Thank you, Maude, for that lovely introduction. I am deeply honored to be here with all of you and receive this honorary degree together with my fellow honoree.
Good morning, everyone. Oh come on – good morning, everyone! [audience: good morning] That's much better.
Class of 2025, both the seniors and the master’s students – congratulations! You did it. But as your class speakers have not acknowledged, you did not do this alone. Congratulations to your family and friends who supported you every step of the way, many of who are here today in person or watching you online, sharing in your celebration. So I think you should give one more round of applause to all those who got you here.
To the trustees, the faculty, and staff – each of you had a hand in you receiving this truly world-class education. They deserve your applause, too. Come on, give it up for them.
And I'm going to give a special thank you to your trustee, an alum from the class of 1973 and my dear friend, Bill Foote, who extended the invitation for me to be here. Thank you, Bill.
Now you might find this a little hard to believe, but I vividly remember my graduation ceremony, which was nearly a half a century ago – 47 years. I was a child when I started college.
After surviving my last finals exam, I haphazardly and unsuccessfully tried to pack up all of my stuff before my parents arrived because I, too, had to be out of my dorm by 5:00 for reasons I don't understand. I remember being exhausted that day and recovering from the late-night pre-graduation partying. Some of you may have done the same. The only thing I don't really remember is what my commencement speaker said. For instead of listening, no doubt, to what was pearls of wisdom – so I hope you guys are listening – I instead gamed out my 10-year plan.
During my senior year of college I was surrounded by classmates who professed to know not only what they intended to do next, but they had very detailed 10-year plans. I did not. And so sitting in the hot California sun just as we are sitting today here, right here in this beautiful Berkshires, while the speaker said who knows what, I crafted my 10-year plan.
It went as follows: I would go to law school. Why? Because my best friend was in law school and she told me to. I would then figure out why I'm there, the passion that I would have in law. I would find a fabulous job. I would return to my hometown of Chicago. I would fall in love. I would get married. And I would have a baby by the time I was 30. And then I would live happily ever after.
Well, off I went. Off I went, indeed. Ten years into my 10-year plan I had checked so many boxes – law school, great law firm, better law firm, fell in love, got married, had a baby. Lived happily ever after? No. Ten years in, I found myself in a fancy office looking out with a magnificent view of Lake Michigan in Chicago with my back to the door, crying, crying.
And I wondered, thinking about my daughter, if she would ever be as proud of me as I had always been of my mother, who somehow flawlessly managed to give me the impression she had mastered the mighty juggle of being a successful working mom. I was living what so many around me thought was the perfect life, but I had ignored the most important voice, the one we have buried deep inside of us.
So I had lunch with a friend who gave me some advice that I'll never forget. He said, “You love Chicago. You knocked on doors and licked envelopes for Mayor Harold Washington's re-election campaign. Why don't you consider working in local government? You'll be a part of something bigger and more important than yourself.”
Local government? Well, that was not on my plan, but was it really a plan? No. It was just something I made up during my commencement speech, which I had been following pretty aimlessly for 10 years.
And so I took a leap of faith and left behind that salary and that magnificent view and I moved into my tiny little cubicle in City Hall with a window facing an alley. My clients were no longer big banks or wealthy developers, they were the citizens of Chicago. And I felt so proud. My husband and I also parted ways, by the way, but I’ve never looked back.
I discovered that when the perfect plan crumbles, ah, that's when the adventure begins. That unplanned decision to pay attention to what I wanted – to be flexible and courageous enough to swerve, to change the course of my life. And it taught me this: that plans really only work if they lead to a life that is meaningful to you, as only you can define it.
I grew up spending a lot of time living and traveling outside of the United States, and my parents taught me to have an insatiable curiosity about people with different backgrounds, cultures, and life experiences and to search for what I had in common with them while appreciating our differences.
But public service taught me how to have the grace and humility to listen attentively to everyone, especially those with whom I disagree, regardless of the decibel of their voice.
Or to put it another way – I got yelled at a lot. I mean a lot. And there were even times where I'd be in the grocery store shopping for produce with my daughter or pushing her on a swing in the park and guess what – the constituents of Chicago were right there. I discovered that public service is 24/7. And that's how it should be, because you are a public servant.
I had demonstrations in front of my office and even in front of my home. And my daughter at age 11 at the time asked me why I couldn't find a job where people weren't angry with me all the time. I smiled and I told her that I was devoted to being a change agent and that change can be scary, especially for people that have been disappointed or even hurt by their government in the past, a government that was supposed to be serving them.
But in time I believe that I can demonstrate my sincere interest in helping them make their lives better. Therefore they weren't really angry with me, I told her, but the threat of the change that I stood for, and that once they got to know me and trust me, those fears would be allayed.
My daughter was unpersuaded at the time. More about trust in a minute.
What it takes to be an effective public servant is not unique. In any profession it takes hard work, stamina, humility, and a commitment to be that mighty force for good, even when the winds are trying to blow you harshly in different directions. You have to learn to take the long view, even when there are short-term pressures. Your moral compass must never waver from true north. And you have to develop the capacity to absorb a lot of pain without it either debilitating you or making you numb.
Since leaving that law firm, I have always cared deeply about what I've done and I've been determined to work hard – very hard. And I discovered that the best way to land a better job is to do the job you have really well.
Are you listening?
Too often we get fixated on what's next. We chase titles, promotions, shiny new opportunities. But what I have found is when you are fully present, when you commit to doing your current work exceptionally well, doors often open unexpectedly.
And with each new opportunity that I have had over my now rather long career, I've also had to remind myself that opportunity rarely knocks at opportune moments.
Just a year before the 2008 presidential election, I was promoted to be the CEO of the Habitat Company after working there hard for a decade. I was thrilled and my family was so proud. I was also serving on several corporate and not-for-profit boards. My daughter was all grown up and in law school, and I had an amazingly close circle of friends who had endured the test of time. My life was finally perfect.
And what happened? One of my best friends had the nerve to get elected president
of the United States and he offered me an extraordinary opportunity to be his senior adviser in the White House. That was certainly not in any of my plans, but I paused for just a moment and then packed my bags, with help once again from my parents, and off I went.
And once again I never looked back. There were incredible weighty decisions that we made every single day and my stomach was in a constant state of churn for all eight years, but it was an opportunity and a privilege of a lifetime.
Now, of course I've stumbled on many occasions, and the higher you climb, the more public and embarrassing your stumbles will become. But I've learned that one's ability to bounce back requires not just your own resilience but the trust you've earned from others.
In our climate, let's face it – we're finding it harder and harder to trust one another and the institutions upon which we rely. But you can't have meaningful relationships, personal and professional relationships, let alone be an effective leader, unless you trust people and they trust you.
If people trust you, they are much more likely to follow your lead and forgive you when you err. Trust does not happen automatically because of your title or even how well motivated you may be.
I believe that being trustworthy comes down to how you treat people. Are you authentic and honest? Do you say what you will do and then do it? Do you own your mistakes? Do you understand that kindness and empathy are strengths, real strengths? Do you make sure to see people who are not accustomed to being seen? Are you able to say what you fervently believe in a tone and manner that will be received in the way that it was meant and be constructive in its outcome? Do you demonstrate integrity that is worthy of trust when you make decisions that are hard and have consequences, not simply those that are easy?
And when I, as many of the people who are here today are the ages of my parents and your parents and who grew up in a community where community was defined by geography, it was where we lived. We had no choice but to find a way to get along with one another. Even in politics there were certainly disagreements about policies, but there was a level of core decency that was the social norm.
There used to be a joke in Washington that if you wanted a friend, get a dog. But in fact, people from across the aisle did make deep and meaningful friendships grounded in trust, and it was easier to get things done.
Now, between social media designed to bring us together, now oftentimes presses us apart. For we are free to create our own communities consisting of people with whom we agree on everything. We can choose to eliminate any friction or contrary views from our feed, or we can engage online from a distance and all too often say perfectly dreadful things that we would never say to one another in person.
We decide what is fact and fiction in an environment where disinformation is everywhere. With the invention of AI, the world as we know it is changing with head-spinning speed, all adding to our uncertainty and anxiety.
And all too often our leaders, our leaders seem locked in a seemingly sport battle with one another, so far away from our reach where we could remind them to make our needs their top priority.
But despite all of this – and I know that was a lot – there is hope. And that's where you come in, class of 2025.
Yesterday I visited the Davis Center here on campus. Those of you who have spent time there no doubt engaged with one another in a safe space where you listened with an open heart and mind and sincerely learned about one another.
I knew Allison Davis, one of the two brothers after whom the center is named, and even though Davis graduated from Williams in 1924, he was unable to land a teaching position here, most likely because of his race. So rather than accept defeat, he took on the arduous and circuitous road that led him to the University of Chicago, where I am on the board of trustees, and he became an internationally recognized academic in the field of education and social anthropology.
So it is a sign of great progress that decades later this very institution, when faced with demonstrations from its very own students calling for change, created the Davis Center. And the Davis's granddaughter, Jordan, had a very different experience here than her grandfather, because people were willing to change.
Now, it can be very intimidating to put yourself out there and stand up for what you believe in for fear of backlash, particularly right now, and I certainly know that, but we have to try, class of 2025. You have to try. Your experience in the community, this community, has taught you not just how to be a critical thinker but how to be a part of a healthy community rooted in mutual respect and trust.
So as you close this chapter of your life and begin the next one, please know that you are not done growing. Be intentional about the kind of person you want to become. Of course what you will do is important, but how you do it really matters.
The challenges and opportunities that lie ahead for you are daunting, so please look at life as a magnificent adventure. Don't miss this serendipitous opportunity to meet a stranger with whom upon first impression you think you have nothing in common, but if you try you could develop a deep and meaningful relationship that might change your life.
Resist the temptation to be the noise. Create the music which only happens when we work together. Be someone who brings light, and I dare say, hope in each room that you enter. For even in these tumultuous times in which we live, where there is more than enough pain to go around, with your extraordinary, well-prepared, young minds and hearts, change, positive change, is still possible.
Neither the Catt Center nor Iowa State University is affiliated with any individual in the Archives or any political party. Inclusion in the Archives is not an endorsement by the center or the university.