Villeage Voices: 2024 Valedictorian Emily Pan ‘24

The final Villeage Voices of the 2023-24 School year is the valedictory address by Emily Pan ’24, who shared her thoughts with her classmates at Commencement on May 26.

A little more than a month ago, I attended Mrs. Buckles’ “What Matters to Me and Why,” during which she spoke about her own life motto of “not taking herself too seriously.” Her arguments for the idea were quite convincing, and afterward, I decided to adopt the same maxim, but with a Gen Z twist, as my new life motto: “It’s not that serious.”

And it was this very inspirational and enlightening phrase I initially planned to speak about. I wanted to share how the phrase has positively benefited my life—how I’ve become more friendly and open, less anxious and judgmental; how I no longer stress about what people think when I’m skateboarding and take a stumble; how I start conversations and reach out to peers I’ve never talked to for years; how I forgive myself more easily for mistakes I might have cried over once. Because really, nothing’s that serious.

Except, that’s not quite true. Lots of things are quite serious: death, taxes, the political and economic state of the world, and valedictorian speeches. I thought about all the times I wished people took things more seriously, and how some might use “it’s not that serious” to excuse hurtful actions, how the phrase may actually promote apathy instead of empathy.

I then thought about people who don’t usually take things very seriously, people who don’t care all that much, people who, you might say, are nonchalant. For the longest time, I wanted to be just like them, so carefree, so cool. Our society champions apathy, or at least, pretend-apathy, and discourages caring too much. If you put a lot of effort into your school work, you’re a “tryhard” or a “Harkness warrior.” If you’re too passionate about robotics or theater, you’re a geek or a theater kid. The point is, it’s not cool if you care too much. It’s not cool if you take things too seriously.

I want to pause for a second and talk about something a little different: nihilism! For those who aren’t familiar with or need a reminder, nihilism is a philosophical theory that rejects human morality and asserts that existence is meaningless. In other words, nothing matters. After all, in the grand scheme of the universe, we are but insignificant specks of dust on an also insignificant speck of dust, living for an insignificant blip of time. Life appears to lack any objective meaning or purpose. So really, nothing is that serious, and there really isn’t anything you have to care about.

This is a terrifying thought, and honestly also a very, very depressing one—sorry about that. But I think it can also be a liberating thought if reframed. All the things that society tells us matter: prestige, wealth, appearances, social circles, fitting in, looking nonchalant, all of these things, don’t actually matter.

See, when nothing objectively matters, we get to choose what matters. We get to choose what to take seriously and what to care about.

Upon reflection, what mattered during my time at Lawrenceville wasn’t whether I looked cool or stupid while skateboarding nor was it my freshman-year outfits of ill-fitting jeans and ugly t-shirts. It wasn’t the number of times I skipped the school dances that took hours of hard work to plan and set up, or the student performances that peers spent the term preparing for (though to be fair, I didn’t skip many). It wasn’t how nonchalant I appeared.

Rather, what mattered to me during my time at Lawrenceville were those small, intimate moments of care and community. The times I spent catching chickens with the farm crew; the times I taught my friends to sew in the dingy KAC basement; the time nine of us gathered in a classmate’s dorm room and made puns about fruit flies while studying for an RMG test; the time our Hutchins Social Justice cohort explored New York City while making sense of the difference between places and spaces. Galentines, when the lights were dimmed and everyone was dancing like nobody was watching; the times we gathered in the KAC auditorium, in the bleachers, in the Chapel, in Clark, to support the passions of others, passions we may not share, but in spite of that, we showed up. All because we cared for each other.

When I began to use the phrase, “it’s not that serious,” it wasn’t that I stopped taking everything seriously. I just began to choose what to take seriously and what not to. I still put effort into my schoolwork, not because I wanted that grade, but because I felt I owed it to myself to learn and do better. I still showed up for friends and cheered for them; if anything, I cheered louder, because I cared more about supporting them than about being judged by others. I chose what mattered to me.

Now, again, your individual choice is really the only thing that matters at the end of the day. So if you choose to be ambitious, choose to care about prestige or wealth or any of these other external expectations, I don’t plan on stopping you. But I think it’d be a tiny bit irresponsible of me if I just tell some edgy, emo teens whose prefrontal cortexes haven’t fully developed yet, “Nothing matters! Do whatever you want!” and then just let them loose. So, while I’m fully aware that giving advice on what to care about completely contradicts the point of my speech, I’m going to do it anyway.

To my underclassmen, I hope you learn that one bad grammar test grade or garnering social clout doesn’t really matter all that much, that doing clubs and other extracurriculars just for college is a really unrewarding experience, that 10 years from now, you won’t be any better off because you were judgmental today, nor would you be worse off because you did something embarrassing. I hope you learn to take one another seriously, to reach out and build community. I hope you learn to nurture your passions for yourself, not for anyone or anything else, but also how to show up for the passions of others. Attend club meetings and sports games, Allegro and Impulse shows, Hutchins Gallery Openings and Midday Music. I hope you learn to care. I hope you choose to care. Be a geek or a theater kid, be sensitive and weird and kind, even when it’s not reciprocated because why not? It’s not that serious.

And to my fellow graduating classmates, it’s the same spiel basically, except there’s a little more uncertainty in our future ahead. A little more chaos and existential dread as we are forced to discover what we want to do with our lives. But my last cliché and cheesy takeaway for this morning is, you get to find your purpose in life. You get to give this insignificant, yet briefly gorgeous existence, meaning.

I want to finish with gratitude. Thank you to the faculty, teachers, coaches, and deans, who have forever left a mark on our way of thinking and being. Thank you to the administration, dining and house staff, public safety, buildings and grounds, and alumni, who have made our four years here possible, comfortable, and safe. Thank you to families, who were always there for us regardless of whether you were a five-minute walk or a 16-hour flight away. Thank you to my closest friends—I cannot express how much you all matter to me, how much I’ll cherish our late night conversations in McPherson and our Princeton Public Library trips, our friend group dinners and even our brief conversations in the hallways. Thank you to underclassmen. And last but not least, thank you, and congratulations, to the Class of 2024!

For additional information, contact Lisa M. Gillard H'17, director of public relations, at lgillard@lawrenceville.org.