graduation speech, take 1

Good morning. My name is Lucy Bergin, and I would like to share with you a story about my voice.
Some of you may laugh because, yes, I am a singer, and yes, I sing way too much in public, especially early in the morning in the Pomeroy dining hall while madly gesticulating to reanact anything from weekend adventures to my take on KONY2012. That voice is not, however, what I would like to talk about, because, let's face it, not everyone can hold a recognizable tune. Yet, if there could only be one thing I took with me after 4 years of Wellesley education, it would be that each of us has a voice. And something worth saying. And now, I'm saying it.
Has there ever been a time in your life where you lost your voice? I don't mean from illness, I'm talking about the overwhelming sensation of having important words and no ability to speak them. We hear every day about silenced peoples, and the activists among us seek to speak to these situations, for women's rights internationally. For oppressed and persecuted nations. For children without families, without prospects, and without food. But if you stop to think a little more locally, a little more personally, within your tiny frame that is your body, soul, heart, and mind, can you find a time when you felt the need to scream something to the world, but could not?
This might be surprising to hear, because I generally come off as a happy-go-lucky whistling curly-haired ball of sunshine, but not so long ago I experienced what I used to tweet about as the (hashtag) wellesleyblues. Last semester, after having spent a year abroad in Vienna, austria, I returned home with high hopes but a heavy heart, and watched as plan after plan and dream after dream of mine crumbled, until I felt I was left with nothing. Twitter became an outlet for my frustration, where everything seemed to lead me back to the (hashtag)wellesleyblues, which would usually be followed by (hashtag)escapetowyoming. That was my plan. If not Wyoming, then, Russia! At least there I would be cold, but get to wear furry hats and drink my worries away with smooth vodka and Shostakovich string quartets, right?
Last semester I lost my voice. I lost my identity. I lost the ability to declare to the world, or even to my dog, that: I AM A MUSICIAN. Wellesley helped me realize what I was too afraid to admit in high school. Truth smacked me on the face during my first two years here; the truth that I cannot live without music. When I sing, people listen. I could be powerful. But last semester, as I struggled to go to class, to get through a whole day when all I wanted to do was have five minutes to myself and my coffee, I started giving up. My mind consisted of a constant strain of internal dialogues, and I began to associate more with young Werther from Goethe's novel. I never considered borrowing my lover’s husband’s pistols or wearing a blue frock coat and a yellow vest, but I cried myself to sleep more than once, only to wake up more certain that I must have been a German poet in the 18th century in a past life. I stopped going to class. I stopped practicing. I stopped talking about what mattered, what was important. I couldn't pay attention to my friends when I was with them, and I didn't know how to reach out to them when I wasn't.
I didn’t sing on my own because it was too much---I, who used to walk down the street whistling, or break out into show tunes with words made up depending on the friend I passed in the library. I, who could get lost in the Jewett practice loop for hours learning music, who snuck into the chapel to play the piano in the middle of the night in the dead cold of winter. And drank cocoa with schnapps and giggled. My existence had become complete and utter silence, where once music and passionate discourse had reigned. And I had no idea how to change it, and could not scream for help.
 So it is my plea today, for each of you to stop for five minutes. Reflect on where you are at, right now. Is there something you need to say? Because saying these things, getting the truth out there, is only going to make you stronger. More able to go out into the “wide wide world” and not get too “lost”, as the old Wellesley song says. (You know what, it will also make you happier, and that’s pretty important too.)
 The last few months have been full of conversation and music for me. I've been able to work through everything that had built up over the last 2 years, from the time I thought I was going to die in Haiti, to the culture shock of leaving behind a place that I called home, and people who had changed my life forever. I kept a blog while living in Vienna last year, and I remember comparing leaving to arriving. When I flew to Vienna, both of my suitcases were 8-10 kilos overweight. When I flew home in June, my suitcases were the proper weight, but I was worried about my heart taking me over the limit. It literally felt like a tank flattening my organs and setting up camp inside, and I was powerless to lessen the load on my own. Singing with the Tupelos, finding a therapist I could trust, spending time with people who love me, that is what got me through. Somewhere along the line, I began to play guitar again, and to spend time mourning, again, the loss of my uncle, who was taken from us by cancer. It was finally ok for me, to be sad every now and then. Only now, two years later, can I say without weeping immediately, that my uncle did not live in vain, and that I did not love him too little. I join the ranks of Americans who will stand up and cry out for a cure to cancer. I make this cry everytime I pick up my guitar, the beautiful red one he gave me when I was 12 and far too young to have an instrument that fancy. She’s the most beautiful sound I ever heard, and that’s why I named her Maria. Every time we hang out, the two of us, and every time I crack open a bottle of beer, I am remembering and loving my uncle. I hope someday I can take both, and help find a cure to save other beloved uncles.
So, now you’ve heard about my voice. You’ve also heard my voice. My full, confident, courageous voice, that Wellesley helped me find and strengthen. I am proud to be a Wellesley woman, surrounded by amazing future world leaders, educators, activists, environmentalists, doctors, researchers, travelers, mothers, sisters, and friends.
Some of your voices I know. Some I don’t. But of this I am sure; you all have something powerful and important to tell the world, each in your own beautiful way. And when you realize this, don't be afraid to give your time at Wellesley a lot of credit. Wellesley has made an impact on us all, and we need to tell the world. Go out, and speak!
Thank you.