2003 Commencement Address
Given on May 25, 2003

by Isabelle Brantley '03

On second visit day this spring, as I recognize that my time here is coming to an end, I realize that Deerfield will not elegantly fold in upon itself, becoming simply a luminous object of memory-for they are all milling around, the potential next generation of Deerfield students. They are smiling on the fringes of conversations, extraordinarily conscious of their nametags.

"Do you like it?" they ask me.

"I love it," I tell them.

I know that I am getting old, when I feel that they are so young. I recognize the familiar nervous ecstasy as they gaze about this place. Remembering how on my second visit day, I anticipated my saying it, "that I loved it", recalling that once I began saying it, how I longed to mean it.

They are more certain-after I have told them of my feelings-of their own future happiness. I suspect that they might share my old faith, the faith that Deerfield would solve my problems, that the forces in the world that could make me unhappy would not reach me here. I suddenly dread bearing the responsibility of their newfound confidence.

I quickly add, "Deerfield is the hardest thing I have ever done."

And then for lack of better language, I repeat, "but I love it," feeling a turbulent upsurge of emotions. How can I tell them, of an experience that is at once beautiful and painful, filled with awkwardness, some success, many false epiphanies, and ultimately gratitude?

At Deerfield, I am asked to bear an artist's burden.

Despite many moments of concentration, the paper before me remains defiantly white, and the pencil in my hand feels alien, where it always seemed so comfortable.

Now I fear every motion betray me, each line I draw will spell it out, will tell that I am not brilliant and say that I do not deserve to be hear, or disclose some secret of my personality that all these new faces will criticize.

An original idea. My teacher has charged me with creating an original work of art. In frustration, I abandon the depths of the memorial building, climbing up the staircase and breaking upon that bone-chilling clinch of a New England winter night. I know that there is some sort of perverse beauty in this cold, white world, but as I run back to my dormitory, all I can think is that I am crazy, I am crazy for having forsaken the humidity and familiarity of the South.

I push open the door of Pocumtuk Dormitory, and make the sharp right into the florescent hallway. I open my door. In my absence, layers of clothing have multiplied and infest my bed. Books, art supplies, make up-trinkets of girl hood-make unstable towers upon my desk. I avoid the chaotic solitude of my room, and instead push open the door of the one adjacent to my own. There, at peace with the world and herself, sits my friend, contentedly, placidly playing snood. I sink into her well-made bed, and enjoy that no explanations, no words of entrance are necessary. In a little while, over the hum of a laptop, she and I will talk about our days, about papers that are not written. We might decide what we will wear tomorrow. Then I will tell her of how frustrated I am, how the pencils and the paper will not cooperate, how they are conspiring to betray me.

In her company, I remind myself that this artist burden is not unsolicited, but part of an experience I have chosen. In the morning, I will mark the paper.

At Deerfield, I am asked to write and to read in reflection upon my brief life.

Anxiously, I pull off my Deerfield ring, and then my Great Grandfather's. I unclamp the bracelet given to me on my sixteenth birthday, and then the watch I received on my eighteenth. I push them all to the side, a shiny pile of hard objects.

I look around the room to find fingers detangling hair, pencils tapping paper-the slouchy interest of a dozen teenagers. Some I know well, the way Deerfield lets you know people, through late night conversations and early morning grogginess. Others, I wish I new better. Some one to the left is chewing gum, and all the way across the landscape of dictionaries, children's books, and renowned works of literature, sits my English teacher-"you can trust your classmates," he has assured me.

Suddenly a dozen pairs of eyes turn in my direction. Under their weight I cannot help but make a preliminary disclaimer. Immediately, I regret it. Then, I take a deep breath, and I struggle to defy the familiar sensation of panic and exposure. I begin reciting my Senior Meditation, telling my classmates a story about the expectations of my parents, those I perceived from this school, and the confusion over defining the standards I would hold for myself.

I can't see them for my eyes must follow the motions of the words on the page, but their presence is the dominant force on my mind. "You can trust your classmates," my teacher said to me. I feel, after all, that he is right, he is so right. Fear turns to exhilaration, exhilaration at being this candid, being this honest, as I narrate to my classmates-whom I trust-people I want to know and that I want to know me.

I know, when the remnants of my accent emerge, that for this moment, I am being my private self in public. I think that it is wonderful to say what I mean. I think that is incredible to know what I mean.

At Deerfield I am asked to ponder possibility as a scientist.

It is 11:20 a.m. and gravity is being defied. A silver cylinder starts and halts, in vacillation, releasing sharp light from the floor as it descends, slowly and melodramatically, down the copper tube.

"When you drop the magnet through the copper tube," explains my physics teacher, "a change in magnetic flux occurs, causing the exertion of a magnetic force that resist the downward fall of the magnet."

I try and decide which is more wonderful, my teacher's explanation, or the possibility implied in the mysterious defiance of the Law of Gravity. My teacher invites us to climb the ordinary stool, gaze into the copper tube, and witness the disobedience of this basic principle of our world.

The first, my classmate, ascends in one feminine and fluid motion. Her slender artist's fingers curl dexterously around then end of the tube. The next, climbs with flamboyant overconfidence. How is it that even when climbing a stool he is swaggering with a smirch of irony, an actor's irony across his face? The third of my peers, serene and graceful, meditates on the seriousness of her endeavor, approaching the copper tube with piety.

They come in waves, my classmates, peaking and receding in awkwardness or athleticism, peering into the tube with comedy and profundity. They are in these final spring days, distinctly, unapologetically, defiantly themselves. Then it is my turn. I hesitate, then proceed with a jerk of learned confidence.

At Deerfield, I am asked to be both my own entity and part of this larger community.

I may wander through the ranks of our class after an address and hear simultaneously and with equally considered zeal, by one "what a genius!" and then by another, "what idiocy!" We are of different opinions, and we have endured different challenges. The questions and doubts that we have struggled with have been of personal and social concern, have been played out on the athletic field, with the company of an instrument, or in the depths of books. Not one of us have done it alone. Not one of us have done without the assurance and patience of teachers, without the understanding and trust of each other. Not one of us leave this place without gaining some sense of self and of purpose. This evolving understanding of self, this gift of education, will infuse our future and present endeavors-from problem solving, to creating art, and even in the making of mistakes-with sincerity and significance.

When I came to Deerfield, I hoped that the forces in the world that could make me unhappy would not reach me here. I found instead a place were questions are asked, ideas and problems explored. Through this demanding environment, runs a rich mercy, a mercy consistent of adults that feel pain when you are disappointed and joy when you are satisfied. A mercy also of you, my classmates, who with challenge and support, wisdom, humor, and humanity have made it possible for me to not only say, but also to mean, to mean that I have loved it. Loved it for all of you, loved it for allowing me to become the nerd I always dreamt I could be, and loved it for teaching me to live in defiance of the safety of saying nothing, the fear of being oneself and, if necessary, the law of gravity.