A C H A P E L TA L K
by William C. Vrattos ’87, P’18, ’19 January 27, 2017 voces
Choosing
with Your Heart
A
bout nine months ago, I attended a party in New York City at the home of a friend and fellow Groton alumnus. An hour or so after I arrived, a man whom I did not know asked for silence, and then he recited the following passage from Shakespeare’s As You Like It: All the world’s a stage, And all the men and women merely players; They have their exits and their entrances, And one man in his time plays many parts, His acts being seven ages. At first, the infant, Mewling and puking in the nurse’s arms. Then the whining schoolboy, with his satchel And shining morning face, creeping like snail Unwillingly to school. And then the lover, Sighing like furnace, with a woeful ballad Made to his mistress’ eyebrow. Then a soldier, Full of strange oaths and bearded like the pard, Jealous in honor, sudden and quick in quarrel, Seeking the bubble reputation Even in the cannon’s mouth. And then the justice, In fair round belly with good capon lined, With eyes severe and beard of formal cut, Full of wise saws and modern instances; And so he plays his part. The sixth age shifts Into the lean and slipper’d pantaloon, With spectacles on nose, and pouch on side; His youthful hose, well sav’d, a world too wide For his shrunk shank, and his big manly voice, Turning again toward childish treble, pipes And whistles in his sound. Last scene of all, That ends this strange eventful history, Is second childishness, and mere oblivion, Sans teeth, sans eyes, sans taste, sans everything.
Now, I know what most of you are thinking. What an incredibly . . . lame party that must have been. A few of you in your minds are experiencing a more personalized terror, as you peer through a Dickensian fog, wondering if, in thirty years, you too will be embalmed in a similar, social rigor mortis. A few of you may be thinking, “Is this some sort of self-reflexive speech about getting older, about a speech about getting older? Can he pull this off, or will he crash and burn?” Secretly, I share your curiosity, and it fuels me with adrenaline. Finally, my two sons are thinking, “Dad, we’re all getting a bit older . . .” I quote this speech because you all are right now hurtling through the play of life at twenty-first-century speed. Because you are at Groton, you are no longer whining schoolboys, or schoolgirls, creeping like snails unwillingly to school. You are already lovers: lovers of knowledge; lovers of newfound freedom and independence; lovers of goodness and community; lovers of discovery and new friendship and experience. It is good to be a lover. In a few years, you will become soldiers. You will be asked to execute difficult tasks with uncertain outcomes. You will go forward with the excitement and zest that come from acting out life with live ammunition. You will discover that the world truly needs you. It is thrilling, and you should look into the cannon’s mouth. So I am here in the year of my thirtieth Groton reunion to advise you to look ahead. At each stage of life, moving much more quickly than in Elizabethan times, think ahead. Think of what you may be like in ten years and of how you may want to live your life. Do this continuously. Like a skier or race-car driver, try to look several turns ahead. For a few examples of thinking forward, I will draw from the life of one of Groton’s most unremarkable graduates—me.
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