Quinn Doyle ’26

The twenty eighth of April the hour came that I delivered my last word. 

Not to retread the address’s territory, but it was indeed, as I said, a long time coming, and an event I oft thought upon in the years leading up. 

In the original designs I had planned a more expansive and perhaps boresome oration, to be spoken for the better part of half an hour. I knew this would lose me some goodwill with the audience, not to mention their fleeting attention, but counted on classtime missed because of my lengthiness to buy it back. When they caught wind of the machination my parents were not as thrilled with the idea and, covetous of their contribution to my college tuition, was quick to heed their opinion on the matter. 

Perhaps it was for the best, afterall. Even with thirty minutes I believe it would have been rather jarring and disjointing (also, probably, ineffective) to incorporate more detailed instructions summarized by the surviving content as well as completely cut cassandric forewarnings of the ecologic disaster that awaits in the nearer future. The only remnants of these tangents lie in my abundant apocrypha and the outroduction song that was unfortunately muffled by the set volume on the speakers and the (much appreciated) ovation from the crowd. 

And, oh boy, was their ovation. By my own reckoning I predicted some extra uproar from the more boisterous male sections of the crowd with whom I’d ingratiated myself, and Dr. Oakes had warned me beforehand of the Waterman waterworks. The actual reception was beyond what I had imagined because I could not have realized how deeply I seem to have touched the hearts and minds of those around me. 

I told you all “I love you”. Contrary to what has been suggested by some, it was quite easy. Because it is the truth. 

The slow shift in the concavity of my facial features, the voltaic wiping away of  imaginary tears, and the trained tremble in my voice were all ruses. I am not an expressive person by nature, but if others require dramatism to believe then so be it. I don’t see thespianism as disingenuous, but rather an interpretive process translating my monotone with which I am content into a more relatable and relayable experience. I hope noone minds. Because for all my acting I spoke no lies. 

For me it’s always easy to speak the truth, but I find people have difficulty distinguishing it, even among their very own thoughts. To give an example, all the mainstream religions persisting in the modern day claim to represent unconditional love and mercy, and all their holy books have passages to support this. In my travels I’ve come upon many a man who claims devotion to the teachings of Sid, Josh, Moe, and co. (Siddartha Gautama Buddha, Jesus Christ, and the prophet Muhammad). However, for all their belief in what they speak they cannot bring themselves to admit love freely and widely as I do. 

I hope that instead of reading the prior sentence in an accusative tone, that hypothetical offended religionists see some reason to look in the mirror and work to better implement these particular tenets as guiding principles rather than just ponderable scripture. 

As is typical of people well immersed in the science fiction fandom as I am, much of the comic and profound phrases I use originate from cult classic media. If you want to truly know how many references lie within my Last Word, I ran it through a chatbot and it detected only half of them. I leave those curious among you to find them all. Ramblings aside, the reason I draw attention to this facet of my life is the comfort I find in Ridley Scott’s Blade Runner(1982). 

I won’t spoil the movie but I ask those who are inspired to view it to pay special attention to resolution and “Tears in Rain”. You’ll know it when you see it. 

In brief, it is a film about a group of rebellious bioengineered slaves who are hunted by a human detective. The creatures, called replicants, are designed with a four year lifespan and are granted false memories to help them perform their duties. As a side effect they have underdeveloped emotional intelligence and are rooted out from regular people by the unusual responses they give to emotionally provocative questions. 

Despite the writer’s and director’s intentions that it be about people with stunted empathy, their behaviors are so like mine that I am forced to interpret them as having equal empathy that is conveyed via different channels than facial expression and socially cued gasps. “More human than human” is the motto of the corporation in the movie that manufactures the replicants and I am tempted to embrace this label, but fear it too would confuse my purposes as narcissistic, grandiose or else pretentious. 

Seldom do I extoll upon personal experiences. This is not out of innate aversion to the idea, but because it paints a picture quite exotic to others. Most question the credibility of my stories, not because they doubt my memory, but because my own actions implicate a perspective that is utterly alien in ontology, in the way I systematize and organize my perception of reality. 

When I was but a wee laddy the word that best described as, uh, precocious. When other children were occupied with games conventionally appropriate for their age, I found myself lost in textbooks of history and science. Since these former days I have had a strong sense of curiosity that I cannot shake. 

This distanced me from my peers, who were far more oriented on age-appropriate matters like soccer and exploring the laughably primitive mechanics of elementary school relationships. While they traded rumors over who fancied whom and argued with life-or-death seriousness over playground games, I was preoccupied with that which could not be cleanly folded into recess conversation. I wanted to know why empires rose and fell, how computer screens lit up in such complex configurations, what made my hand move at my will, and whether morality was something discovered or merely inherited. Such fixations made me incompatible. 

There were some children I spent much time with, who would invite me to birthdays and play with me in the schoolyard every now and then. I find it likely that some could place my name in their memories, but none, I think, ever truly understood me, nor I them. We could exchange gestures of kindness and coexist amicably, but there remained an invisible partition between us that neither side quite knew where it ceased. Even in moments of inclusion I felt an observer, as though I stood half a pace outside of the world where everyone else was native. 

I recall in first grade there was one child though, with a linguistic and intellectual disability, who saw me as his best companion. I remember how bad I would feel that others ignored his attempts at amiability and gestures of his intent to play with them. In his company I sensed a sincerity absent from many others; his attempts at kindness were awkward but entirely genuine. Where his isolation was visible and readily mocked, mine was subtle enough to pass unnoticed except by those who looked carefully. He was nothing like me but I warmed most to him because he was lonely like me. 

I get along equally well with most groups here, as I adapt my behaviors to meet popular demand. I don’t call it dishonesty because none of these personas feel more natural to slip into than others. My defense against jocular types has always been reliant on the knowledge that raw confidence fights better than any intelligent quips or feats of physical strength. My way of interacting with more sensitive souls has been to remain as inoffensive as possible, and my occasional bouts of stammered “Sorry”’s are a byproduct. I am the shape of water. 

Anybody who has shared a class with me knows as much as I have revealed to anybody else at this school. People are familiar with my eccentric turns of phrase and my reputation as a mnemonist, yet few can name any of my beliefs aside from the gross simplifications I utilize in jest. I strive to be everybody’s friend and evidently I’ve made many folks feel welcome but the exchange is not mutually balanced. Every hearth is my home but no hall is my own. 

Don’t any of you feel shame or think this is a (justified or unjustified) call for pity. On the basis of our individual relationships I am content; the struggle lies with the fact that I cannot find a single outlet for my frustrations or aspirations. Too much background reading is required before I can relay the depths of my despair to allow any casual entrance to their dissection. All I have is the catharsis I find in the angry-sad music I listen to, and the dystopic literature and films whose messages came early and yet still too late. 

There came a day when I was three years old that I came to a shocking realization. For those few first anna of life I had eaten meat as a staple, and it eventually was revealed by my parents that the source of these foodstuffs lies in animal flesh. I loved animals, not the least because of the dogs and goldfish at my own home as well as the agricultural environment where I grew up, but others in similar conditions I find rarely share the deep attachment and egalitarian sentiment I possess. I decided at this early age that I could not bear the thought of consuming lives I valued as much as human ones. 

Of course this came as a shock to my parents, who saw it as a swiftly correctable comportment of toddlerhood. They allowed me a pass for the day but the following morning served me a breakfast solely consisting of bacon. Despite my pleas they continued to grow angrier and angrier with my noncompliance until eventually the pressure of disappointing them broke me. I ate one piece, each bite accompanied by a distinct cry and a smaller portion than the last. I took one nibble at a second slice before I decided “No”. No, I would not. There was much more yelling and after this I cannot recall the punishment I received as it must not have been notable to stay with me these fifteen years later. As a young child to defy thy parents is to spit in the face of God. But I did so, because I thought it more important that I stand for the lives and welfare of those who could not fend for themselves than to heed the dogma of figures whose authority is derived from sources that refuse reason and dare not to be explained. 

Everything I do I do out of love. I don’t care what’s in your skin, what’s in your pants, or what’s in your wallet. I will do anything and everything that is necessary that is within my power. I don’t give for the sake of giving, I weigh my own worth equally to everyone else’s, there’s just a lot more of everyone else and I find that I am less sensitive to pettier affairs like placement in a line. I give all that I can without damaging my sanity. All of morality is mathematics to me; damage control. The misfortune is that I am really bad at mental math. 

I think it faded into my interstitial words when I first said it so I repeat it now. 

I don’t know half of you half as well as I should like, and I like half of you half as well as you deserve. I know there isn’t much left before graduation do us part, but if anyone should need a leaning shoulder, I am here. I am all too familiar with the feeling of being alone in a crowded room. To carry thoughts with that others could not understand or chose to understand. So if you like, pitch me an email or just walk up to me if you see me around. 

In my quest for truth I have abandoned every conscious irrationality I find myself able to and there is still much to be done. But try as I might I cannot lose the sinking feeling that is aroused in me by exposure to the idea of death in myself and others. The annihilation of consciousness horrifies me because of the sheer tragedy that a thinking, feeling being may simply cease to exist. Every personality is an unrepeatable configuration of memories, perceptions, and affections. To lose even one… I shudder and bawl. To lose one human every second, thousands of intelligent mammals, avians, etc… in the same interval. Numbers lose their meaning in my limited brainspace. 

For all my criticisms I may preach about tyrannical and bullying individuals and their rituals I cannot bring myself to hate them. Hatred requires a confidence in moral separation that I do not possess. Even the cruel and ignorant are, in the end, frightened creatures improvising meaning within a universe that offers none freely. I fear not man but when man is not. I can withstand hostility, ridicule, even suffering of myself and even billions, but absence is another matter entirely. 

There was once a heretical Orthodox priest named Nikolai Fyodorov, who believed that we could never be happy unless everyone we know is alive with us. He saw the goal of civilization and technology to be the end of death, and eventually its reversal. I think he was onto something with that. 

I hope this all wasn’t too drivelous. 

Because I really do love you.