By Craig Wilson 姜凡 选注

　　每年的毕业演说都少不了亮丽的词句和善意的谎言。而一位35年前的毕业生，用亲身体验道出了一番独特的毕业赠言。

　　Scanning through my e-mails the other day, one in particular jumped out at me. The subject line read: "Note from Lyndonville Central School."

　　Since I graduated from that fine institution of learning what seems like 147 years ago, I opened it first. It was from a man who teaches math there now, a man who was a few grades behind me, a man who was inviting me, on behalf of the student council, to speak at Class Day<注1> in June."I would like to invite you 'back home,' " he wrote. "What do you think?"

　　What do I think?

　　I don't know.

　　The last time I spoke at Lyndonville Central School was graduation night of 1967. I can't remember exactly what I said that warm June evening, but I fear I proclaimed, among other things, that I was going to change the world, make it a better place for mankind, cure cancer and stop the spread of the leisure suit, the fashion faux pas<注2> that was sweeping the country.

　　I came through only on<注3> the leisure suit promise. It was on the road to extinction by the following spring.

　　But people will cut you some slack<注4> when you're 17. I distinctly remember applause. Perhaps they were just happy that I finally shut up, I don't know. At the time, I took it as a positive response, grabbed my diploma and got out of town. Never looked back, as they say.<注5>

　　And now western New York was calling me home.

　　If I go, what would I say this time around? What would I share with these kids who were me 35 years ago, sitting there in the bleachers, eager to get on with life?<注6>

　　I've always been wary of adults bearing advice.<注7> Any adult who has ever tried to give me any over the years will vouch for that. (Not that I consider myself an adult, but I look like one now, so I can infiltrate places adults frequent and pass for one if I must.)<注8>

　　Would I fall into that cliche<注9> pool of graduation speeches? Follow your dreams! Climb every mountain! Go out there and make a difference! Carpe diem!<注10>

　　Or would I be brutally<注11> honest and tell them they'll be working for the next 50 years, have children who will think them fools and more than likely have as little hair as I do? And when all that's over, there will be no Social Security Check<注12> for them, because I will have already spent it.Actually, I'm not sure it really matters what I'd say.

　　I'm sure there's a Class Day picnic they'll be itching to get to, a girl or boyfriend they'll be flirting with across the auditorium, a school's-almost-out daydream that will happily occupy their thoughts the whole time I might be speaking<注13>.

　　I should know. I don't have a clue what any of my end-of-high-school speakers said. All I remember is they were old, rambled on<注14> for far too long and all looked like someone I would hope I'd never become.

　　And now I have.