Thank you, Mr. Edgar. And thank you Ms. Noujaim, Mr. Hobbs and members of the board of trustees, Mr. Hardy and members of the administration, faculty, staff, family and friends, students and members of the Class of 2008 (I love that power).

People often talk about “The Milton Bubble.” This not-so-subtle metaphor addresses the idea that Milton students are sheltered from and have little contact with or awareness of the outside or “real” world. This may be partially true; how can students at a suburban prep school fully understand the realities of the world around them? Nonetheless, I would like to present an alternative way to describe Milton students’ relationship with the outside: bunk beds. Cozy, warm, comforting, and, of course, sheltering, bunk beds provide a limited view of the bedroom, one not as full, or even as real, as that from a single bed.

When I was about seven, I got my very own bunk bed after moving out of the room I was sleeping in with my brother, Ross. While I had no one to share it with, I still felt pretty cool with my new bunk. And this thing wasn’t your mother’s bunk bed. The bottom bunk was a full-sized bed with a shelf behind it, and it lay perpendicular to the top twin bunk. It had a black base and turquoise and purple accents to complement my purple rug and walls, and it was AWESOME. Over the next nine years or so, I slept on the bottom bunk, and the top bunk became the place for me to rest my legs when I couldn’t sleep, tape my goals for track season so they’d always be there above me, and hit my head as I sat up some mornings. Thus, ironically, as I got older—and taller—I apparently didn’t get any wiser, because it became more likely that I would hit my head on the top bunk. So, last spring, my family and I removed the top bunk, and that first night without it, I felt exposed and alone. For the first time, I could see all of the dark depths of my bedroom, a 360-degree perspective of my own world. Years before, I had put glow-in-the-dark stars only on the part of the ceiling that wasn’t blocked by the top bunk. So now, above me, in this bunk-less galaxy, there was an intimidating black hole among the stars. No track goals loomed above me anymore, no bed frame where I could put my legs to ease myself to sleep—or bang my head in the morning.

This daunting removal into a top bunk-less world is upon us seniors. Milton has acted like a protective bed frame for us, often shielding us from the darkness of the bedroom—the outside world. So, we must ask ourselves: how do we avoid the shock of entering a world without it? I think first, we should remember what has made the bunk, Milton, so special in the first place—such as the lessons it’s taught us about cleaning our rooms (or improving the world).

Earlier this year, in my Senior Transitions class, we had a discussion about how students at Milton feel that they should use their education to better the world. If we can envision this goal with the top bunk above us, then we must do it without it there. Milton has always tried to instill a sense of social conscientiousness in us. Community Service Days, Wednesday assembly speakers, and even a head monitor-inspired subscription to The New York Times in the Student Center all speak to this goal. In some ways, moving into the real world should make this ambition easier—a world without blue cards, lights-out, 7 a.m. bus stops, and required sit-down dinners will give us the freedom to fulfill our social conscience. Then again, it is a Darwinist world out there, and it is also just as likely that we’ll lose sight of our obligations to the world, if doing so could result in personal advancement. This is the easy way out. Please don’t take it. For the past two to thirteen years, we’ve learned to work hard to achieve the best results, academically, artistically, athletically, and beyond. This isn’t the time to stop. We have some of the smartest people in the world at this school, and I would feel much more comfortable with you all fixing the world’s problems than just about anybody else. I think many of us believe that satisfying our social calling will lead us to fulfilling lives, so we should remember that when the top bunk is removed.

Real bunk beds, however, have also been an important part of my time here. When I first walked into Hallowell House my freshman year as a day student staying late on a Friday night, a bunk bed was the first thing I saw. And it represented my first real opportunity to befriend schoolmates from somewhere other than Greater Boston. Likewise, during spring break of my freshman year, I went to Belize with the Milton Outdoor Program. On the first night, we stayed at a zoo in cabins with none other than bunk beds. Earlier that day, I had held a monkey for the first (and probably, the last) time. I also had come to grips with the fact that I would not be able to shower for a week. These two realities were connected in a rather unfortunate way; nonetheless, this experience was, for me, a window into a different part of the world. A year and a half later, during my semester away at The Mountain School, I lived in rural Vermont in a bottom bunk. I was able to experience the challenges of living in a small, isolated community through this limited window. It was because of the security blanket I had in the (figurative) Mountain School bunk bed that I was able to take risks, like go on a three-night solo camping trip. Even after going into the real world, I doubt I’ll ever have a similar opportunity to experience “the wild” under such protectiveness. Later that year, I went on a spring break trip to Katrina-ravaged Mississippi. I also viewed this situation from the bottom bunk, at a Methodist church camp; even under the protection of the top bunk, this experience was a revealing peek into the real situation on the Gulf Coast.Before this trip, the media had always acted as a barrier between me and the emotional realities of these people’s pain. Now, I was presented with the difficult responsibility of understanding their suffering face to face. Is it worth it to gain perspective on the world, even if the Milton Bunk Bed limits or perhaps even skews this perspective? I think so. I wouldn’t have had these experiences otherwise. Even though I went through these situations under a protective bunk, both real and figurative, I still learned a lot and grew significantly from them. It was safe to try new things and gain new knowledge with the top bunk above me. Just because the experiences may have been a less raw approach to discovering the world, I don’t believe they were any less valuable.

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