Rock n' Roll High School, Macon Campus, Class of '05

"Told her 'Act like ya know'/Pimp in the game/Havin' to act like a ho." -- Common Well, I'm pretty sure that I'm not the valdictorian of this class -- don't know who is -- but given the chance to speak to my people, I can't refuse. Wow, so we're graduating... Scary, huh? I mean, now we all got to show and prove. As hard as the classes were, seems like the real test is ahead. Seems like it was just yesterday that I transferred here and met you all. God, this has to be the first school where everyone's a transfer and the educational model is centered around peer-learning. Maybe if there's any triumph for the invisible and unknown administration, it's that we'll probably continue our studies for a while still. Maybe grad school or something. We love learning, right? I'm rambling. Freshman year was hard on me as I'm sure it was on all of you (some of you had to repeat it). There was no community and I kept looking at the all the big kids that were still walking the halls: Otis, Richard, Duane. Didn't think I'd ever fit in. But then right at the end of that second semester, I sat in on a class in the Liz Reed's building, met some of my teachers, glanced over the curriculum and at my future classmates. One of them, the Creme de la Femme, had been in Waffle House 101 with me so that helped. Do I even have to talk about that sophomore year? It was a dank bar and a blur. Hindsight. We knew each other, most of us, but we weren't really sharing yet. I knew Riddle was a DJ, the Fish was an artist, TCE was a writer, Y-O was a poet, Stick was music/movies/drinking, Dan and Monica were pedagogues, teachers in wayward disguise. Thing is, your shit and mine didn't know each other, didn't feed or focus it -- we were individuals studying ourselves. We'd be Juniors by the time we figured out that we get better en masse. I jumped in head first. We read each other's shit, became subjects in painting, danced and thrashed to the music. Underclassmen were learning how to be living works of art, carrying themselves as expressions and often with bravery we lacked. They loaned, we borrowed and are repaying with interest. Then I chose to study abroad in Detroit while y'all kept the core together. Apparently, the crust was too doughy, the center frozen and so it was back to the oven. Here's where the rubber met the road for me: Senior year. Turned out, this High School is a lot bigger than I expected. Dear god, the Arts R Us Kids grew double, maybe triple and it was on. Everyone had a plate and a fork, someone's hand was always going for our food whenever we reached for a bite of theirs. This thing was getting serious. We built a clubhouse and called it "The Center for Revolutionary Studies". Wasn't the prom great? Bragg Jam. Damn, we'd just started coursework at the Hummingbird, still taking lessons at 550 Blues and doing extra credit reading in the 11th Hour when Bragg Jam busted on up and showed its ass. That was something else. I was high days after, still craving Popeye's chicken and the grease it left on my fingers. We found the control box and tinkered with the gears, said, "Bring it!" Give us some Treas In Season boogie rock, and we'll take them banging with a DJ crew. Put a bar anchor on stage and what happens in Hank Vegas can't stay in Hank Vegas. Then Objex was our affection and so confections splattered paint and sound on Cherry Street. Writers excited and by writing, gave letters to the language we speak here. A Jewel Daddy, Cinemaniacs and Critical Resistance within were standing on a bridge. One said, "Jump," and they all did. There were a thousand promises made, a half-dozen kept and others in progress, what the hell has happened? Doodly-squat. This past year has been practice. The fact we can be proud of some of it just means that after the next year, the chances are good we'll still be smiling. Think: as intentional as some of these endeavors have been, we didn't really plan any of this. Nobody -- I dare say nobody -- said, "I'll move to Macon and kick the shit around." Jobs lured us. Stability, affordability. We came expecting peace, but forgot to pawn the sword. Now look whatcha done. My advice is this: "Don't sweat it." This thing will happen one way or another. More than likely, we won't be famous and will never know rich so we can dump them caviar dreams for well drinks on special. Now, load up your tassled hats and get ready to launch -- just know that once you do, you'll be sitting on top of Maslow's heirarchy of needs: self-actualization. That pointy tip is gonna be digging all up your ass from here on out... or whenever you beg out, sell out, drop out. Until then or in the meantime, don't expect the bell to toll for us, yo, because it's ting-a-ding-dinging at ringside singing, "Bareknuckle boxers, bear down." By the time the swelling subsides and the doctors tell us to retire, we'll have some damn good stories for our grandkids. Can I get an Amen?