I’d like to strangle you guys, too, but I’m afraid I’ll end up working for you, so I’m going to suck up to you instead….
I don’t want to take an opportunity commencing at such an august institution and not throwing down just short bits of advice. I mean, you’d do it if you were up here, wouldn’t you? Just a little bit. These are ten bits of graduation advice you won’t see on any BuzzFeed listicle.
Remember my credentials, though. I was on welfare. I became dependent on the state for both food and medical treatments. I became a single parent at a time when no one would trust me with a ficus plant. Other than that, I’ve been sort of a model citizen. So take what applies and leave the rest, that’s what I’m saying.
Right now, in your class, I know you guys are all having your kumbaya moment and you’re hugging each other and saying how great you all are. But there are gunners, there are people who are really just heads and shoulders above everybody, and they’re bound for glory. You know what? They’re not the ones that are going to change the world. It’s somebody that was underestimated. It’s somebody that you do not know that’s really going to kill it. I guarantee you. I guarantee you, as somebody who has worked with young people. And you know what? Maybe you’re that person. I just want to say.
This has been a theme, and I just want to echo it, do what’s in front of you. When you leave school, you’ve got your loans weighing down on you, you’ve got parents saying, “What the hell are you going to do with all this?” Just do what is in front of you. Don’t worry about the plot to take over the world. Just do what is in front of you, and do it well. I think that if you concentrate on your plot to take over the world you’re going to miss things.
Journalism is like housekeeping. It’s a series of small, discrete acts performed over and over. It’s really the little things that make it better. So don’t think about the broad sweep of your journalism. Just do a good job on what’s in front of you. Working on your grand plan is like shoveling snow that hasn’t fallen yet. Just do the next right thing.
I think you should be a worker among workers. I say that because we’re in an era of narcissism and personal brand. Don’t worry about branding yourself, other than not being naked on your social feeds. I don’t think it’s really important for you to work a lot on brand development. I believe in social media engagement, and I’ve got a little problem with Twitter. It’s more important that you fit in before you stick out, that’s what I’m saying.
Number five is the mom rule. Don’t do anything you couldn’t explain to your ma. All these big, ethical conundrums where— [We] will run a three-day symposium on ethics, when in fact, if you can’t explain what you’re up to with your mother without her saying, “Honey, that seems a little naughty to me, what you’re doing. It seems a little bad, that isn’t nice.” Don’t do it. Don’t go near it. Use the mom rule. Call her up. She’s a great resource.
Don’t just do what you’re good at—that’s number six. If you stay in your comfort zone, you’ll never know what you’re capable of. As has been pointed out, you need to learn to experience frustration, and you need to experience that frustration as a teachable moment, and you need to humble yourself and ask for help. Can you help me build my website? Yes, you can.
Being a journalist is permission for lifetime learning. Don’t be a know-it-all. Ask the people around you.
Number seven is be present. I don’t want to go all Oprah on you. So many people spend time like their phone right now is burning a hole in their pocket. Like, “Who’s on there? What are they talking about?” And you know what’s going on when you’re thinking about that? Your whole life. Your whole life is going on.
I can’t tell you the times I’ve gone to some extraordinary event or some conference where some big throbbing brain is talking. Everybody’s walking around like this. They never look up. And it’s like, if your head is in your phone, the scenery never changes. So don’t worry about documenting the moment. Experience the moment.
I have close to half a million followers on Twitter, but the person who needs to know what I’m doing is me. Here I stand. This is what I’m doing. I got some pictures earlier, and I might tweet them out later, but Twitter isn’t waiting to see what I think. I need to experience this extraordinary morning as it unfolds, and maybe later on I’ll put a photo on Facebook or tweet something out.
Look at who you’re speaking to. Get your face out of your phone. Do not be a bystander in your own life. You’ll miss everything.
You should take responsibility for not just the good stuff, but the bad stuff. I have noticed in leadership, in covering people over and over, it’s the people who are capable of taking ownership over failure, and apologizing very directly for their shortcomings, that succeed.
We’re all broken, in one way or another. To pretend or expect otherwise is stupid. And when you come up short, just say so, don’t make excuses. Excuses—they explain everything and they excuse nothing. Just be honest about what you did wrong, take ownership, and resolve to do better.
I think it’s very important, this number nine, is to be honest. This is a tactical approach these days. People always say, “I love that thing you’ve got where you just say whatever’s on your mind. You just come right out with it. It’s, like, you know, the truth.” It’s, like, well, that’s not really a tactic. That’s a way of living. That’s a way of being.
When you’re honest with someone, when the door opens and you have to have a difficult conversation, just walk through it and have the difficult conversation. Show the people in front of you the respect to be honest with them.
One of the things I hate about being in California is you guys always, when you talk, you sound like you’re agreeing with each other. You’re not! You’re having—“Oh I totally hear what you’re saying and I’m sure we can work with that. We obviously gotta loop in some other”—and it’s like, “No, you’re wrong, I’m right, here’s why.”
When you develop this gimmick, this reputation for telling the truth, people tend to listen to what you say.
And last thing is don’t be afraid to be ambitious. I’m living a pipe dream, and I’m living it because I wanted it. I wanted it really badly. I was thirty-four years old, washed out of my profession, on welfare, terrible reputation, single parent, and I had just met the woman who would be my wife. And she said, “Where do you see yourself five years from now?” I said, “Well, I want to be a figure on the national media scene.” And she said, “Well, honey, you’re unemployed and you’re on welfare right now, so, there’s like a middle part.” “I know! I’m just trying to articulate a goal.”
The other thing I’d say is the people who doubt you, like you’re gonna get out of here and you’re gonna have friends who got their MBA who are working for Morgan Stanley or whoever they’re working for, they’re working for a hot dot-com. And they say, “Well, good luck with that, you’re going to sink below the waist.” Those are your friends, the people who doubt you. Because you’re going to make fools out of them.
I often think of the people who never thought I would do anything. Those are your allies. Those are your little secret friends. You keep them close.
I think that what’s important— I was on a panel with Gay Talese, the great New York Times journalist, great narrative journalist. And people were asking him about the current age of journalism, where, you know, we’re Boswells. We sit in a cube and we write about people who write about people who write about—that we end up in this meta, crazy place where we don’t have anything original, we’re just putting a little topspin on whatever’s going by.
And the great Gay Talese said, “We are outside people. We leave, we find people more interesting than us, and we come back and we tell their stories.”
Right now, everything looks impossible. Think back when you applied to be here. How many bodies did you crawl over to get here, for one thing? You’re extra
ordinary just by getting in here. And now you made it to the end—improbably, not everyone probably did, but you’re here. You’re standing here. So when you see the big incline ahead of you, just keep in mind these last two years. You totally beat the odds, and you fucking landed it. You’re here!
Odds against you, here you stand. Grads of the Berkeley School of Journalism. Resolve to be worthy of that. Resolve to do important things with that. Be grateful for the good things that have come your way.
This small group before you, ladies and gentlemen, will I’m sure one day make a big dent in this world. Maybe somebody should write a story about that.
My deepest congratulations to you, the family; you, the faculty; but most of all, you guys. I’m proud of ya and I don’t even know ya.
26
His Second Act
“Still alive.”
As I woke up I was hit with the undeniable fact that today was my father’s funeral. I tried to will my eyes to open, but they were swollen and crusted together from all of the past days’ crying. I was in bed in the attic of our family home in New Jersey. I cringed as I began to conjure the things I did or said the night before. I’d held it together at the wake but then all went to hell as I drowned in white wine and grief. I dimly recalled begging my twin to sleep next to me, but when I awoke the place in the bed where her body was supposed to be was vacant. I turned over and faced the light and there she was, quietly folding a sweater into her suitcase. She didn’t look up but said good morning all the same. The air up in the attic smelled still, unfamiliar. I couldn’t remember how I got up there.
I asked her if everything was okay.
“Not really.”
“Will you help me get ready?”
“Sure.”
I got out of bed and reached for the water next to the nightstand that she had most likely put there. “I don’t want to talk about last night,” I started. “Later, we can discuss it, just not right now.”
She remained silent. I hugged her and she hugged me back, but there was reluctance in her embrace.
We headed down into my bedroom—the room I was supposed to sleep in but refused to in a drunken stupor—and I kicked open the suitcase on the floor. Yunna and her mom had gone out and bought some black dresses for me to try on. There was a liquid-like leather dress that my contrarian side wanted to pick, knowing that Dad would hate it. But Meagan chose the simple black cotton one for me. I showered quickly and blow-dried my hair and put my glasses on, a good shield for the tears that would be forthcoming. My face was bloated, having aged remarkably over the previous week.
A hangover was descending quickly. I knew I should be sober for what was coming next but I wouldn’t be. I couldn’t be. We three would be speaking in front of seven hundred or so people.
The hangover continued to blur everything until I was outside St. Ignatius Loyola church on Park Avenue. It was bitterly cold (much like the night he died), and there was a lone bagpiper belting out the Irish melodies of yesteryear. My stepmom had hired him, giving my father a proper Irish goodbye. I fumbled around in my black blazer pocket for the Adderall I had pocketed from my roommate’s stash. I’d since kicked him out, but had a couple of remaining pills left for very special occasions. This felt like one of those moments. I didn’t feel good about stealing it, but there was this weird thought that kept circling my brain: I deserve this. It was a lie; I deserved nothing.
The bagpiper motioned for my stepmom to come over. The church wouldn’t allow him inside and with the wind chill, it was below freezing. He couldn’t feel his fingers. Jill nodded and told him she understood. He put his hands inside his cloak, grateful for the reprieve. I left them and headed into the church. I heard my heels click on the lavish marble that lined the inside of the church hall. I marveled at my surroundings. Even in death, he had arrived.
Stained-glass windows lined the hall, and I noticed that if you stared long enough into one of them, you could forget why you were there. Momentarily.
The funeral felt different from the wake. People were somber and quiet, saying only the bare minimum. I noticed how attractive my boyfriend looked in his suit. We held hands and stared straight ahead toward the altar. The room filled to the brim with people, and I was once again impressed by the gravitational pull of my late departed dad. I wondered where he was sitting for this encore presentation.
The service began and continued without disruption, and I was riveted by the stories once again. My sisters and I got up to speak. Meagan was first, her tone cautious, slow, deliberate.
My dad used to always say that everything good in his life started with us. But the truth is so many of the good things that happened in our lives and the lives of many of the people here today started with my dad. He was a devoted husband and father, unflagging mentor, and a dear friend. In my lifetime, I will likely never know a person who touched as many people as my dad did. And despite the abundance of attention and accolades, which is highly deserved, what I will remember most about my dad is so much simpler and quieter.
When my dad and I were together, we talked about cooking, Jill, Erin, Maddie, Ed. We talked about projects around the house and sometimes work. This is not to say we had a facile relationship, only that we had just as much fun talking about those things as we did talking about the important topics.
And yet, my dad’s counsel on important matters was irreplaceable. This is the one thing I will remember most, and I wanted to end today by sharing some of the things I learned from my dad with each of you. Mean what you say. This is a flagship value in our family, and it is integral to living with integrity. Down to every last swear word, my dad was genuine about what he said and he taught us to do the same. Do something you love and work hard. This is a characteristic that so many of you are familiar with but as someone who bore witness to it almost every day of my twenty-six years, it was indeed breathtaking. My dad was, yes, of course, driven and ambitious, but he was devoted, too. He cared so much about what he did, and I know his passion inspired others. Always, always say I love you, or as my dad would say to me, almost every time we spoke, “I adore you.” In good times and in bad, my father told me unfailingly that he loved me, cared for me, respected me. In my relationships, I aspire to be half as loving and compassionate as he was.
She wiped away some tears and left the podium.
Madeline stepped up. She spoke fast, willing herself to get through it.
My dad had a bit of a hang-up on memory, on its nature, its purpose, and the natural inclination to modify the past to accommodate the ones we love, most often ourselves. In the wake of his death, I found myself scrambling to remember all the times we spent together—the good, the bad, the ugly—with the hope of securing at least the smallest thing to hold on to. As my father’s daughter, I question the authenticity of the recollection: How much of this am I fabricating? Glorifying? Enhancing?
And then I see all of you. The most honest testament to the man he was. Each and every one of you has your own piece of David Carr to confirm my shaky memories. We are here to celebrate a man who touched so many lives in so many ways. I wasn’t super-close with David Carr the professional, or David Carr the young man, but I discovered that those people weren’t so different from my David Carr, the family man.
Regardless of which of the hats my dad was wearing, he could be counted on for advice, whether you knew you needed it or not. I treasure his wisdom but I can’t seem to apply it to this new and scary territory. He frequently urged me to stop trying to wrap my head around things and to instead wrap my arms around them. But you know, what I certainly cannot wrap my head around is his absence, and I dearly want to wrap my arms around him.
It was my turn. I started by echoing the sentiment that started my twin’s eulogy. There is a video of this moment. I steel myself in the present day to watch it but need to turn away the second I appear onscreen. My face is swolle
n, the dress is too tight, and the words that I so carefully chose become garbled in my mouth. I remember wanting to channel him, in this singular moment, his irreverent style. I wanted to say something unique about someone I loved so dearly. But my brain was foggy due to grief and substances and so, instead, I started by mumbling, the moment too big for me to bear.
I think you may have heard this but it deserves repeating.
“Everything good started with you” is what my father would say to my twin sister, Meagan, and I. But the truth was it was the other way around. My dad represented a blinding and fierce force in my life that will not be forgotten. When we were little kids my dad would take us for a ride when he had something important to tell us.
I again stumbled over the words but continued.
One time he looked at us from the rearview mirror and asked us how we would feel about him asking Jilly to marry him. “What about a ring?” Meagan asked. Girls, we always know how to talk about jewels. Marry they did. My dad loved Jill within an inch of her life, and a short number of years later they had Madeline, our darling and ever serious little sister.
Our lives are full of magic, and that’s what I want to talk about. My parents had a wood-paneled and rustic cabin in the Adirondack mountain range; it was his good friend Erik Wemple’s cabin before it was ours. My dad and I so loved that cabin. Dad loved to build these giant fires, and when I say large I mean nine feet and sometimes lit with diesel fuel.
There was a huge laugh and I felt buoyed. I was doing what he would have done.
That’s the kind of guy my dad is. Do the big, that’s always how it went. Jill would put Celine Dion on the crappy stereo and my dad and his girls would trundle down to the community house to play ping-pong after. My dad would always win and would always let us know.
All That You Leave Behind Page 16
