National Honor Society Induction

St. Martin's Episcopal School

October 20, 2011

Mason Lecky

To the students, faculty, and parents of the St. Martin's Episcopal School community, to members of the National Honor Society, and to Mrs. Beckman and Father Baer, I want to thank you most sincerely for the thoughtful distinction of inviting me to address you this morning.

When Mrs. Beckman called me just over five months ago and asked if I would serve as the speaker for this important occasion, we were weeks away from the end of the 2010-2011 school year, and I was laser-focused on wrapping up the year successfully, yet also happily drifting to thoughts of R&R over the summer holiday.

"Sure," I immediately responded to Mrs. Beckman's request, deducing that October seemed like a lifetime away and surely I would be struck by divine or at least scholarly inspiration between May and October.

Well, the months have passed, summer has turned to fall, and here we are, gathered today to honor you, the students of St. Martin's, and the four core values of the National Honor Society--Scholarship, Leadership, Service, and Character.

Surely, with time in my schedule this summer to relax, to enjoy a slower pace, I would have the time and space necessary to strike inspirational gold, to conjure a topic and a script that would ignite the St. Martin's community, words that would remain with these impressionable teenagers years after they depart from the confines of this well regarded New Orleans institution.

Surely, right? You heard the resume, didn't you? UVA, Harvard, St. Albans, St. Andrew's Head of School at age 33, father of three well-behaved kids; husband to a lovely, supportive, and intelligent wife. Life is easy, right? National Honor Society speech at St. Martin's? Remarks under eight minutes or this Chapel will denigrate into teenage mutiny? No problem.

Well, small problem. I have a confession to make: The muses did not speak to me. Despite my ill-placed confidence that this speech would write itself, it didn't, and earlier this week I felt like a high school student again, up late at night, writing a paper that should have been written days or weeks before.

In short, I failed you.

But that's when it occurred to me. Perhaps that's the point. My failure, that is.

Just over one month ago, I read a New York Times Magazine article entitled, "What If The Secret To Success Is Failure?" We shared the article with our faculty at St. Andrew's, and I suspect many of your teachers and administrators at St. Martin's read it, as well.

It's a lengthy article--over 20 pages and just under 7,000 words--but the basic gist is that the author and the several influential educators interviewed for the piece believe that essential traits for success in the 21^st Century have much more to do with Character, broadly defined, than with academic success, including SAT scores and GPAs. Character traits such as optimism, persistence, social intelligence and--most pointedly--grit serve as the key indicators for the success of today's generation.

Character, the author states, is equal to, and perhaps even trumps, intellect.

And further, the author believes, young people who have exposure to and comfort with meaningful challenges and real failure, and those who demonstrate resilience in the face of such obstacles, will fare better than those who have only known positive feedback, high grades, and outstanding standardized test scores.

Here's a little background information on me: I grew up in a safe and comfortable suburb of Richmond, VA, not unlike the largely safe and comfortable suburb of Metairie, LA. I attended an academically rigorous college prep co-ed independent school on a gorgeous campus that reminds me of St. Martin's.

I did well in school, though not extraordinarily well. I worked hard, but I stuck to academic pursuits, athletics, and social circles that were comfortable to me. I wasn't a risk taker.

In college, I primarily stuck to what was familiar, became friends with a fairly homogenous group of Virginians who similarly attended rigorous college prep schools in comfortable suburbs, and I performed reasonably well. I mainly chose classes in areas where I thought I could find success and not, surprisingly, I did. I avoided the higher level mathematics and science courses that resulted in long hours and only mediocre grades in high school and instead focused on the English and History courses that came more naturally to me and in which I could excel and therefore improve my all-important GPA.

In almost every measurable way, I didn't really fail in college. In high school, even though I didn't reach extraordinary success academically, athletically, artistically, or socially, I was still successful by almost every measure. In fact, I never truly failed at anything of real significance.

My first true brush with unvarnished failure came during the spring and summer of my senior year of college, when I began to search for a real job. It was the late 90s, the economy was booming, 22 year-old college graduates from well respected schools were getting multiple job offers that included compensation packages that most 30-year-olds of today would jump at.

Focused on landing a teaching job in a prestigious independent school, I was failing. I lost count of the total number of rejection letters and phone calls I received, but I am certain I was told "no", that I failed, at least a dozen times.

This was new to me. I vividly remember being with a friend just after receiving the news of another failed job bid, and welling up when I told him I didn't get yet another job. "What's wrong?" he asked, not used to seeing that kind of emotion in me.

"I didn't get the job, and I'm just not used to this kind of failure," I remember telling him, almost 15 years ago.

Well, spring turned to summer and by the end of July, schools that still had vacancies were beginning to get desperate. One school, St. Albans School for Boys in Washington, DC, was searching for a Teaching Intern, not the full lead teaching position that I wanted, but a foot in the door and a good opportunity for a young teacher to get established in a well respected school.

I interviewed, got an offer, and immediately accepted the position. I lived in the dormitory with students just four and five years younger than I, worked like a dog, coached three sports, and taught 6^thgrade homeroom alongside an experienced lead teacher.

I was focused and hungry that year, proving myself in different arenas, working hard and taking nothing for granted, and I was offered a full-time teaching and coaching position for the following year. I stayed at St. Albans for just under 10 years and received almost all of the training there that I use today as head of school.

I thank God every day for the failures and setbacks I experienced before landing that job at St. Albans. Not easily getting those jobs in other schools and having to wait, work for, and appreciate the offer I did receive was the best thing that ever happened to me, professionally, because it brought out the best in me when I did get a job and an opportunity to prove myself.

Now, looking back at my high school and college years, my only regret is that I didn't become acquainted with the art and benefit of failure until I was 22 years old and obviously not accustomed to it.

The world lost an innovator and a brilliantly creative leader when Steve Jobs died this month. In his now famous 2005 Commencement address at Stanford, Jobs said that getting fired from Apple early in his career was the best thing that ever happened to him. It liberated him professionally and set the stage for the greatness that would mark the rest of his life.

In that address, he also shared one his favorite quotations, which goes something like, "If you live each day as if it were your last, one day you'll most certainly be right." Death, Jobs said, is the greatest invention of life because it keeps us honest and focused, and it strips away the superficial. In the face of death, petty fears of failure, setback, and embarrassment seem truly trivial. Risks seem...not so risky.

So this is my wish and challenge for you, students of St. Martin's, that here in high school and certainly in college, you introduce yourself to failure. Become acquainted with it. Seek it out. Experiment in areas that are not comfortable for you. Take risks, fail occasionally, and grow from it.

So, yes, do what I say, not what I actually did. Occasional and well-intended hypocrisy is a privilege of adulthood, you'll come to find.

So, how did I do? If I succeeded, great. If I failed, that's OK, too. I'll do better next time.

In closing, for those students about to be inducted into this distinctive group, congratulations. You've worked hard and distinguished yourself, and you deserve the honor about to be bestowed upon you. Now, don't let it go to your head.

For those students about to not be inducted, it's OK. Your talents and areas of achievement exist in different realms, or perhaps they are not destined to become manifest while you are here at St. Martin's. But that's OK. Don't let it go to your head either. Just think of it as much-needed practice for the rest of your life.

Have a great school year, congratulations, and thank you very much.