For the last five years, its become abundantly clear that this school is not High School Musical.  There are no plots, no simple conflict/resolution combinations, and, well, its not a traditional high school.  Because of our size, we probably have more drama than a normal high school. Because of the size of Harrison Prep, we don’t have the same clubs, classes, and opportunities of a full-sized school.  But we’ve all stayed here for a reason: there’s something that we have, because of our size, which nobody else does.  I personally didn’t appreciate it for the longest time,  and I don’t think very many of us did, either.  It is only now, straddling the cusp of graduation, that it really comes clear how much we really do have here in leiu of football, band, and real electives.  No, its not the “food.”  I will have no qualms, in a matter of minutes, about calling Ms. Boyd Lisa.  I know more things about some of my classmates than I ever could have possibly wanted to (call out someone here).  Somehow, for the last five years, entirely racist jokes have been considered socially acceptable and, I would go as far as to say, an integral part of our school culture.  Hi, my name is Taj Mahali and Slumdog Millionaire is the story of my life.  By the way, as far as racist jokes go that was definitively mild.  Yet nobody is offended by this assertion or many others that will not be mentioned with school board members in the room.  All of this, our jokes to our classroom culture and what have you, all of this is what we have and what students from big high schools could hardly imagine.
We have community.  One, strong, solid community.  I can be my sarcastic self and escape, largely, from being judged for it.  I used to know the names of all of the so called little kids, the youngest members of our community.  And this, this community, this “ka-tet” in steven king’s words, is about to disappear.  We’re about to lose it, because we’re about to graduate.  Wave goodbye, everyone.   And so as we move on into the next stage of all of our lives, most on to community college, some onto universities or other programs, there are a few things that we, because of our community’s nature, should be openly grateful for, in no particular order:
Mr. Carlyle.  He has taught us as a class and me as a person more than I ever thought I would learn in high school in total, with about one class period every day.  How does he do it?  Opening that Pandora’s box in front of the school board would result in torture beyond reason for our successors.  Without him, we wouldn’t be who we are, sitting here ready to graduate.
Next up, everyone who has put up with us complaining about any of Mr. Carlyle’s classes over the last four years.  If you’ve had to suffer through any of us, at any time ever, whining about his AP insanity or any classes he taught over the last four years, could you please stand up?  Let’s give these folks a round of applause.  Without them, we wouldn’t be here with our collective sanity.
Mr. Yarkosky. He really carried us through this year, making sure we made deadlines, having his friends text us reminders, calling our parents and threatening us in all sorts of creative ways to ensure that we met our requirements to graduate.  Without him, we flat out wouldn’t be graduating.
All of the other teachers who have been there for us this year and ever, who the time limit on this speech keeps me from giving due recognition to.  Let’s clap for Harrison Prep’s faculty, real quickly.
They, the faculty, and us, the students, and the administration and parastaff: our community’s character.  Our fleeting community which is about to disappear.