And I think that particular spaceflight allowed us all to see things in a different light. The images sent back from their trip were astounding: the big grey curve of the moon in the foreground and the tiny little blue planet Earth way off in the black, black distance beyond. Astronaut Christina Koch commented, “[From this distance] You don’t see borders, you don’t see religious lines, you don’t see political boundaries. All you see is Earth and you see that we are way more alike than we are different.” This perspective has been called the “overview effect,” which is the realization that the earth is one small beautiful, habitable place in an unfathomably enormous galaxy that is largely inhospitable. Earth is all we have. And from that vantage point, it seems clear that we must care for one another, and that our highest calling is to take care of our planet and all life upon it. Astronaut Jeremy Hansen has, in the past, commented that the overview effect drives home how crucial it is for humans to stop destroying things and work together. And, in fact, there was an extraordinary moment in Orion, when the astronauts were looking at the far side of the moon, when they had accomplished what no humans had ever done before, and when they could be focused on the records they set and the data they needed to gather. Instead, as they looked down at the moon’s craters, Jeremy Hansen proposed naming a large crater on this never-before-seen far side of the moon “Carroll” after fellow crew member Reid Wiseman’s late wife Carroll, who had recently died of cancer. The crew radioed down to ground control that they wanted to name this crater “Carroll,” and then they all came together in a big, emotional hug.
And through all this, I couldn’t help but think back to the first moon landing in 1969. The Artemis mission was situated within a huge cultural split in the country, as was true in 1969. In fact, when this country first committed itself to putting a man on the moon, starting in the early 1960s, there was widespread disapproval for the plan. Given the Civil Rights battles being fought, and the obvious poverty throughout the country, it seemed appalling to many that over 24 billion dollars would be used to fund space flight, especially a space flight program that kept failing.
On July 15, 1969, at Cape Canaveral, where the crew of Apollo 11 was preparing to launch, activists protested the launch with a sign that read, “$12 a day to feed an astronaut. We could feed a starving child for $8.” Even scientists at the time were opposed to the Apollo program, because they believed it diverted funds from other areas of medical and scientific research that were more critical for humankind.
But when Neil Armstrong took his first steps on the surface of the moon, and when most of America and even the world watched in awe, there was something real and tangible that everyone believed. Humans had done something seemingly impossible, had taken huge risks to hurl themselves into outer space, had pierced the sky and entered the heavens. It seemed, for a moment, that perhaps we could do anything we set our minds to, that we might actually have access to worlds well beyond this small planet. We had touched the sublime.
The idea of going to space has always been complicated.
And here’s what I want to say to you about all this. We have to go into space. No matter how much we know about the cost of a space program, no matter the civil unrest, no matter the profound social and cultural problems in our world, we also have to go into space. One reason is the Overview Effect, the need to keep reminding ourselves how blessed we are to be here on this little planet, and how much we are obligated to take care of our human family.
We need rockets and space flight because humans must strive for the very best and most exalted heights we can reach. We literally do have to aim for the stars, for other worlds—we have to break barriers and hurl ourselves into the unknown. And also: we have to take care of this world, the most vulnerable among us. We have to alleviate suffering and insist on justice. We have to love our neighbors as ourselves, and we have to do that now, today, wherever we are.
There is no way to fly to the heavens without dreaming big. There is no way to alleviate suffering without knowing who we are and reaching out to others from that place.
So now I come back to you, Seniors. One of the things that we all love about you is that you are excellent humans. You say what needs to be said, you act with conviction, you take risks, and you are funny. Because of this, you do indeed know how to talk with people who see things very differently from you, without cancelling them immediately, or without misrepresenting or misunderstanding what they think. This is not at all easy, but you are actually very good at it—you don’t always do it, but you certainly can. And this is where you must try to balance the two things I am asking of you: you must reach for the heavens and dream big, and you must also make a difference right here and now, one person at a time. Don’t sugarcoat the bad things happening, but don’t assume the worst of the people around you either. There are times when college students might have choices about where and how to engage with the larger world outside of college, but I do not think this is one of those times. I think you will have no choice but to engage with the larger world–and I also think you are not only ready, you are the very best people for the job. No one is more prepared than you are to listen, to speak your truth, to bring all perspectives to the table, to wrestle with the hardest challenges we face as a society, and to find a way forward. If your Beaver education has prepared you for anything, it is this.
You have shown us—not just this year, but since you first arrived on campus seven or six or four or two years ago—an incredible diversity of personalities, backgrounds, opinions, lived experiences, and values. You have enriched one another, and the entire school, because of who you are—and of course that means that it hasn’t been the easiest journey in the world at times. But no journey worth making is ever easy. In fact, the biggest journeys—to the far side of the moon, for instance—take incredible work and are years in the making. After today you will take all you have learned and all you are as people to college and beyond, and you will make a difference. You already have done that here at Beaver; it is not a big ask for me to suggest that you keep doing it from here on out.
I cannot say enough how very proud we all are of the people you have become. On behalf of the faculty and staff at Beaver, and everyone gathered here to celebrate you, I congratulate you on your graduation today.
We are gifted with the privilege of problems, no matter how large or small they may feel. But the privilege of these problems only comes when you realize that the solution is you.
That you are the privilege of the problem.
That being able to be a player in any given conflict is a privilege within itself,
Because you become a bearer of the solution. You have the opportunity to decide how the solution unfolds.
And because of that
You are the solution
You are the privilege of the problem
Seniors, under your seats you will find an envelope with a piece of paper. This is a poem that I wrote, and it is something I hope you carry with you as you go on into the many chapters of your life. It reads as follows:
And if you ever feel lost
Take the waves
Take the waves for instance
Since forever
And until forever
They overlap
They rush
They storm
Through storms
Through clear skies
Just to get to shore
Just to reach the tiniest part of themselves
Just to be pulled back to where they once were
Never realizing that’s where they’re always meant to be
Never realizing that the shore only makes them tiny
They want to know our world, just like we want to know theirs
Even waves crash for a future that they know they can’t make
Yet they are always pulled, dragged back, and “reduced” to the shining, everlasting sea
I am often told that I am too nice, that I am too forgiving and that I trust too easily. I don’t believe that. But I have heard it multiple times. I think maybe it is because I know what it is like to be “that kid.”
When I was little, I was allergic to dairy, all kinds of nuts, and for a period of time meat. I was weak, I couldn’t sleep, I wouldn’t eat, I was underweight. I was classified as a “failure to thrive.” Until Beaver, I didn’t have many close friends, none that I made on my own anyways. Although I had my family, and was privileged enough to have a life that helped me overcome these struggles, I still felt alone.
I know what it’s like to be that kid who so desperately wants to know who they are. If it wasn’t for Beaver, I don’t know if I would have shaken that feeling. If it wasn’t for each and every one of you, that feeling wouldn’t have been able to leave. I wouldn’t have been able to turn my failure to thrive into my will to survive.
I see myself in everyone, and know that when I’m talking to them, that same scared kid with no autonomy is deep in there, trying to grasp control in any way they can. I don’t believe that anybody deserves to feel that way.
That is why I take the waves. Often when I am faced with a challenge, whether it be someone with an opposing viewpoint, an argument, a misunderstanding, an internal conflict, or just blatant ignorance, I take the waves. I take myself, and I look toward the actions and perspectives of others, whether they oppose my ideas or not, and choose to believe in the kindness within them.
I ask all of you to turn your attention to the graduating class of 2026. As I look out at all of you today with your blue caps, I can’t help but see the waves. You have crashed, you have sacrificed, you have lived, you have gained knowledge. You have gone through the human experience that is life. But it’s not over.
Like the poem said, waves rush and storm through the sea just to get to shore. With that, I understand when you are met with conflict, it becomes easy to turn it down or avoid it. This is representative of the human experience. The shore doesn’t know everything that the waves have been through. All they see is the tiniest part of the waves that interact with the shore. The mere seconds of a soft wake touching its sand. That is why it is important to make the part of you that comes into contact with conflict the most caring of all.
As we grow into adults, we are cast into a world full of complexities, and we can forget how powerful a simple act of kindness can be. And because of that, we stop acting as waves, we don’t just give up on the impossible, we give up on ourselves to let others and the world around us know that WE are possible. So I ask all of you, please don’t lose yourselves as waves. Instead, from this moment on, take the waves, take yourself, keep on crashing knowing that you may never know the full extent of the shore. But just know that by reaching out, you have left your imprint of kindness.
That kid who so desperately wants to know who they are is within all of us. It’s our responsibility to treat that kid we know so well with kindness, by reaching out to that scared kid within the others around us. As waves, we must forever create an environment that promotes comfort instead of fear. I feel like my largest goal as Vice President was to do just that. That feeling of being a connector in any given space is something I look forward to every day I wake up. That motive to do so wouldn’t have been amplified had it not been for all of you. Whether it’s a simple smile, greeting someone in the halls, or asking someone for their name, I believe that I have been able to become the privilege of problems.
The privilege of problems comes from choosing to acknowledge a disconnect, and furthermore doing something about it. Because we lose that privilege, we lose ourselves if we do not choose to act. I think that’s why I was able to recognize that my greatest fear wasn’t graduating, watching you all walk this stage, and leaving each other behind, but moreover, years from now, that moment when one of us walks past another on the street, brushes shoulders even, and doesn’t stop to recognize that a friend still walks by our side.
That is why you should never stop going for the “impossible”. You should never stop trying to make a connection with others and the world around you, even if that person, and that world outright rejects you. Because in the end, you will have the delicacy and privilege of knowing the shore of another’s unknown land while also pulling yourself back and residing in the beauty of the shining everlasting sea, residing in the beauty of the person you are, and the kindness in the world you choose to cultivate.
This is the way I have walked through my life because without this mindset, the life I have cultivated, and my decision to act as a wave, I wouldn’t be the man I am today. This mindset has been grounded in these final words that I will share with you. This is how you should communicate with the shore. All by simply saying:
Raise your hand out to me
And I will raise mine back
But never hold it out
And I will forever hold out mine
Because when we take off our caps, when we take the waves
And extend our grace to another
We aren’t asking for anything in return
We are forever extending kindness
And at the same time
We are always inviting it in
That’s what being a wave is: turning your failure to thrive into your will to survive
For yourself and all of those around you
So become that privilege
Take the waves, and keep crashing into the unknown
Take the waves
And never forget
To always roll out one of your own
Sincerely, your classmate, your student, your friend,
Brody VanDernoot
Good afternoon, faculty, parents, friends—and most importantly—the Class of 2026.
I want you to imagine this campus in 1920. Beaver Country Day School had just been incorporated. Our first graduating class, the Class of 1925, consisted of exactly five students. They sat in classrooms where the “cutting-edge” technology was a fountain pen. They wore wool uniforms in the heat. They were living in the shadow of a Great War and a global pandemic.
And yet, there was a radical sense of optimism there. Our founders didn’t just want to start a school; they wanted to start a movement called “Progressive Education.” They believed that “learning by doing” could actually change the world.
Sometimes, our generation gets a reputation for being cynical. We talk about “unprecedented times” so often it has become a meme. But if we could trade places with those first five Beaver students for just one day, our perspective would shift.
In 1920, the idea that everyone in this room—regardless of gender, race, or background—would have an equal seat at the table of leadership was a distant dream. In 1920, a simple infection could be a death sentence because penicillin hadn’t been discovered yet. In 1920, information primarily traveled at the speed of the local newspaper. Today, we hold the sum of human knowledge in our pockets. We often focus on how far we have to go, but we rarely stop to acknowledge that we are the beneficiaries of a century of progress that the Class of 1925 could only imagine.
But progress isn’t just medicine or MacBooks. My first real glimpse of it happened here in 7th grade. It was the height of COVID-19. During recess, a teacher would walk us across the street to Dane Park to go “treasure hunting.” To any outsider, we probably looked a little immature—13-year-olds scrambling over rocks and peering into hollow trees. But we weren’t just playing. We were looking for time capsules—hidden behind cliffs and even tucked into an old well. And they were real. We found notes and trinkets from people who stood where we stood years before—and then we left our own: a mask and a note, a small piece of our strange reality tucked away for a future student to find.
That experience taught me that we aren’t just passing through this place; we are part of a continuous, living history.
I didn’t fully understand the weight of our community, though, until this past Valentine’s Day. As Student Council President, I hand-wrote all 300 name labels for candygrams. As my hand cramped, I realized that while I might not know all 300 people, I do know that you care deeply about each other: the simple act of sending those candygrams reflected an incredible amount of compassion, acknowledgement, and hope. In the 1920s, the world felt fractured. Today, it often feels the same. But writing those 300 names reminded me that even if our generation sometimes lacks global optimism, we have something more practical: we have each other.
We have a community that chooses to be kind, even when it’s just a handwritten note and a piece of candy. And you see it in the small things. You see it in the way someone saves you a seat on the first day of a new trimester. You see it on the energetic bus ride to away games. You see it in the collective joy when FLIK announces chicken tikka masala day, and you especially see it in the silent solidarity of the lunch line. Seniors have earned the sacred privilege of skipping it. That’s not just a convenience; it’s a rite of passage.
We were not raised to sit back and watch history unfold. We were raised at Beaver to build it. “Learning by doing” isn’t just a slogan; it’s a responsibility. It’s why we design projects instead of memorizing answers. Why we prototype instead of panic. It’s why freshman year, we built marshmallow launchers that probably launched more duct tape than marshmallows. Why in sophomore chemistry, we handled open flames with maybe a little too much confidence.
Optimism isn’t the naive belief that everything will be fine. Optimism is the “Beaver Way”—it’s the gritty, intellectual courage to believe that problems are just prototypes waiting for a solution. For 100 years, that belief has lived on this campus. And now it lives in us.
If the Class of 1925 could see us now—our diversity, our empathy, and our voices—they wouldn’t see a generation to worry about. They would see their boldest hopes realized.
We have spent four years learning by doing. Now, it’s time to go out and do.
And somewhere, years from now, another group of students will open a time capsule. What will they find from us?
Let’s make it something worth discovering.
Congratulations, Class of 2026.